Dlyss' eyes opened, showing icy-blue irises. They turned automatically to the apparatus in the corner. A steady trickle of water spilled into a large bowl, which sat stop a metal plate embedded in the top of a pedestal. Even as she glanced at it, the metal plate shifted downward, and the ding of a bell being struck sounded from inside the pedestal.

Dlyss slunk out of her bowl-shaped bed, padded over to the spigot from which the water had been pouring, and turned the handle to close the valve. As the blue-violet takma sat before the pedestal and splashed water on her face, a russet-scaled male cautiously peered in through the doorway. Dlyss, without turning around, spat out a mouthful of water and murmured, “As usual.” The male nodded and withdrew.

She shook her face mostly dry, licking off the remaining droplets, and then turned about and exited the room. The size and length of the corridor outside testified that hers was a substantial dwelling; the stone walls had had repeating geometric patterns carved into them, inlaid with thin strips and wires of precious metals. The result was not visually overstated, but nonetheless must have been very expensive for its workmanship.

Dlyss stopped first at the doorway of what might have been called a family bedroom; most of the children slept there, except for the oldest two, and one of their fathers stayed with them while they did. It was Hejroth's turn this vigil, and he was, as she had foreseen, awake. The three youngest children were curled up with him in his bed near the door; the other eight who slept in the room were piled in a trio of high-sided beds further inside, peacefully snoozing.

Hejroth glanced up at Dlyss, who murmured quietly, “Another rest. Possibly slightly less. Abrass will feel ill; have him take some of that mixture with breakfast again. Watch for Enbelyss to try to wander off when they go outside.” She withdrew from the room without waiting for a response, and continued on to her office, where, just a moment after she sat at the low table that served as her breakfast table and her desk, the russet male bowed his way in with a tray, setting it in front of her. He turned to Dlyss' private altar against one wall, checked the charcoal in the brazier, then gently crooked a finger at it and left. As Dlyss ate, tiny flames sprouted from the brazier.

She finished what she judged to be about five-sixths of what was in her bowl, but dutifully carried the remainder over to the altar. Facing the carved image of the entwined Diarchs, she murmured, “In Your name, Seluurin. In Your name, Khezri,” and emptied the portion of food into the brazier. Carrying the bowl back with her to the table, and ignoring the hissing and sizzling of the offering, she picked up a letter she had written before sleeping, and read it over again several times. Then she shook her head, antennae stiffening briefly in annoyance, and took a signature seal, pressed it into a box of blue paste, and carefully stamped it on the bottom of the letter.

She flicked a nearby bell three times with a claw. A young golden female entered a moment later, standing submissively before the table, and Dlyss pushed the letter across to her. “Be at the Outer Market in one rest,” she said. “Sometime between then and two rests afterward, there may be a male of a teal color, somewhat older than yourself. He will answer to the name of Einriss. I believe he will pass through, but the course of the lines is murky. If he does not come today, simply return with the letter; I believe he will come on another day and you can try again. If he comes, gain his attention and give him the letter.” As the girl nodded and opened her mouth to speak, Dlyss added, “That will be all.”

The girl clapped her mouth shut, dipped her head, and hurried out. Behind her, Dlyss turned her attention to composing a missive to the Council, responding to the arguments she would receive from them two vigils hence.

And so it was that, one rest later, a girl mooched around Oldstone's Outer Market, trying to keep an eye out for a teal male, somewhat older than herself, who, statistically speaking, was probably one of at least two or three who could conceivably share that identification and who would probably not be shouting his own name for easy identification.

There were times, she thought, when it would've been easier to stick with doing scenery for plays than being an errand girl.

It's one nameless teal male that ends up caught in the branches of a decorative bush. It's not a literal tangle - he seems to have sought out the embrace, in brazen disregard for the shrub's personal space, busying himself with the leaves as though to prune them. The curiosity is that he's clearly doing nothing of the sort. It's as if he's simply stopped to analyse, in-depth, the composition of the shrub, as if it were of some vital importance to some private thought process.

