S E I J I
Seiji moves slowly today, as if the cold has stolen out some of his inner fire. His dark eyes narrowed, he concentrates on the boxy object in his hands, turning it now and again to inspect its many faceted surfaces, to watch the light glance off edge and corner. He pays little mind to the others, though he knows he should. At the moment, it feels almost like too much — though he is glad for Amalia's presence beside him. He watches the interplay between Deimos and Weaver with a kind of distant confusion, full of the knowledge that he will never understand whatever it is they say without words. There is a lot about Caido he may never understand. He joined the Loreseekers in hopes of remedying that, but he feels now he's made such little headway. The names of gods, of places — what do they matter? They are neither his gods nor his places.
So he does not understand why the lantern-making feels so comfortable to him. He is intent on it, lost to himself, looking not out at them but in toward some hidden depth. A cold and deceptively quiet sea. And his thoughts are birds arcing over it, bright and soft and impossible to catch. He hears Amalia's prompting as if from a distance, and looks up, blinking, like a man asleep just woken from sleep.
Seiji's gaze moves over the creation in Amalia's hands first. It is surprisingly clumsy. It looks like something dreamt up by a much younger version of her, less bright and more uncertain. He glances up at Deimos, red and blue already flowing into the man's powerful hands. Fire flickering along the edges. It means something. Seiji could spend a long time looking, trying to reconcile what he sees with what he is supposed to see, to read the truth tucked carefully away in paper wings and wire skeleton. He glances toward Weaver last, his head just slightly tilted. He does not know her, but the creation in her hands is one of a skilled artisan, and he wonders if she is an artist, maybe. A friend from the Guild he has gone far too long without paying a visit.
Now his gaze drops to his own hands, and his brows furrow ever so slightly. What does he want the clear glass to evoke? He thinks, silent, ignoring the conversation around him, before he just as quietly moves toward the paper and procures a scarlet sheet. His hands are quick now, gently tearing and folding, until several miniature shapes emerge: birds caught in flight. They are no more than silhouettes which he affixes to the panes, small there but meant to cast much larger shadows. Evocative of sparkbirds maybe, or of something else he cannot quite recall. This is the most important part, and the most consuming. When he is finished, Seiji reaches for paint, dark blue or maybe black, he can't tell just looking at it, and his eyes again travel the room, acknowledging each of his quiet companions with curiosity. He would like to hear their stories if he can. He would like to know the pain they put into their works, the memories they will this year give to flame.
"They are beautiful," he says, and his smile is a true one, though small. To his own frame, he adds a delicate coat of dark paint, breathing life anew into something once worn and old. The light will shine from it brilliantly, this memorial to things long lost and maybe just as well to things he hopes will come.
Seiji moves slowly today, as if the cold has stolen out some of his inner fire. His dark eyes narrowed, he concentrates on the boxy object in his hands, turning it now and again to inspect its many faceted surfaces, to watch the light glance off edge and corner. He pays little mind to the others, though he knows he should. At the moment, it feels almost like too much — though he is glad for Amalia's presence beside him. He watches the interplay between Deimos and Weaver with a kind of distant confusion, full of the knowledge that he will never understand whatever it is they say without words. There is a lot about Caido he may never understand. He joined the Loreseekers in hopes of remedying that, but he feels now he's made such little headway. The names of gods, of places — what do they matter? They are neither his gods nor his places.
So he does not understand why the lantern-making feels so comfortable to him. He is intent on it, lost to himself, looking not out at them but in toward some hidden depth. A cold and deceptively quiet sea. And his thoughts are birds arcing over it, bright and soft and impossible to catch. He hears Amalia's prompting as if from a distance, and looks up, blinking, like a man asleep just woken from sleep.
Seiji's gaze moves over the creation in Amalia's hands first. It is surprisingly clumsy. It looks like something dreamt up by a much younger version of her, less bright and more uncertain. He glances up at Deimos, red and blue already flowing into the man's powerful hands. Fire flickering along the edges. It means something. Seiji could spend a long time looking, trying to reconcile what he sees with what he is supposed to see, to read the truth tucked carefully away in paper wings and wire skeleton. He glances toward Weaver last, his head just slightly tilted. He does not know her, but the creation in her hands is one of a skilled artisan, and he wonders if she is an artist, maybe. A friend from the Guild he has gone far too long without paying a visit.
Now his gaze drops to his own hands, and his brows furrow ever so slightly. What does he want the clear glass to evoke? He thinks, silent, ignoring the conversation around him, before he just as quietly moves toward the paper and procures a scarlet sheet. His hands are quick now, gently tearing and folding, until several miniature shapes emerge: birds caught in flight. They are no more than silhouettes which he affixes to the panes, small there but meant to cast much larger shadows. Evocative of sparkbirds maybe, or of something else he cannot quite recall. This is the most important part, and the most consuming. When he is finished, Seiji reaches for paint, dark blue or maybe black, he can't tell just looking at it, and his eyes again travel the room, acknowledging each of his quiet companions with curiosity. He would like to hear their stories if he can. He would like to know the pain they put into their works, the memories they will this year give to flame.
"They are beautiful," he says, and his smile is a true one, though small. To his own frame, he adds a delicate coat of dark paint, breathing life anew into something once worn and old. The light will shine from it brilliantly, this memorial to things long lost and maybe just as well to things he hopes will come.
The rain is full
of ghosts tonight
of ghosts tonight
