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@tylenaguillard
@tylenaguillard
The following text is an excerpt circulating major Krytan news outlets.
With sky more pink than blue, the morning sun had begun to rise well beyond the towering walls that encircled the great city, keeping it still in shadow. Saxon had woken later than usual. Since his return, it had become a battle between his sister and he to see who slept the worst and rose earlier than the other. Today he dragged himself out of bed so late that Tylen had likely finished her coffee and had begun her daily routine. Yet it was still too early for the rest of the household to rise, leaving the siblings with only the company of the morning frost and chirping birds when they took to their respective balconies.
Wrapped in a plush black robe he had borrowed from a cousin, Saxon took a seat on a cushioned wooden chair and set down his mug of coffee on the side table before drawing the folded newspaper from the hold of his armpit. As with each day since his arrival in Salma, he enjoyed his peace out upon the balcony overlooking the district while he nursed his coffee and caught up on the latest news and gossip.
Today had started with little difference when he pried open The Lookout and draped the paper to rest partly across his lap. Reaching for his coffee, he brought the mug up for a slow, slurping sip while his frigid hues darted and scanned across the front page for anything that might be of interest. Catching a glimpse of the headline regarding the father and son ambushed by centaur, that peace he had sought had already begun to unravel. Grave memories were instantly brought to the forefront of his mind, leaving a hefty weight sinking in his gut, but he pressed on and forced himself to read beyond the title.
Not but halfway through the first sentence, porcelain crashed and shattered around his feet. “No - no. Please gods, no.” Saxon plead and surged to his feet, knocking the chair behind him to topple over and he read and re-read the first line repeatedly as if maybe the names might vanish and be replaced with those less familiar to him.
“FUUUUCK!” The man bellowed out his frustration and impending anguish so loud, it cracked like thunder across the streets below, startling finches from a nearby tree to take to the sky. Hands shook while still clinging to the parted paper until he could no longer take the names now burned into his head and found himself out of his mind, ripping and shredding the parchment into dozens of pieces large and small.
How easily he could have fallen apart and crumbled to the balcony like the mug. The thought alone of his friend having been murdered could have sent him spiralling. Worse yet was the boy who had once come to be like a son of his own. It would have been so easy to let loose streams of tears welling up and reddening eyes so full of agony, and to wail and mourn that which was lost - but there had been a survivor.
Knowing well enough there would be time to grieve, Saxon wiped at his eyes and around his splotched features, composing himself as best he could manage. Heavy breaths gave way to one shaky and steadying, then he turned to head back into the warmth of his chambers. There was no delay as he urgently threw on whatever dirty clothes had been handy and thrust the rest haphazardly into a worn rucksack. Only a handful of minutes had passed since first reading the headline and already the man was storming from his room with a bag slung over his shoulder and a note left upon his unmade bed.
“Emergency. I’ll return in a few days. - S.”
@vulnaret @tylenaguillard for mentions )
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M.C. Escher (Dutch, 1898-1972), Monastery of Monreale, Sicily (Klooster van Monreale (Sicilië)), 1933. Wood engraving on thin wove paper. B. 319 x 238 mm. S. 385 x 283 mm
By: Magda
Morning
Giles F/W 2011
( @tylenaguillard )
Letters Home
10 years ago.
A hastily scribbled letter would arrive, the second since Saxon’s departure, addressed to the Garenhoff estate without a name upon it. There was, however, a vague return address to a location in Triskell Quay.
Dearest Tylen,
I hope you fare well, sister. I write with relatively good news.
On this last day of the Scion, I find myself thankful that I have located a place to stay for a time with the impending cold of the Colossus. It is not what I would consider safe housing, but it is a roof over my head and there is work to be done in exchange for it.
Do try not to worry for me. I’ve managed to befriend two others staying here and we watch one another’s backs. One even showed me how to create a proper shiv until I can afford a real blade. I only need to make it through until the Zephyr and then I can look for work upon a farm.
I trust you’ll tell mother that I found a nice place to stay with steady work. I’d rather not have her fret more than she surely is. You can write me back here, but remain discreet. Address the letters to: Oskar Loewe. That is who I am now.
Give everyone my love.
As Ever, S.A. 90 Scion 1322
@tylenaguillard @theaguillardfamily
Ten years ago, a camouflaged, simple piece of parchment arrived at the aforementioned residence. Wrapped in only twine and scripted in the most remedial of ink pots returned a letter addressed to one “Oskar Loewe”.
My dearest brother,
I cannot begin to tell you how elated I am to hear you have settled. Your mischievous, viper of a cousin is absolutely remiss without you to cause mischief. His pranks are utterly hollow and so convoluted that he has no one to reign him in with a most pragmatic mind. I think an impish truce may form between us yet, but the thought of allying himself with his sister and I is a loathsome prospect. I daresay once he finds a more formidable adversary within the household, he will finally comply with our sordid demands.
I have relayed your message to mother and she is temporarily assuaged. However, no longer fretting over you has renewed her focus on finding me a husband. Well, a first husband, anyway. Our sister would probably be much easier to marry off, but she is with the Church. She’s begun to grow frustrated with the letters claiming me a shrew. She seems hopeful about this new prospect, but I’ve only heard poor remarks from others.
Friends are positive. Your last letter had me scared. If you ever fear like that again, will you consider breaking your silence? The world cannot lose you yet. I long for your return, for the warmth you bring to these walls and the hearth those you love you may gather around. But for all this vacancy, your conviction is admirable, and I could not be more proud.
I love you always,
T.A.
@saxon-aguillard @theaguillardfamily
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Keira Knightley in The Aftermath (2019) dir. James Kent