Then he's pulled back just enough to grant himself the freedom of movement allowing him to extract a kind of notepad from a bag strapped to his body, pausing to scribe something.

As he moves on, it becomes apparent that something seems to be wrong with his right wing. Nothing about it appears to be hampering his motions - but if it wasn't an unlikely explanation, Dlyss' errand girl might be tempted to assume something had once torn a sizeable chunk out of the membrane and it had been regrown by an organism thinking itself more plant than animal. The texture is wrong, if nothing else, an impression only emphasised by how normal the rest of the wing seems.

Of course, it would be ludicrous to just assume this was the male that Dlyss sought just because he was a little odd. Indeed, it would be best not to forget that from the rest of the world's perspective, everyone in the Citadel was 'a little odd'; and even amongst the altered status quo, a bit of strangeness was to be expected in anyone. However, most of the community's quirks were mental, not physical.

Regardless, before the male ended up too engrossed in his next shrub, it might be worth risking to ask his name. He is, after all, the first candidate thus far.

The errand girl spotted a flash of teal among the bushes around the edge of the market and began making her way through the crowds towards it, but like any large marketplace, it was crammed full of takmar buying, selling, and browsing, and while the Srians seemed always seemed to be able to take advantage of the living currents to get where they were going, she - as Kaeans tended to do - did it by shoving and being shoved, whether gently or not so much.

After a pause or two of this, she got sick of it, unfurled her wings, and clawed her way into the air, smacking a few faces with her wingtips as she did so, but nearly collided with another impatient market-goer who had decided to go airborne at the same moment, and flopped heavily back to the ground, muttering. Peering over the heads of the crowd, she sighed.

She made her way to one of the fountains dotting the marketplace, checked to see that it was the nearest one to the teal takma, and then began weaving her fingers in intricate little patterns. Above her head appeared a glowing, squiggly sigil.

And, right next to the teal male, a message formed itself in the air in glowing letters. It said: “IS YOUR NAME EINRISS? IF SO I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU. LOOK FOR ME BY THE NEAREST FOUNTAIN. GOLD FEMALE WITH THIS SIGN.” A copy of her sigil hung in the air below the words.

Many a time ago, Einriss had decided that his true natural talent was not the mana that attuned him to the vivid details of life, the composition of all that breathed and some of which did not, but simply the calm acceptance of even sudden change. It was at his own pace that he took notice of abrupt motion, barking sounds or a touch to get his attention. He was hard to rattle - at cost, as he had to admit, of most reflexes that would have kept him safe in the wild.

Regardless, when the glowing letters appeared beside him, it was with a steady if astounded curiosity that he considered them. It wasn't that he couldn't appreciate how strange it was to have another address him this way, nor the curious manner in which she appeared to know his name but not, but for long moments, he let himself be preoccupied with the implications.

Indeed, if Einriss had not been his name, and he had chosen to interact with the lady, what then? Given that it was his name, what might anyone want of him? Should he be cautious? He sifted through his mind, running his tongue along his teeth contemplatively as he did so, pondering what he might have done to attract attention. For a reason he could not quite put a finger on, it seemed unlikely that it was a desirable attention, though he could think of no reason why that would be true, other than that surely all those who wished him well would not ask 'Is your name Einriss'?

Whatever it was, it couldn't be too much of a secret, lest a less… bright hail would have been used. He was probably not going to get assassinated for no reason.

Bolstered by that argument, his curiosity won over any concern and drew him away from the side of the road, easing his way through the crowds less by forcing his way through and more by drifting along, almost accidentally so, his attention sweeping through the crowd in search for a golden lady, akin to daydreaming. A few pauses later, he spotted her - a living landmark, the kind he preferred to all others.

