every bait and switch was a work of art
Twilight settles gently across the barrows, the mist curling low between the ancient mounds as though the earth itself breathes in slow, measured sighs. The first stars pierce through the dimming sky above, faint at first, then gathering strength; quiet witnesses to the offering laid so carefully upon the altar.
Then the air stirs. It is not dramatic, not sudden, but certain; the way still water knows when something has entered it. The flowers upon the shrine do not stir, yet their colours seem to deepen, their edges catching light that has no clear source. The faint gleam of gold upon Sohalia’s compass brightens, as though remembering something older than the world beneath it. Safrin emerges not from above, nor from below, but from the light itself; her form unfolding from the soft glow that gathers between stars and shrine alike, until she stands before Sohalia as though she has always occupied that space.
Her gaze lowers first to the offerings. There is no hurry in the way she takes them in—the compass, the ink, the parchment, the journal—all considered with a quiet, deliberate attention. The faint curve of her lips speaks of approval, subtle but unmistakable, and when her eyes lift to Sohalia, that warmth remains. "It is nice to see you again so soon, Sohalia." The words fall softly, but they carry weight nonetheless, settling into the space between them with quiet finality. Safrin’s hand extends then, elegant fingers reaching not for the compass or the journal, but for the parchment and the jar of kraken ink.
Without ceremony, she tilts the bottle, allowing the ink to spill in a dark, gleaming cascade across the pale surface of the pages, pooling and spreading until the parchment is swallowed entirely in black. For a heartbeat, it seems ruined, but then the darkness begins to shift, to thin, to draw inward as though the pages themselves are drinking it in. When the black recedes, the parchment remains, but subtly changed. Creamy once more, yes, but now touched with something finer: faint flecks of starlight scattered across its surface, subtle and luminous, as though the night sky has been pressed into its fibres.
"Now," she murmurs, her tone light with quiet satisfaction, "let us make certain they work, mm?" She separates the pages with a gentle motion, retaining one for herself while the other remains before Sohalia upon the altar. Taking up no visible instrument, she writes all the same—, her fingers brushing lightly over the surface, and where they pass, words appear as though coaxed into existence rather than inscribed.
When she finishes, she glances toward Sohalia, a small, knowing tilt to her head. On Sohalia’s page, the message has already formed: I see congratulations are in order. You will make a wonderful mother.
Sohalia has completed her quest and received:
Two-way parchment | This parchment will replicate whatever is written upon it to its partner-parchment, regardless of distance.
Then the air stirs. It is not dramatic, not sudden, but certain; the way still water knows when something has entered it. The flowers upon the shrine do not stir, yet their colours seem to deepen, their edges catching light that has no clear source. The faint gleam of gold upon Sohalia’s compass brightens, as though remembering something older than the world beneath it. Safrin emerges not from above, nor from below, but from the light itself; her form unfolding from the soft glow that gathers between stars and shrine alike, until she stands before Sohalia as though she has always occupied that space.
Her gaze lowers first to the offerings. There is no hurry in the way she takes them in—the compass, the ink, the parchment, the journal—all considered with a quiet, deliberate attention. The faint curve of her lips speaks of approval, subtle but unmistakable, and when her eyes lift to Sohalia, that warmth remains. "It is nice to see you again so soon, Sohalia." The words fall softly, but they carry weight nonetheless, settling into the space between them with quiet finality. Safrin’s hand extends then, elegant fingers reaching not for the compass or the journal, but for the parchment and the jar of kraken ink.
Without ceremony, she tilts the bottle, allowing the ink to spill in a dark, gleaming cascade across the pale surface of the pages, pooling and spreading until the parchment is swallowed entirely in black. For a heartbeat, it seems ruined, but then the darkness begins to shift, to thin, to draw inward as though the pages themselves are drinking it in. When the black recedes, the parchment remains, but subtly changed. Creamy once more, yes, but now touched with something finer: faint flecks of starlight scattered across its surface, subtle and luminous, as though the night sky has been pressed into its fibres.
"Now," she murmurs, her tone light with quiet satisfaction, "let us make certain they work, mm?" She separates the pages with a gentle motion, retaining one for herself while the other remains before Sohalia upon the altar. Taking up no visible instrument, she writes all the same—, her fingers brushing lightly over the surface, and where they pass, words appear as though coaxed into existence rather than inscribed.
When she finishes, she glances toward Sohalia, a small, knowing tilt to her head. On Sohalia’s page, the message has already formed: I see congratulations are in order. You will make a wonderful mother.
Sohalia has completed her quest and received:
Two-way parchment | This parchment will replicate whatever is written upon it to its partner-parchment, regardless of distance.
you're the one prize i'd cheat to win
