#nero larp

[hype; non-attending] ---- Under her blanket, a velvet robe, and flannel night-clothes, Taethath shivered at her desk. Night had fallen upon the Academy, extinguishing, what seemed to Taethath, all warmth upon the whole of Tyrra. Taethath could barely move her fingers from the chill, and to summon her hand beyond her woolen cocoon was torture, but she was compelled to write. The echo of verse had been so strong that it kept her from sleep, and she knew no other way to silence it. So, urgently, as if under the threat of an Adept's switch, she set out her pen and ink, and wrote in trailing scribbles, a half-manic distortion of her distinctive Common handwriting. “Summer’s Light has came and went, Since last, think I, Letter sent. From Time’s grip, this brief Relent I could scribe that which I meant To speak, ‘haps an Hour spent On Page blotted, stained, and rent. But Ink serves more; by Walls pent, In Boredom’s vice all but hent.” Finished, she lifted the quill, and blew gently on her words to set the ink. The camphorous, smoky-sweet scent of Kyralian birch tar ink spread through the room. A deep breath of it seeped through her, as if staining her insides with relief and drowsiness. She made the chilling three-step journey back to her bed, each step heavier than the next, and fell in a heap, asleep.