Wiggling out of the crowds and to the fountain's edge, Einriss enquired: “What may I help you with?” with a voice only barely loud enough to be heard above the din, his muzzle dipping in a practised gesture of subservience that, while transparently insincere, was similarly devoid of any malice. It was evidently his stand-in for a greeting - a fond social ritual that provided a common framework, rather than anything that added substance.

The girl watched Einriss' eventual approach with a tilted head, and took in the strange patch on his wing membrane and his not-quite-greeting with interest.

Life in the Citadel conditioned one to learn to watch out for the quirks of others. While a thoughtful observer would conclude that it was subject to many of the same emotional forces, good or bad, as any other civilization, the fact remained that it consisted mainly of magic users, the vast majority of whom either were themselves, or were near descendants of, refugees whose mental fortitude had been sorely tested in the world outside.

As a result, what might kindly be called unique personalities were a frequent occurrence, with varying levels of impact on society - quite literally impacts, for instance, in the case of that group of elementalists nine turns ago who had started out tossing pebbles to each other in this very marketplace and gotten increasingly enthusiastic. The Council had ended up forcing them to help clean up the craters, come the finish.

Einriss seemed harmless enough, at least. The girl drew herself up in what seemed to her a dignified stance, though in fact to others it looked rather dramatic. “I am Enneth of Inner Court,” she intoned, identifying the subterranean neighborhood of Oldstone in which she lived, “and I am the emissary of the Oracle Dlyss. She has bid me to deliver this message to you and to await your response.”

Enneth passed him the letter. Whether he recognized the name Dlyss, she thought, he should at least have heard of the Citadel's only oracle; she wasn't exactly a household name, but her rise in influence over the past few cycles had been impressive.

The letter read:

“To him named Einriss:

“I have seen your name and likeness in the mists of the future. It would benefit us both to know why.

“To this end, I request your presence at my residence: 2 West Corridor, Third Level of the Inner Court. I currently sleep during the first sixth of each vigil but will be, by and large, available at all other times.”

”-Dlyss”

Considering the formal, if terse, nature of the letter, one expected distinguished handwriting, but in fact the letters, though quite legible, looked like those children made while learning, carefully formed and one-by-one.

An Oracle! Abruptly, all of this made much more sense. Of course! An Oracle could discover his name without ever quite having assurance of it. And if this was a messenger of the Oracle, her degree of certainty was no doubt even smaller.

The nature of the letter, however, gave him pause. He could not quite place the name Dlyss, but there was something at his peripheral thoughts about the name. He had certainly heard it before… but where? Was it a figure important enough to impersonate? Although, he reasoned,if someone were impersonating another, they surely wouldn't do such an amateurish job of it. No, the writing could not be taken as an indicator of a lack of authenticity, or vice versa.

“Curious,” he murmured. An apt summary, really, given that it was how he felt about the invitation. He stared at the letter as though it might divine more about its purpose, but all he could truly speculate about was the source materials for paper and ink.

Long moments later, he exhaled his frustration and glanced at Enneth. “Thank you. I have fixed appointments to attend to in the next four vigils that would make a visit impractical in that time, but you can tell Dlyss that her letter intrigued me and I will visit as soon as time permits.” A pause,accompanied by a growing smile. “Given her nature as an esteemed Oracle, I assume she will know once the fates sweep me her way.”

He inclined his head. “I thank you, again,” he concluded, his tone contemplative, before passing the letter back to Enneth, perhaps guided by a hope that it was the polite thing to do.

Enneth nodded. Her experience of Dlyss' abilities suggested to her that Dlyss would indeed know - probably Enneth would not really need to say anything upon her return.

“You're welcome. Er,” she added, “I suppose it might be helpful to Dlyss to ask what it is you do?”

He withdrew into contemplation, without quite bothering to take his eyes off Enneth in the process. They lingered on her, simply becoming a little more vacant as he pondered his response. Finally, he thawed out of his silence, volunteering some information: “My function within the wider Citadel is to aid in the fertility and health of all that lives here, be it plant, animal or takma - in practise restricted, of course, to the territorial belongings of the people that seek me out.” For a moment, he was back to musing, as though unsure what about his habits might strike the interest of an Oracle and her emissary. Then he appended: “With what time remains, I design organisms.”

