64 Ymiden, 724
.
Continued from here.
He had been here, at the Scholar's Nook, on more than one occasion. Actually, scratch that, he had been here many times before. So many times, in fact, that he practically knew the layout like the back of his hand. He breached the breezeway and effortlessly landed himself in the foyer. The bar and serving area were eloquently constructed to spiral in an unusual way around the right hand side of the building just as he remembered it to. To his left were tables upon tables all crafted from red oak and designed to reflect an equally puzzling circular pattern akin to the winding coil that denoted the staircase at its front. There were so many levels that it hurt Kotton’s neck just to look up towards them all. He had come to learn that whilst four stories tall, there was much more than that. Every mezzanine carried a like of its own, a mind of its own actually, all haphazardly strewn across the x-axis like mathematics was a foreign concept that had yet to be discovered. Every floor was astronomically beautiful, not only in what it contained but because of what it was.
Once he had adjusted his personal belongings, strewn attire- shirt, pants and all- Mez, a veteran server of the establishment, appointed herself. Kotton knew of Mez from the countless times he had haunted this place like a spirit without a purpose other than to study, study, and study some more.
“Here for more philosophical learning, Kotton?” she asked with a playful tone before brushing a stray lock of maple-wood toned hair behind her left ear.
Kotton was always so charmed by her hospitality and genuine interest in his and the other locals' purposes. He hadn’t once witnessed her so-called “short temper” as other employees had gossiped about. Maybe he had made a connection with her, what with his understanding and whole-hearted affiliation to learning and understanding everything that need be learnt and understood.
“No, no, Maz,” Kotton said with a smile that only covered half his face. “Thank you though. Just meeting a fwiend.”
Maz nodded her head and returned his smile before returning to her station behind the counter of the bar.
Everywhere he looked seemed to offer no evidence of who it was he was looking for. Perhaps Maz could have helped him in finding Tisthel, but he felt too proud to let the likes of someone else guide him. In place of an escort, the young man willed it of himself to navigate the building in search of his beloved friend.
He first laid waste to the gallery that housed all the tables and chairs were associated with the bar and coffee shoppe. Since he saw no one he recognised, he continued his investigation onto the next floor. The stairs had never seemed so tall. One foot after the other, and every step thereafter, seemed like it would be his last lest he slip from the height and fall towards the ground floor like a rock broken from the rest of an avalanche. He envisioned himself as a splat of blood, guts, and gore. He saw the dark shades of blood contrasting against the finer shades of brain matter and winced. This was everything a child needed to see before becoming an adult, he thought sarcastically to himself. But still, the travesties that occurred in the world were something everyone needed to understand at some time or another. Fortunately, the explosion of his inner-most functions weren't on the docket, at least not today, not since he had managed to reach the top step and firmly place his front foot against the spongy carpeting that belonged to the second floor.
He spent another moment to look again, panning across the level both right and left until he felt his observation had been completed. Once again he fell short of finding the person he was looking for. He admittedly began to feel a little negativistic. Had Tisthel really wanted to meet or had she been like him during point-two-seconds of three when he had debated whether or not to indulge in her invite to meet up?
Shaking his head, Kotton removed such fallacy from his mind. He wouldn’t think of such a thing, not after all the evidence that lead to their seeming bonded chemistry. He was unremitting in his journey, impervious to skepticism and dubiety, at least for now. He had been there before. Not just once, not twice, but practically a thousand times. Yet this time in particular felt a little bit different. He had hope. He had hope upon hope. He had hope upon hope upon hope-. Besides, he still had two more floors to ascend until his excitement fell short.
The stairs felt less impeding this time. Maybe it was his newly fuelled sense of aspiration or maybe it was because he had finally made contact with his leg muscles and the importance of what it meant to endure. The truth of the matter didn’t mean anything though, not when he found no sign of who it was he was anticipating of meeting. There were individuals who had facial hair, there were people who had bobs and pony-tails of the wrong colour, and there were others who weren't the exact skin colour of the person he had set himself out to see. That was until his eyes wavered across the platform and onto someone who mirrored any and every physical attribute that claimed to be the one he was looking for.
As if on a cloud, the young man levitated slowly towards Tisthel. He then administered his rear into the seat that had been coincidentally made vacant directly in front of her. He hadn’t realised he had been left out of breath until he found himself struggling to greet her.
Tisthel only seemed to chuckle at his struggle. “Well hello to you too, mister.”
