Same old, same old

The pitter-patter of rain roused him, slowly, quietly. Vilas lifted his head from the writing desk with a weary groan, groggy as the dream faded. It had been a calm one, a rarity for him with its visions of a sunlit forest.

He glanced at the window, feeling no less tired than he did before dozing off for… gods know how many hours. Maybe two, perhaps even three, it was difficult to tell the time by looking at the sky alone, dark and cloudy as the winter days often were here in Ivras, and today was no different.

But he did feel at ease, for once, and with a barely stifled yawn he picked up one of the letters, neatly piled before him on the table. He had penned them, watched a wax pellet melt over the candle flame that yet flickered, although faintly, but none of them were sealed, the signet ring Mordreaux had sent him set aside on the table yet. A promise, accompanied by a letter of few words; a promise that he could gift the man back the next time they saw each other... whenever that would be, the house he had dropped by in the heat of last year's summer having been empty, the only living things on its premises fowl and an irritant goose. And soon after, the letters too had stopped up until yesterday and this unexpected delivery.

Leaning back in the chair Vilas eyed over the response meant for the man himself, much different from his usual ones, and he smiled to himself before scoffing and setting it back down to reheat the wax. He promised to look after the ring for Mord, just as he promised he had meant to write the man sooner on his own end, too - nevermind the bitter note the house visit had left him with, old fears quick to rise and grow in its wake - but Grace forbid if there always wasn’t something keeping him from the still quietness of his personal quarters. Be it his work here in Namarast, or orders from beyond the Mirror Bay.

It had been an odd, tumultuous year all around even by his chaotic norms, and not just for him if the hallway gossip was to be believed. The year had been so odd in fact, that folks who hardly spared a thought to the Patrons normally were now considering paying a visit to the town shrines.

'Appeasement', that was the popular reasoning and what a foolish thing it was. The Patrons wouldn't care either way, nor could they undo the heavy rains that had ruined much of the crop - not to mention the curse that had swept across the land and caused much concern and heartache - but then again, the fear was understandable. He'd been spared himself, after all. Vilas could only hope it stood true for those he had dedicated all these letters to.

Yet he couldn't lament too much, not with the event and the unrest following it having provided plenty opportunities for him and Agathias to study magic gone utterly, absolutely out of control.

Seeking opportunities and seizing them was what he had always placed his faith in- no, always had to, and the coming months would be no different. Hell, the Feast of Flowering better be the grandest it can be with all the fretting over what were ultimately age-old superstitions. He smiled faintly at the memory of last year's festival as he folded the parchment and picked up that precious signet ring, pressing it to the wax with the memory of his beautiful companion's wild laughter echoing in the back of his mind.

Admittedly he might be asking too much.