His description of his function seemed unremarkable for a lifegiver; though lifegivers were not exactly thick on the ground, that was exactly the kind of thing they usually did. One of Dlyss' neighbors in the West Corridor had a husband who was a lifegiver of considerable talent, and she frequently consulted him, particularly when she was pregnant.

But designing organisms, now, that was a rare pastime, beyond the minor modifications needed to adapt plants to the Citadel's unusual climes. “Oh? What kinds? Or just any kinds?”

Given he'd witnessed various other reactions to that admission in the past, not all of which were necessarily pleasant, the quiet curiosity was a welcome change. “Nothing currently presentable,” he apologised, though his tone barely changed in the process. “In general, I let my tasks guide my curiosity, so my… focus has been on entirely new kinds of plants.” His wings folded against his body, hiding the leaf-like texture, although whether by conscious or subconscious gesture was hard to guess. It seemed like a natural progression of his posture. “I would be lying if I claimed that were the extent of it, though, but it's also true that my other projects haven't been as successful.” Yet.

Dlyss did not confide in Enneth for everything. Or anything. She didn't confide in anyone else, either, come to think of it, except possibly Zadireth - who Enneth had met only once, just before he'd left for the lowlands. But Enneth had heard her more public comments and knew enough to be aware that Dlyss felt herself to have a mission related to the greatness of the Chosen.

And while Enneth herself agreed in a general sort of way, she didn't feel much invested in Dlyss' cause. She worked for the oracle because it brought good pay and her own quarters and time to make illusions for her own amusement - and for that of Dlyss' children, who often enjoyed what she conjured up. All in all, she probably wasn't the best person to judge; but she had to admit to herself that, while the idea of designer organisms was interesting, very much so, she didn't see how it could help what Dlyss was trying to do.

Then again, it wasn't really her place to judge. Dlyss would surely know - or, if she didn't, she'd figure it out. Her faith in the oracle extended that far. “Well, I won't pester you about them. Dlyss will probably do that anyway - if she doesn't just read your past for the details - and possibly I can arrange to be around to listen when she does. It's amazing what you can learn, listening to her discussions with people.”

The threat for any Oracle was likely a neglect of the present, but Einriss was not about to say that to either an Oracle or their emissary's face, more so since he had no reason to actually criticise such Chosen. Like most kinds, he had never consciously met one, and thus had no prejudices to call his own. Conversing with someone whose fundamental perception of time differed from the norm was certainly bound to be interesting and, by proxy, he would no doubt learn something.

It seemed obvious that this was not the way Enneth meant it and Einriss was not altogether sure if he enjoyed the idea of being caught up in a dialogue with an Oracle while another was listening. While he struggled to imagine any harm coming from it, that was precisely his problem: He struggled to imagine anything in particular.

It would probably be fine. In theory, any Oracle having a conversation ought to know especially when topics might escalate and steer conversation or company accordingly, regardless whether Einriss knew what those topics might be or not.

“I imagine so,” Einriss remarked, with the same vapidness as his greeting had been - a wholly unoffensive insincerity.

Enneth nodded helplessly, feeling it prudent to give up on conversation for the time being. She was, by nature, a talker, and she was getting the very strong sense that Einriss was by nature not. Possibly, if Dlyss had plans for him, she would see him again.

She really did hope she got to watch the conversation between him and Dlyss, however. Other than when making speeches, the oracle was not in the habit of conversation, either, so watching them try to talk to each other might prove entertaining. “At any rate,” she said brightly, “I will notify Dlyss of your appointments and that she should expect to see you after they're concluded. Farewell!”

She unfurled her wings and, striking a dramatic pose before doing so, launched herself into the air, winging her way toward the cliff face behind which the subterranean levels of Oldstone had been carved.