Inside his head were many versions of himself and they were all trying to work on his behalf: run the emotional regulator, ensure normal pleasantries were being appropriately aligned, make it so every awkward moment had its respective contingencies, and so on. There were other mini versions of himself attempting to simulate ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens’ and they were all in the nature of a conversation that may lead to nothing or everything. It was all dependent on how things panned out. He was reliant on these little guys to get him through situations like these. Situations that involved a young girl he was infatuated with and didn’t want to ruin.
“Sowwy,” he nearly stuttered. “Long flight of stairs.” Humour was a good thing to use in times of social awkwardness, right?
Tisthel laughed again before wiping her forehead of perspiration. Sweat? Had she? He hadn’t noticed. Perhaps it was a good thing that she was as nervous as he was about this social interaction.
“I take it you received my letter?”
Kotton fought with himself on whether or not to be partially truthful, not at all truthful, or entirely truthful. Eventually he settled on the medium. “I’ll admit,” he started. “I’m not that gweat at checking my mail. But I did see you’we invitation and I am flattewed.”
The mini-hims sighed in a communal bout of relief. Honesty was always the best policy after all.
Tisthel didn’t laugh again, though, but she did give a smile. However, the lack of an audible expression made the young man’s heart flutter in a thousand ways he categorised as unwarrented. Digging into what he knew what probably overthinking, yet could also likely be intuition, he followed with, “I apologise if that wasn’t the answew you wanted to heaw.”
Two seconds passed, only two, before the young woman made a funny face at him and grinned wildly. “Relax,” she assured. “I do that all the time. If you were to ask me if my next property bills have been paid, I’d tell you I'm struggling just to remember the date.”
Another burst of relief sent shockwaves throughout his body. Kotton couldn’t believe how much of himself he saw in Tisthel.
He decided on a whim to invoke more humour iby building off of her already proclaimed sense of grief. “Being an adult makes me wondew whethew I wanted that backyawd or not, am I wight?”
Initially there was no response. There was no chuckle, no laugh, much less a change in her disposition. It was only once he added, “I mean I wowk, I pay taxes, I house, and then thewe awe moew taxes, then I eat and what do you know? Thewe awe even mowe taxes!” It was only then that Tisthel finally managed to respond to him with a reaction that was suffused with hilarity. Had she been out of touch, uneducated or merely uninterested in his attempt at a joke, he didn’t know.
Time lingered. It did not tick and tock and it did not shift with the shadow of an angle illustrated by the random position of a stone. It was more… circadian. And it was this pause in time that led Kotton to think about being, race, ancestry, and additional otherworldly existence.
It was strange just how long it took him to realise her ancestry. Just by looking at Tisthel you wouldn’t know her heritage unless you were intelligible enough. It wasn’t until you started to learn more about her, befriend her and actually look at her before you saw the fragments of who it was she was. And who she was was a mixture of Qi'ora and Se’vryn. How did Kotton know other than by diligently gazing upon her appearance, mind, and soul? It was the way she carried herself, timid as to how her shoulders fell against the rest of her body. It was the way she caught herself, often righting her posture as though fighting with the confidence she knew she had inside but failed to bring to light. There were also thin lines across her face, like cracks in her skin, and her chestnut hair was thinning as her Qi'ora nature slipped into her Se'vryn side. Socioculturally, there was also the way she thought about things and the way she spoke; she seemed traditional and always kind as though it was important she value kinship, promise, and purpose. Kotton didn't see this so much as he had learnt it during their time together at the festival bonfire the previous season. But radiant optimism and sincerity she expressed now only aided in his assumptions.
“Youw lettew,” Kotton began, only in response to the awkward silence that had initiated itself between words.
“Yes?”
“I’m not that fluent in Scalveen.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”
Kotton waved her apology like it was a nothing more than a typographical error. “I just want to say thank you fow having me leawn more about the language.”
Tisthel was more than awestruck. This wasn't what she thought would be said to her. “You’re welcome... I guess?” she told him in an inconclusive manner.
Kotton smiled at the sound of her voice. “It’s no pwoblem.” He bowed his head in respect. He hoped his gesture was akin to the likes of those in romance novels where the protagonist performed an action that made them appear handsome. “I’m glad you did it.” He finished his words in a low growl, still subconsciously relying on what he had learnt from romance novels.
What was returned to him was nothing more than absolute silence.
A momentous pause. There was nothing besides a woman sitting with a goofy smirk across a table from him in the Scholar’s Nook.
