šš„šØš¬šš š¬ššš«ššš« for kwon haneul ; @riguangs
Adrianās hands had become bloodied the moment they had made themselves knife placed into idle hands. Sacks of golden coins exchanged for subtle promises of someoneās life; whispers and words from another spewing from her own mouth. Fate-sealing tongue, courier of nothing good. And the dreams, of course. Always the dreams, with the rust underneath the nails each time they would come twice awake, screams still ringing in their ears.
But such cruelty was no surprise. No, it was that which did no harm that brought the fear, and the awareness of the eyes that yet wished to pierce.
Go here, find this: a bottle of void-black ink that shone a pretty green. Gotten from a stall broken and forgotten, deep in the bowels of Aurea, a forgotten maze of alleyways where people had become bleached bone of that which was yet still alive as well as rotting. A symbol to follow, then, afterāpainted into the walls, traced by her bandaged hand. Deciphered over the work of many nights awake, truly awake, then found carved in little rocks, thrown in lieu of coins into a make-shift wish-pond. A foreign custom, the meaning of which meant you would get nothing, unless you toiled.
And then, finally, this: A book to be fetched, one that only existed within the most guarded of the corners of the bibliotheke, where only with permission would one be able to step. Past the countless bookshelves, under the librarianās heavy gaze. Who sent you here? One could not pass without favour, not even the saguire. Speak their name.
āMagistrate Kwon.ā Adrian stepped into the office with the tome cradled to his heart, as if a child. He felt, after all, just as cowedāin what is a rare true gesture, Adrian shuffles on his feet, feeling the weight of the walls. āIāve come with what youāve asked.ā
