#mathyas

“The prodigal son returns,” said Nazir, when Mathyas located him finally at his usual seat in the dining hall. Papers lay sprawled before him, and on the bridge of his nose sat a pair of small, circular reading glasses. He removed them quickly, as if embarrassed to have been caught, and tucked them surreptitiously in a pocket behind his breast. Mathyas unclasped his cloak and sank into a chair with a sigh. “What news from our good friend Delvin?” “The amulet—” Mathyas started, as he rifled through the inner compartments of his pack, “turned out to be real. Here’s the appraisal—” he handed it across the table, “and a letter of credit.”   Nazir studied the documents in turn, holding them at a distance and squinting.  “Hm,” he said at last. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised.”  “What happens next?”  Nazir gazed at him inscrutably.  “Well, I suppose we wait for the return of our illustrious leader,” he said. “She’s out making arrangements, as I understand it, though she shared no further detail with me. Until then, we resume business as usual.”  Mathyas inhaled, taking a moment to collect himself. His decision had been made, and the truth had been spilled; whatever came next, he was committed to see it through.  “I see.”  “Enough talk of work,” said Nazir, smiling at him broadly. “How was your journey?”

One, two! One, two! Cast far, cast true! Hey leadsman, call your mark! For Nereids dwell beneath the swell… Across the Niben Bar! One, two, one, two… aln, asc, aln, asc… the nib of his quill—which has long since dried of ink—taps steadily against the desktop as Mathyas paces through the verse yet again. One, two, one, two… he recognises each word, can shape them with his tongue, but the string of them together leads to nothing in his mind. Cast far, cast true! Is that in the imperative? Mathyas pulls his dictionary towards him and flips through to C… Ca… He finds to his dismay that the entry takes up half a page; the humble cast appears to be both a noun and a verb, an infinitive and a past participle—or more accurately, multiple of each. It is to discard, to perform magic, to produce light, and to vote; it is a mould, the actors of a play, and a bandage hardened with egg whites to set broken bones. Mathyas pores over each definition but fails to tease out any common thread, let alone whatever his verse from Across the Niben Bar is trying to say. What a silly language, he thinks, turning away from C with a scoff; perhaps the meaning of Nereids will shed some much-needed clarity. "Bertis wants to buy… three cakes." "Well. Betina only sells cakes to netches who say please." "Please— please may I have three cakes, Betina?" "That will be… a hundred-thousand gold coins…" Mathyas' gaze wanders from his work, too readily in want of a distraction. The twins lie sprawled a few feet away, basking in a sunbeam on the flagstones of the library floor. Their small bodies are segmented by a mass of overlapping netch-tentacles; Mathyas looks upon the dolls with disdain, for what need has a four-year-old of a toy longer than they are tall? His own humble bantam guar was a far more respectable size. "You can't charge one hundred-thousand gold coins for three cakes," says Raydrin, in sincere outrage and disbelief. "Betina can do what she likes," says Anya, unbothered, as she rolls onto her back and sails Betina through the air. Mathyas has indulged quite enough; he observes them some moments longer before returning to his studies. Across the Niben Bar will not translate itself.

“And the boy’s memory? Any signs of loss, or confusion?” “His tutors say that his concentration has suffered… he does not pick things up the way he once did, or retain content from one lesson to the next. But… otherwise, no. As far as I can tell, his memory is unaffected.” “Hm. Well, a lapse in concentration is only natural, if the quality of his rest has been impacted to such a degree…” It is dark in Elder Sarathram’s office, but the darkness feels at home here; as though it has occupied this room for a long, long time, and is not about to be usurped by some fleeting shafts of sun. It is the warm kind of darkness, the sort one finds in the shadows of a flickering hearth. Mathyas’ eyes are fighting to stay open. He gazes at Elder Sarathram, trying to blink away the blur, but the priest’s hazy form appears to be sitting behind smudged glass. His voice is a steady drone… it swells, then recedes… outside, through the crack of the open window, the city buzzes distantly, buoyed by the arrival of spring. How odd, that the mewing of seagulls and the ringing of ship-bells should evoke such a lethargy— not when the silence of his bedchamber has become so deafeningly loud. Mathyas turns to his mother where she sits upright in her chair. He thinks idly of leaning into her side, of resting his head against her shoulder. But his own chair is some distance away, and he does not feel at liberty to move it. 

Tucked away between the grand staircases of the entrance hall, in the proverbial heart of the residence, sits the Dutheri family shrine. The great oak doors lie shut, indicating that the shrine is in use. Mathyas can hear muffled voices emanating from within; the high-pitched whines of his cousins, and Aunt Jothryn, berating. A tinny rattle suggests that something has been knocked from its perch. Then Aunt Jothryn is scolding, venomous and low, and one of the twins begins to cry— The door opens suddenly, making Mathyas start. “Mathyas,” says Jothryn, surprised. A twin hangs from each arm; Anya’s little face is scrunched up like a wet rag, and snot dribbles over her lip into an open, wailing mouth. Mathyas grimaces inwardly.  “Dayn, Aunt Jothryn,” he says, raising his voice over the sound of incessant crying.  “Dayn,” she replies somewhat absently. “Look, Mathyas, I— sorry. There’s a bit of a mess in there. I was going to find someone to clean it up, but…” She looks at him hopefully, head tilted to one side. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”  He shakes his head. “No, Aunt Jothryn.”   Jothryn sighs. “Wonderful,” she says. “Oh, Anya, you wicked thing— you must cease with this terrible wailing, it’s your own fault…” Mathyas is relieved to shut the door behind him, enclosing himself in peaceful solitude. Jothryn was right about the mess; the offering stand has been knocked from the altar, scattering tiny black saltrice grains in their thousands across the floor tiles. The smoke of recently extinguished frankincense pools in the vaulted ceiling. Sighing, Mathyas pushes aside the curtain that obscures the inner shelves of the altar and rummages through the darkness in search of a dustpan. He sweeps up the saltrice, digging with his fingers when the grains end up caught between the floor tiles. He returns the copper offering stand to its rightful place atop the altar. He relights the frankincense, and rinses his hands in the basin by the door. Then he takes his own position on the floor mat and bends forward in deep submission.  “Grandmothers, grandfathers, all honourable ancestors… as I kneel before you, hear my prayer…”

world's least lore-friendly drow and the squid impersonating his forgotten murder cult ex-boyfriend. iykyk. i did this because i'm insane 🤠