substantiation; waking with a head overgrown as the forest, and using that blank world to reinvent oneself
downtown: @velxgraves, red fox tavern, "make a snake bite its tail". triggers: tba
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if the center of the current world is settled in velgrove, then first to the east, then southwards then to east once more is the eastern metropolis of londai. the slumberless londai impresses its might from any given angle except from the top of the mountain range—an account of which haeil hasn’t had the pleasure to get his hands on yet. anyone knows of anyone that has braved that beastly chasm of the earth? not him. so, by lack of witnesses and stories on paper, barring west, the façade of the city proper is impressive only from the north, the east, and the south. in londai, nestled somewhat off-center of the heart of its wheel-spoke roads, there stands the most imposing cathedral haeil had ever laid eyes on. and if memory serves him true, somewhere along the eastern entrance of the city stands the state university and its corollaries, the residence halls, and its bustling library.
time passes. cogs shift. it’s been four years since haeil last set foot in that vibrant city, and more than a decade since he staggered head-first into his first disenchantment with his craft within those stately walls. he could still remember how stale the air had been, when refuge was a seat in a dark corner of that library instead of the bench near a birch tree; when whittling down the endless hours meant keeping himself hunched over his personal copy of the cathedral’s blueprints, ensnared in a dream and a thought. interrupted by strange, idle conversation, from a face he hadn’t known.
yesterday, haeil had taken a seat at his desk and had brought the phone—a weathered candlestick model left behind by the cabin’s previous tenant that he actually really likes— to rest exactly seven centimeters to his right because he writes quicker with the left, in order to tackle his laundry list of “little things to lose time on”. he had made three calls: to the general store to inquire about the availability of vellum paper and the timeframe for acquisition; to the library, to let them know that he did not, in fact, launch the latest copy of some dodgy romance novel into santhe’s very safe waters after the protagonist died at the end, and that he’ll return it the day after tomorrow; and to one red fox tavern (“grave hands?”, chimed the confused operator right back. “no,” haeil had patiently said, “red fox tavern. but yes, that’s the one.”) to inform its keeper that he would be there by ten thirty in the morning, at the latest.
it wasn’t a lie. haeil was there, armed with a few accruements of his craft (knife in one pocket, pencil in the other), knocking at the door of the tavern at ten twenty three, morning-time, after he had analyzed the property in the two times he had allowed himself to circle it. he plasters on an easy and polite smile that’s a thousand times overused, another tool of the trade, and the slightest edges of it crack when an unknown suddenly becomes known; when a sense of déjà vu gut-punches him suddenly and he has to stand for an abrupt second after that door opens, recollecting pieces of—something. maybe of pattern recognition; and just as quickly letting the mental intrusion trickle away with no consequence.
recomposure comes swiftly, the slight a wisp of marsh gas now, and haeil extends a hand and reintroduces himself. he says, “graves. good to see you. do you have an attic, by any chance?”, he doesn’t say: show me the place where the light flickers first; nor does he spit out a say, now that i’m actually looking at you, have we met before? but he gazes somewhere past the man with the unknown but known face, well-mannered as ever, but reluctant to put the recognition to the test. he continues, “i also have some terrible but not-so-terrible news. ask me about it after you grant me a look inside.”