He had been here, at the Scholar's Nook, on more than one occasion. Actually, scratch that, he had been here many times before. So many times, in fact, that he practically knew the layout like the back of his hand. He breached the breezeway and effortlessly landed himself in the foyer. The bar and serving area were eloquently constructed to spiral in an unusual way around the right hand side of the building just as he remembered it to. To his left were tables upon tables all crafted from red oak and designed to reflect an equally puzzling circular pattern akin to the winding coil that denoted the staircase at its front. There were so many levels that it hurt Kotton’s neck just to look up towards them all. He had come to learn that whilst four stories tall, there was much more than that. Every mezzanine carried a like of its own, a mind of its own actually, all haphazardly strewn across the x-axis like mathematics was a foreign concept that had yet to be discovered. Every floor was astronomically beautiful, not only in what it contained but because of what it was.
Once he had adjusted his personal belongings, strewn attire- shirt, pants and all- Mez, a veteran server of the establishment, appointed herself. Kotton knew of Mez from the countless times he had haunted this place like a spirit without a purpose other than to study, study, and study some more.
“Here for more philosophical learning, Kotton?” she asked with a playful tone before brushing a stray lock of maple-wood toned hair behind her left ear.
Kotton was always so charmed by her hospitality and genuine interest in his and the other locals' purposes. He hadn’t once witnessed her so-called “short temper” as other employees had gossiped about. Maybe he had made a connection with her, what with his understanding and whole-hearted affiliation to learning and understanding everything that need be learnt and understood.
“No, no, Maz,” Kotton said with a smile that only covered half his face. “Thank you though. Just meeting a fwiend.”
Maz nodded her head and returned his smile before returning to her station behind the counter of the bar.
Everywhere he looked seemed to offer no evidence of who it was he was looking for. Perhaps Maz could have helped him in finding Tisthel, but he felt too proud to let the likes of someone else guide him. In place of an escort, the young man willed it of himself to navigate the building in search of his beloved friend.
He first laid waste to the gallery that housed all the tables and chairs were associated with the bar and coffee shoppe. Since he saw no one he recognised, he continued his investigation onto the next floor. The stairs had never seemed so tall. One foot after the other, and every step thereafter, seemed like it would be his last lest he slip from the height and fall towards the ground floor like a rock broken from the rest of an avalanche. He envisioned himself as a splat of blood, guts, and gore. He saw the dark shades of blood contrasting against the finer shades of brain matter and winced. This was everything a child needed to see before becoming an adult, he thought sarcastically to himself. But still, the travesties that occurred in the world were something everyone needed to understand at some time or another. Fortunately, the explosion of his inner-most functions weren't on the docket, at least not today, not since he had managed to reach the top step and firmly place his front foot against the spongy carpeting that belonged to the second floor.
He spent another moment to look again, panning across the level both right and left until he felt his observation had been completed. Once again he fell short of finding the person he was looking for. He admittedly began to feel a little negativistic. Had Tisthel really wanted to meet or had she been like him during point-two-seconds of three when he had debated whether or not to indulge in her invite to meet up?
Shaking his head, Kotton removed such fallacy from his mind. He wouldn’t think of such a thing, not after all the evidence that lead to their seeming bonded chemistry. He was unremitting in his journey, impervious to skepticism and dubiety, at least for now. He had been there before. Not just once, not twice, but practically a thousand times. Yet this time in particular felt a little bit different. He had hope. He had hope upon hope. He had hope upon hope upon hope-. Besides, he still had two more floors to ascend until his excitement fell short.
The stairs felt less impeding this time. Maybe it was his newly fuelled sense of aspiration or maybe it was because he had finally made contact with his leg muscles and the importance of what it meant to endure. The truth of the matter didn’t mean anything though, not when he found no sign of who it was he was anticipating of meeting. There were individuals who had facial hair, there were people who had bobs and pony-tails of the wrong colour, and there were others who weren't the exact skin colour of the person he had set himself out to see. That was until his eyes wavered across the platform and onto someone who mirrored any and every physical attribute that claimed to be the one he was looking for.
As if on a cloud, the young man levitated slowly towards Tisthel. He then administered his rear into the seat that had been coincidentally made vacant directly in front of her. He hadn’t realised he had been left out of breath until he found himself struggling to greet her.
Tisthel only seemed to chuckle at his struggle. “Well hello to you too, mister.”
