What's In A Name?

[grantuseyes]

Micolash sits cross-legged on a table. Strewn all around him are ink pots (some overturned and spilled), parchment paper (in stacks and scattered alike), pens and nibs and a few sticks of charcoal. His fingers are stained with ink and there are a few splotches somehow on his face and on his pinstripe trousers, along with a dark handprint on the metal collar of his cage. The side of his left hand, the one he's currently holding a pen with, is smudged even worse with black.

There are discarded drawings all around him, some that look like false starts on some manner of monsters. Some are just pages crammed with drawings of eyes, or scrawls repeating phrases or rambling prose. Some are crumpled up into paper wads or have half-hearted attempts at scratching out or erasing the contents.

The parchment Micolash currently has in front of him is being scrutinized by the scholar. Looking over his handiwork and trying to determine if it passes whatever muster he's going for. It's certainly a drawing of SOMETHING.

Whatever verdict he's pondering, it doesn't prevent Micolash from looking up and addressing whatever person is wandering close to his work station.

"What does your name mean? Do you know? Do you care?"

Comments

[turningcolors]

To one with such insight, he must be able to see or sense every thread of magicka radiating out of Hazel. Grasping hold of the leaves, any plants nearby, anything and everything. It is her will that ushers on the breeze to bite at skin and whose powers urge fallen flora to begin its decay that Winter will pick up in earnest to renew the soil for Spring's coming.

Where most would see a woman, if not an exceedingly strange looking one, Micolash can see her spirit for what it is and see every thread she holds and controls with her will. She's given him Something, that much is for certain. What it is he may not realize until later though.

Not every gift is as obvious as others.

"You are very welcome, dear Scholar. It's my pleasure to have the ability to thank you this Season as I was unable to last."

[grantuseyes]

It's like things coming into focus, or a fog clearing. Like roots that break soil, he can see the individual threads. The way they pull from the air, the plants, the ground. Not sapping or draining, no. Simply changing. Rot and decay is inevitable, but it is also necessary. Old things must be broken down to make way for new things. The seasons turn, the moon travels the sky, progress must always proceed or it is not progress at all.

He can see it, how she is an entity that turns the wheel. One that ushers and shepherds. One that influences her surroundings to give way to that transition.

Micolash always did like autumn. He liked seeing the leaves change to firey oranges and yellows from the balconies of the college. It was like eternal sunset, a time he already revelled in, as it was the precursor to his beloved moon's rise.

Fresh awe and reverence washes through him, like his bones are just as affected by Hazel's threads that leaves them cold and frost-covered inside. His head is bowed once again, hands clasped together in prayer. No rambling litanies like before; he recalled how Abysa had to interrupt and how Hazel insisted it wasn't warranted. Instead, it is just a simple, whispered phrase.

"Grant us eyes..."