FFXIVWrite 2020 Prompt 8: Clamor
“When the theoretical properties of the metaphysical are sublimated into the factual reality of the religio-philosophical… Komyo!”
The half-xaela woman looked up from her notes. “Yes, sensei?”
“Are you paying attention?”
“Of course, sensei.”
“Hrmph.”
And on she droned, reading from a scroll so ancient it was probably written in the time of the gods. Komyo took extensive notes- but she also added in her own observations in the margins. Her mind whirled and spun like the astrolabes, flashes and sparks of ideas flying behind her eyes like distant stars. Practical application of the theoretical. The potential of applying Xaelic ritual and magic to Hingan rote geomancy. Blending magic, blending blood, thoughts clamoring constantly, constantly, constantly.
The class ended and Komyo was still scribbling away until the sensei’s frustrated harrumph startled her out of her thoughts and made her scramble to her feet. She bowed politely, the exact depth that one shows an honored elder, then she spun and hurried to her next class. She stopped on the way to drop into the kimono shop, the flower shop, the shop that sold hair ornaments. Her head filled with knowledge, filled with obligations, filled with names and faces and details. She asked after his wife. After her daughters. After his elderly parents. Filed away the answers in the constantly whirring machina of her mind.
Another class- chirurgeon skills this time. Anatomy. Physiology. The aetherical applications of surgery. The application of force to affect healing. Bones and sinew and serum and blood and guts and brains. Her head ached and her horns echoed with words that were rapidly starting to lose their meaning. She hadn’t eaten this morning. What time was it? Past noon, surely. Past that, the sun was beginning to set as her notes took on a shaky quality. She had to eat or she would do something embarrassing. She would pass out, or slur her words, or swing her tail and strike someone with the sharp spines as she struggled to keep her balance.
All the while, her head whirred and ticked and whirled. Theoretical. Practical. Astronomy. Anatomy. Aetherology. Dance. Song. Tea. Precision. Precision. Exacting precision.
Komyo rose from her last class and walked on unsteady feet out of the classroom, her dizzy head lowered. She needed food. Back to the markets, a street stall, the vendor recognizing her and offering her a skewer of takoyaki, liberally drizzled in sauce. She fumbled the payment out of the small pouch in her obi gratefully, not realizing she had tipped far too much.
The dizziness abated significantly as she ate and made her way down the avenue. Without the fuzziness of low blood sugar, the woman’s mind was back to it’s wild dance, it’s unceasing clamor. So much to learn, so much to do, so much to remember. It was the hairstylist’s birthday in a couple of suns, she would have to send sweets. The sweets vendor owed his monthly dues. She would have to bring Aki with her to ‘remind’ him. The vegetable merchant’s son had lost at dice, he was one to watch.
This and that and this and that. The sun was down and her geta clattered as they took her down an unremarkable alleyway to an unmarked door. A knock, a pause, two knocks, a pause, one more knock. The door slid open and a figure with a bowed head bowed and gestured for her to enter. The moment the door closed behind her, she slipped out of her geta and into the slippers left for guests, waiting for the servant to open the door that led deeper into the den. The moment the sweet scent of somnus smoke met her nose, the clamor died away.
