Closed Inquiries of a Professionally Curious Nature

[Milos]

​

M I L O S

. 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

.

29th of Spring, year 125 of the third age

✦
​

It wasn't that he had never set foot in Hespæria; it was just that it had been so long ago he could barely remember the bog. For all his supposed wanderlust, Milos really spent way too long in the Basin. He told himself it was just because he was too busy learning, burying his face in books, getting poisoned by mushrooms he thought were edible, you know, just the usual Æld'Norai childhood, no matter how much Væris insisted that most Æld'Norai children did not learn which mushrooms were poisonous by eating them. Nevertheless, the point was that he had been busy learning. Then painting. Then dancing. Then—

Yeah, he was making excuses, and it came to a point where he couldn't convince even himself that wasn't the case. Sure, there was no rush to leave home, except he wanted to, and that meant he was going to. Or, you know, he was going to do it his way. Væris could call him crazy all she wanted, but Milos was determined to see his little plan to the end. Nevermind he didn't actually have a plan, just the faint idea of next steps, but that was enough. With perseverance, everything would slowly fall into place. And if he made a mistake, well, it wasn't like he didn't have an eternity to fix it. Things would be fine. You don't always have to have everything figured out.

And, right now, as Milos walked through the buildings crafted from marshlog trees, he was doing precisely that. In a way. Well, he heard of a maltrician in Thokkmyrr, and he was curious about what that entailed, precisely, and whether the guy was a doctor as well or something else, so, there he was. Exploring. It wasn't like he had to justify himself, right?

"Why live within smells of rotten wood when you can breathe the fresh air of Ældrassil himself?" Rúna asked in his mind, and, for someone who didn't really have a face, she was quite good at conveying her sneer. Milos rolled his eyes, waving his hand in dismissal.

"It's not bad." And it wasn't. Different, sure, the humid scent heavier, thicker, filled with an earthy and wet-wood quality creating an air that was very different than the Basin's forests, but Milos could see the appeal. It was like a tight hug, clinging to the skin even as the cold kept any sweat from forming. The Saol running through the trees with twisted roots still couldn't dispell all the dark atmosphere.

It wasn't his favourite place in the world, but he liked it.

"Sure," Rúna flickered next to him, casting a pinkish glow on the corner of his eye, "if you like the smell of carcass."

"Shush, you." He closed his hand around the Wisp, trapping her for all of a second before she bled through his fingers. Milos wasn't convinced she could even smell anything—he could ask, but it's not like Rúna would give him a straight answer.

No, he wouldn't be surprised if she was complaining because she wanted to complain, or because of a memory of what the bog smelled like when she was alive. Sometimes, Milos wasn't even convinced she had been alive. He would also not be surprised if she was actually a curse some witch had put on him or something.

Soon enough, the city bled into the bog, the buildings receding to give way to unworked trees with purple and grey hues. Rúna, of course, didn't wait to voice her opinion about grey trees, but Milos tuned her out as he made his way towards where the maltrician's house was, if the directions he had managed to get were correct. His fingers brushed against the dark barks of trees, pointing out every single colourful flower they passed by just to spite Rúna's assertion that the bog was not colorful at all. She, unfortunally, was way too good at just ignoring reality and continuing with her assessment. Fortunately, Milos was also very good at ignoring her.

It took less than he thought to see the faint glow of a house carved out within a sequoia, and Milos' pace quickened as he hurried towards the glowing building, crossing the bridge and batting at Rúna like she was a mosquito when she hovered too close to his face. If this was the maltrician's place, then the trip was already worth it—the garden around the building was beautiful, and the way the construction blended with the tree was mesmerizing. He wanted to create something like this, something that could encapsulate the beauty of who they were, how they blended with Ældrassil's woods, how they were part of these woods, too. They were something no other race could recreate, and this? This was a stark example of that connection.

"This is the same as all the other buildings we passed," Rúna pointed out, and Milos shrugged.

