A lunch was planned! Despite the late night that had preceded it, Everett was up early the next morning, strolling through the Marketplace with a very masculine...receptacle... to pick up the things that would suit for the day. The warm weight of food in his belly always made him sleepy, and that would not do, at work. Udo Lamere and the naval exploits of Captain Unpronounceable Adjectiveladen deserved careful copying. A light meal was in order, enough for two. He thought the quiet of his little corner in the back of the library would be the most suitable venue for the task at hand.

At the end of the morning expedition (he sounded an explorer, in those terms), the contents of the... ...holder thingy:

late harvest apples
dried apricots and cherries
a few strips of venison jerky
a loaf of fresh bread
small round of cheese
one large cinnamon biscuit

It was more than enough food for two, it would serve to feed him several meals after, on those afternoons at his place of employ, or the quiet of the little room he then called home. A few other things were also tucked in the very manly picnic basket: board and small pairing knife, his sketchbook, just in case, a plain paper box, a few spare handkerchiefs.

He arrived at work and settled in. Behind the main part of the library (you know, the part with all the books) was an area, roped from the general public, but in plain view. Desks and tables were set up in no apparent order, and there the scribes did their work. They would copy the most delicate tomes into their own script, to preserve that tradition and keep the antiquated practice alive. They also were there to serve those of the realm who could use help with correspondence. Most of them could not read or write. Some just had the most atrocious penmanship. Others...well... Everett did have a most high and noble lady (dressed as a fishwife, perhaps she was on masquerade?) perch on the plain wooden chair as though it were a golden throne, and declare her distaste for the smell of ink and its blackness upon her fingers.

Though the rhythm of Lamere's words was not one to which he could dance, the words themselves consumed him with the flavors of the sea and the weight of history. The clear winter sky outside the windows spilled clean sunlight over his pages, causing the damp ink to gleam, obsidian against ivory. His letters were elegant loops and graceful lines, cast with certainty and confidence. Perhaps his own words would one day look so proud. He hardly noticed as the hours of the morning ticked away, leaving his fingers yet more inkstained...

Chapter 13: End of an Era- The Rise of N'throxlian Duelyfists and the Third Legion

During the Tyrian Conflict of the second Blood Age, it is notable that there was a drastic shift from the primitive tactics of the Gooddarkwynd school to the more sophisticated methods perfected by N'throxlian Duelyfists and his followers. Indeed, their combative use of mages, refined cannon work, and multi-vessel assaults confounded the King's Navy, leading to record losses of personnel, goods, and ships. Across the board, these hostile clusters devastated the coastal cities, from Northport all the way down to-


rrrrrrrr. Frown. Everett (Bartleby) paused his quill, noting an offensive growling sound coming from his belly. Indeed, he had stomach enough to eat. Was it lunch time already? He frowned, looking up to the timepiece displayed prominently on the wall. At this moment, he spied her, elegant even in bandages, standing strongly against adversity. He even swore she was smiling, party to some humor that was beyond him. With an awkward grin, he pushed back the chair and rose, crossing the distance between them. A wave preceded the quiet words that would follow. This was, after all a library.

In her proximity, he pauses, and presents one of those terrifically formal little nods. "Good afternoon, Erin. I am delighted that you have come, and mortified to have made you wait. Please, come back this way, I shall show you to my table."

As he lead her back, it was easy to see what kind of a boy he had been, once. He was lanky enough that in portrait, one may mistake him for tall. Long of limb, but quite ordinary of stature, he looked especially awkward. His blousy sleeves were rolled to the elbows (imagine the number of shirts hopelessly stained before he came to that realization), and he had missed a button on his shirt, vexing his collar. Fresh inkblots graced his fingers, dalmation spots, particularly prominent on thumb, index and middle. Some men will never be put together and suave.

"I have been quite presumptuous, and stopped at market this morning to pick up enough lunch for... several." He grinned sheepishly and presented the contents of the basket. "If you would prefer to be out at an eatery, I would not object, though if the quiet suits you better, this may be the best choice." And the choice was hers.

"A mirror? What? Have I...?"

He looks down to inspect himself and sighs, hanging his head in shame. Everett does this more than he would care to admit. More than he notices, really. A hapless shrug, to Erin. He certainly was not going to go unbuttoning his shirt in the middle of the library, so it would have to wait.

Once at the desk, the first order at business was to move his work to another place, that it might not be sullied by some clumsy Englishman with arms too long for his body knocking the tea about and causing problems left and right. Once a space was cleared, he pulled things from the basket, making a few little slices of cheese and bread, dividing up the apple. He was handy with that knife, it was clear he had spent a little time, at least, in the kitchen with his mother. She commented on the tea.

"Ah, yes. I can bring a cup or two from the backroom. I've gotten into the habit of keeping a kettle on the furnace. Works well, I say." He left her a few little things to eat, and hurried off to get the tea. He was gone less than three minutes, efficient thing. Two cups, steaming. Also, he had fixed his shirt, tucked it in neatly, and he almost looked neat. Almost. Something was off, always.

He settled at the table, pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he was uncertain of what to say. Being the polite fellow that he was, he thought to open conversation with a polite thought. "I like your dress. The red is an excellent touch. Fascinating, really--it is poetry in fashion."

A smile in admiration of the medium in which she chose to express herself. How he wished he could do anything in addition to words, but alas, his talent was a narrow minded thing. It barely extended to speech, for heaven's sake, painfully obvious in that moment where he had a great deal to think and little to say.

