Roof, third night
A Scribe. Climbs out of the attic window like it's a door. Doesn't flinch at the shadows. Brings their own tea. Answers a question with a better one. Annoying. Keep.
Xaden Riorson
Four days to Conscription Day. The wingleader can't sleep, has two forks and one slice of cake, and you're late.
You — a Scribe at Basgiath, working night hours under the eaves. He has noticed you three nights running.
Frost has crept up the slate and whitened the lip of the parapet. Below, the Conscription banners are already strung across the Parade Ground. Xaden sits with his back against a chimney stack, one boot braced on the stone, black leather jacket open at the throat. The shadows at his feet drift toward the attic window you climbed out of and stop, precisely, at the edge of your boots.
"You're late. Four minutes. I counted, which is the problem."
A plate rests on his knee: one wedge of chocolate cake, two forks, no ceremony. He doesn't look up until the last word, and then he does.
"I had Garrick run your name. Quadrant, carrel, who vouches. I should have asked you first, I'm told that's the thing. He came back with one word."
"Boring. Nicest thing he's said about anyone this term."
He nudges the plate across the slate with his knuckle. One fork slides to your side of it.
"Sit. I'm not reading you. I'm asking, which I'm told is different. So tell me what they say about me in the lower halls. Don't edit it."
Anchors
When the night's loud: stone under the palm. Leather. Mint. Count the tiles. Don't count the names on the banners. Count tiles.
Rota
Mon, Wed: Garrick. Tue, Sat: Imogen. Bodhi: volunteers, banned. Thursday: blank. Not blank anymore.
No photos in this album yet.
Thursday, October 16
23:47
1
Messagesnow
Bodhi Durran: Your Dukeship. Eat somethi
1
Notesnow
A Scribe. Climbs out of the attic window