"I'm allowed to be amazed by things. It's called living, something you're clearly in shortage of." Milos' knuckles tapped against the door, and then he opened it, poking his head inside. "Hello? May I come in?"

"Asking to come in after coming in defeats the purpose of the question," Rúna said, and Milos pointedly ignored her.

═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════

 

[Velho]

༺༉❁ Spring 29 year 125 of the third age ❁༉༻

<

: Elsknýr

The polite, gender neutral way to address somebody whose title and/or name you are unsure of.

>

The large, heavy doors of Själasalr opened with little resistance beyond their weight– it was a business, after all, and Milos had arrived during operating hours.

The foyer-turned-waiting room itself looked to be a wide, open rectangular space designed as a plush sort of sitting area for clients and other guests. It had plenty of comfortable looking, exquisitely crafted furniture, along with ornate, maximalist decor crafted of the same durable, dark wood as the tree which composed the manor itself– one might describe the aesthetic theme as a sort of druidic art nouveau. Dark, gossamer curtains of a deep shade of purple hung 'round the windows, with the rest of the room's upholstery sharing the shade. The space was not all darkness, however, warmed as it was with the dim flicker of candlelight, varying artworks and floral growths. The flowers that grew within were the same variety that adorned the outside of the towering tree-manse– glowing red poppies and the lovely purple hues of wisteria and nightshade. However, the most striking part was likely the sunken sofas in the center of the room, compiled in the shape of a diamond, with the two points of the longer sides facing the entrance and the second door set against the back wall. In the center sat a low coffee table, likely where refreshments might be served during longer waits.

His knock and call into the room alerted its sole occupant: Lucia, a friend of Velho’s he’d hired to manage most customer-facing affairs related to running a mortuary and funeral parlor. Her office was nestled into the back-right corner of the room, though it appeared as more of a nook. The woman would be visible from the entryway, with the tall arch of her office’s threshold rendering her visible to visitors and them to her, as she sat such that she was facing the front entrance. Her nook was decorated with a desk, a chair, and the equivalent of a large armoire for storage, all grown into the wall beside her, all the same deep, almost ebony-brown wood native to Hespæria’s sequoias. For comfort and style, the chair was covered with an embroidered silk blanket and pillows of colors similar to the surrounding flora. Differing from that which wreaths Själasalr, within her office grows her own flora– belladonna, red spider lilies, purple clematis, and purple hyacinth. Though her tastes lean more towards elegant beauty than the more somber sort Velho found in death and the macabre, they did share a love of a similar palette of colors– deep purples contrasted by warmer hues. Perhaps because it was familiar to them, having both spent much of their lives in the bog where flora of such colors were commonly kept– or maybe it was their love for such hues that kept them here.

Looking up from the book she was reading, she didn’t get the impression that this visitor was here due to a death. No– the death of Æld’Norai was a dramatic affair, either deeply tragic or celebrated in mirthful melancholy. The attitude she got from this one’s voice was more inquisitive curiosity than anything else, which made her suspect that he might not be here to seek out one of Själasalr’s advertised services at all. She doubted the visiter sought a Ferrier's services related to accompanying Wisp, either, as a Wisp's behavior had to be dangerous or incredibly erratic to warrant that.

After marking the page and setting the book down, the woman moved to stand. She wore a dress of elegant black velvet, something flowing and sleeveless, the hem of its skirt ending in loose asymmetry. The fabric of the shoulder straps as well as that of the waist cinched with ornate silver jewelry matching the metal of the dainty layered chains that hung ‘round her neck and the thicker cuffs resting at her wrists.

She would walk until she was about halfway through the room before gesturing around the space, “...hail, Elsknýr. You are welcome to enter, please make yourself at home.

What is it that you seek?”

She nodded to both parties– the living and the Wisp– as if to indicate that she'd directed the question at each of them. And when she finished speaking, her arms came to rest with hands clasped in front of her, a pointedly polite posture.