He ate, bits of everything, swallows of hot tea, taken without sugar. Her words affected him quite visibly, his a furious awful blush to match the roses and orchids painted on her skin. Self-conscious, unaccustomed to compliment, pining for a change in direction, Everett stupidly explains himself, the occasional word dotted with a stutter. A drumroll.

"Erin- I- Well. As I see poetry in all the world, and cannot help but see it in people. As I learn them, the ideas of the poems they might inspire grow ever greater in number, more complicated, and you... You, I think, are a Caravaggio, splashes of color all wrapped in shadow. Were I the painter, I would put you in a sunnier time."

Perhaps he doted on her too much. He continued, explaining some of his other observations.

"For Cassie, words of fire and starlight are brought to mind. Lydia is a dream, a tranquil, twisted, lovely tree in a silent, wild grove. Gideon is as Paris was, his draw is epic..."

He removed his glasses, to clean them, to calm himself with the familiar gesture and the blur of the world. When things were not so clear outside, he always found it a little easier to use those moments to refocus inside.

"Had I the words, the right words, I could write a sonnet everytime I met someone, but they fail me, they elude, so cruelly. It takes a deeper spark, one that fades more slowly, to lure my muse from hiding."

A sad little smile remained at the close of the rant, and he considered again that he seriously needed to get away from Udo Lamere and those crusty sea dogs and fall into a more inspiring task. The writer's block, that painfully slow trickle of useless, unrelated poetry was likely to kill him. (Or, alternately, lead to a terrible misunderstanding that would get the silly fool killed.)

Her words held poignancy, at least to his simple ears, and he was certain in that moment that despite her nighted color, the trials she carried so heavily on those diminutive shoulders, that the woman opposite him at his worn old table was going to be just fine. Everett's reply was tender, and honest. He tried never to lie, but seldom did he speak with total candor. The would be playwright was far too timid a gentleman. Heavy on the gentle and light on the man, some would say.

"I think that the day I lose my quaking sense of wonder in the world should be the day that I leave it for good, for only then would this mortal coil have displayed enough for these eyes." Truly, he did not believe such a day might be. There was wonder in all, not merely beauty, kindness, and honor, but even in the horrors there lay something to inspire awe. A favorite reverend had said that God lived between the lines, and Everett believed it.


"As for my words, Erin, I know that so long as I breathe, they will never cease to haunt me and leave me, and I will welcome you to them, the very moment I compose something worthy of your attention." He certainly did not think he was there yet, but with any luck, something decent was on the horizon. Indeed, this mad, mad world was a place full of the sort of wonder that could bend the mind every which way. The poet had yet to recover, and the sad state of what he had produced so far was solid evidence of this. A sheepish smile preceded the rest of his words to his companion. "And please, sweet Erin, assume not that I am incapable of dreck. I can string a poem together in a a manner that would astonish in its mediocrity and beguile with the horror of its stupidity. I have some truly wretched sketches." Self effacing, or just brutally honest? Who could tell, really... anyone he knew who deserved to call themself an artist was always their own worst critic.

Everett was a little embarrassed- he felt he was always too honest, too earnest about his art. Then again, it seemed that Erin may be as well, and the thought of a kindred spirit calmed him. Nice English Girl. He sipped his tea, continued to eat as he thought of her question, thought of his family.

"Heavens no. Fine English lad, fine English family. Grew up on a farm in Warwick, my mother and father had six of us. Neither of my sisters made it to five, leaving just the boys." He spoke so matter of factly. This was not a source of torment, but a fact of life. Without missing a beat, Everett continued. "John and Christopher are my elder brothers, but the largest of all of us is our youngest brother, William. They are from good farmer's stock, like my father, broad shoulders, working hands, strong backs. They are universally beloved by all women."

The Ogden men of Warwick (save the sporadically stuttering scholar) had collectively broken a great many hearts. Strapping William continued to do so back home, and it would be a while yet before the fiery lad would settle. Everett thought of them as he scratched the back of his neck. He missed them greatly, but the longer he was away from Warwick, the longer he was convinced that he had made the right decision. He just wasn't a farmer, and entering the clergy was out of the question. Ev continued to babble; the words of home just came so easily.

"John and Christopher have both married now, and Christopher and his wife Ruth have twin boys. They have a little land of their own nearby, they mostly deal with livestock. John and Anne live on the family farm, which will be his when father passes. Mother and father still live there, as does my formidable old Gran. I have uncles and aunts and cousins, as well, but I fear I am already beginning to bore."


The playful, boyish grin was back in place, and he looked over to Erin sensing as he watched her that though it was polite to ask the same question in return, that maybe he ought not ask the questions. At least not today...

Through and through, she had his sympathy as she spoke. Everett could hardly imagine the difficulties of a life where he quarreled seriously with his family. They had been none too happy when he announced his intent to leave, and yet understanding: truly, there was not much for the man in Warwick. He finished his tea as she finished her story, and his simple reply came gently.

"I think we are all a little... uppity." Everett knew that he was, and with a self-effacing smile, he leaned back in his chair and folded both hands on the table. He was through eating, and it had not escaped his attention that even in the lengthy pauses of the leisurely conversation, Erin was not eating much. Poor girl. He worried a little, but he didn't blame her. Best not to drag these things out.

"It was so good of you to visit me here. I am afraid that Mister Lamere demands a great deal more of my attention this day. Much though I would prefer your pleasant company, I must bring this to a close." Effortlessly polite, he packed up the little basket, forgetting entirely about the little package at the bottom. Another time perhaps. He was meticulous with the table, mopping up any stray drops or crumbs then, and finally he turned that warm gaze to the friend across the table and rose to his feet.