Inside his head were many versions of himself and they were all trying to work on his behalf: run the emotional regulator, ensure normal pleasantries were being appropriately aligned, make it so every awkward moment had its respective contingencies, and so on. There were other mini versions of himself attempting to simulate ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens’ and they were all in the nature of a conversation that may lead to nothing or everything. It was all dependent on how things panned out. He was reliant on these little guys to get him through situations like these. Situations that involved a young girl he was infatuated with and didn’t want to ruin.
“Sowwy,” he nearly stuttered. “Long flight of stairs.” Humour was a good thing to use in times of social awkwardness, right?
Tisthel laughed again before wiping her forehead of perspiration. Sweat? Had she? He hadn’t noticed. Perhaps it was a good thing that she was as nervous as he was about this social interaction.
“I take it you received my letter?”
Kotton fought with himself on whether or not to be partially truthful, not at all truthful, or entirely truthful. Eventually he settled on the medium. “I’ll admit,” he started. “I’m not that gweat at checking my mail. But I did see you’we invitation and I am flattewed.”
The mini-hims sighed in a communal bout of relief. Honesty was always the best policy after all.
Tisthel didn’t laugh again, though, but she did give a smile. However, the lack of an audible expression made the young man’s heart flutter in a thousand ways he categorised as unwarrented. Digging into what he knew what probably overthinking, yet could also likely be intuition, he followed with, “I apologise if that wasn’t the answew you wanted to heaw.”
Two seconds passed, only two, before the young woman made a funny face at him and grinned wildly. “Relax,” she assured. “I do that all the time. If you were to ask me if my next property bills have been paid, I’d tell you I'm struggling just to remember the date.”
Another burst of relief sent shockwaves throughout his body. Kotton couldn’t believe how much of himself he saw in Tisthel.
He decided on a whim to invoke more humour iby building off of her already proclaimed sense of grief. “Being an adult makes me wondew whethew I wanted that backyawd or not, am I wight?”
Initially there was no response. There was no chuckle, no laugh, much less a change in her disposition. It was only once he added, “I mean I wowk, I pay taxes, I house, and then thewe awe moew taxes, then I eat and what do you know? Thewe awe even mowe taxes!” It was only then that Tisthel finally managed to respond to him with a reaction that was suffused with hilarity. Had she been out of touch, uneducated or merely uninterested in his attempt at a joke, he didn’t know.
Time lingered. It did not tick and tock and it did not shift with the shadow of an angle illustrated by the random position of a stone. It was more… circadian. And it was this pause in time that led Kotton to think about being, race, ancestry, and additional otherworldly existence.
It was strange just how long it took him to realise her ancestry. Just by looking at Tisthel you wouldn’t know her heritage unless you were intelligible enough. It wasn’t until you started to learn more about her, befriend her and actually look at her before you saw the fragments of who it was she was. And who she was was a mixture of Qi'ora and Se’vryn. How did Kotton know other than by diligently gazing upon her appearance, mind, and soul? It was the way she carried herself, timid as to how her shoulders fell against the rest of her body. It was the way she caught herself, often righting her posture as though fighting with the confidence she knew she had inside but failed to bring to light. There were also thin lines across her face, like cracks in her skin, and her chestnut hair was thinning as her Qi'ora nature slipped into her Se'vryn side. Socioculturally, there was also the way she thought about things and the way she spoke; she seemed traditional and always kind as though it was important she value kinship, promise, and purpose. Kotton didn't see this so much as he had learnt it during their time together at the festival bonfire the previous season. But radiant optimism and sincerity she expressed now only aided in his assumptions.
“Youw lettew,” Kotton began, only in response to the awkward silence that had initiated itself between words.
“Yes?”
“I’m not that fluent in Scalveen.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”
Kotton waved her apology like it was a nothing more than a typographical error. “I just want to say thank you fow having me leawn more about the language.”
Tisthel was more than awestruck. This wasn't what she thought would be said to her. “You’re welcome... I guess?” she told him in an inconclusive manner.
Kotton smiled at the sound of her voice. “It’s no pwoblem.” He bowed his head in respect. He hoped his gesture was akin to the likes of those in romance novels where the protagonist performed an action that made them appear handsome. “I’m glad you did it.” He finished his words in a low growl, still subconsciously relying on what he had learnt from romance novels.
What was returned to him was nothing more than absolute silence.
A momentous pause. There was nothing besides a woman sitting with a goofy smirk across a table from him in the Scholar’s Nook.