Perched by the bow of the Ship in a rare moment of stillness, Aylar considered the movements of the stars, the passage of time, and the weight of his current predicament. Great many things seemed to be coming together, and with their docking at the Monkey Island and everyone getting to their own devices, many more things would. Be it general exhaustion or the newfound solitude within his own mind, he has found himself with a lot of patience despite all the turmoil the fates have seen fit to throw upon the Crew.
He thought back to the aftermath, back to when the waves settled and the flotsam-and-chum choked waters of the battle were left behind. Gone was the phoenix presence, save for the lingering starfire warmth in his chest. The Ship was dead in its silence, and he knew that though he knew now the soul that once dwelled within the Penguin, he would not get to speak with him, nor ever feel the usual displays of amused approval. The Sword, dismayed by having been denied its quarry, has been returned back into its sealed dwelling soon after coming upon the deck. Even the roiling storm in his soul has died down, fierce howling winds to a faint whisper. In that whisper, he felt a resettling of a part of himself that was for so long a fragment split away and crudely stitched back in by a thread of fates, and with it, came the great weight, settling upon his shoulders. Perhaps, it was calling a price not paid for a long time; perhaps, he has simply exerted himself too greatly through this ordeal. Perhaps, his exploits on this cycle led him to mature - in the ways of his people - and so, he felt it way more acutely this time, the crushing drain of mundane banality. In a way, his existence in this realm was always cyclical: exploits of carnage, plunder and derring-do punctuated by stretches of absence, when he would be compelled to cross back to where he belonged, or weather the consequences of being moored on mortal shores. His duty, however, called to maintain his position and conduct, despite the threat of muddled thought, loss of sleep or rapidly fading magickal ability. Until the Ship and the Crew would take refuge in a safe port, and until all that needed be taken care of, was taken care of, he would endure, he would manage and control, and take the frustration and embarrassment the condition was inevitable to bring, to both himself and the others.
It was for this state that Aylar decided, very early on, to take upon the Work, purposely seeking a great task that would serve well to focus his mind and efforts. It was an exploitable quirk of a fey mind, the ability to churn away and power through through many a sickness or setback, if only there was a fixation, an obsession to fuel it, and so he had opted, quite literally, craft one for himself. Now looking over the Ship from his vantage spot, he noted with satisfaction just how close to completion his current phase of preparations was. On the first night of their return to the Ship, while working to reweave Grogtial’s old amulet in order to replace Count’s destroyed one, he idly wondered if that was just over-reactive concern born out of recent events; some measly scraps of lingering bad-future prescience that was not meant to come to pass to begin with, but quickly resolved to cast those kinds of thoughts aside. He would ensure that what has transpired aboard in their voyage so far would not repeat itself - the wards set up upon it would be great, terrible, and incredibly annoying to anyone he would consider an enemy, as well as make up for him having to give up his initial repair ideas, that have caused Count much huffing and him a small lesson of not rushing to steal good work from the locals, even if he be of belief that his people would have done a fairer job in some aspects. Judging by the exasperation of a certain witch, the Work also was incredibly incomprehensible to anyone else, but he wasn't about to divulge family secrets.
He could tell that Aeshma had found some fault with him. Be he in a better state of mind and not upset at her assumptions, he might have sought counsel; however, as his own unsure attempts have proven, the witch seemed to be mistaken in her expectations. There was that stillness in his mind, where something was before, stillness that would not part or move even when he would climb atop the crow's nest in the middle of the night and reach for the stars, concentrating for any kind of a sign, a feeling, a faint whisper in the silence where should have been, at the aasimar's adamant assurance and expectation, something. Whatever was it that she had expected him to be capable of, he evidently wasn't; not for the lack of trying, but perhaps for the strangeness of it all. There could have been so many reasons. Witching magick followed rules. His only lightly considered suggestions, on a good day. He didn't cast, he thought it, willed it, and on more than one occasion, wrathed it into existence. Maybe Clíodhna couldn't hear him, maybe he wasn't calling out loud enough. He still carried the last of the starfire she had given him inside, but he also was quite sure that there was no flow, even the faintest, of it to or from him anymore. Maybe there no longer was a connection to call through. Maybe something kept both of them from drawing on it. By now he knew she couldn't do much where she was, so this meant that he had to be stronger to get through - something that he wasn't and couldn't be at this time.
He fully meant it when he had reassured Rummyfangs that they would get her back, just as he had meant it when he told Devin that the overgrown eel was to blame for the Admiral's absence, and that there would be a way to set things right again, once they had a chance to rebuild and gather intel for a counterattack. Naturally, he still was not in a hurry to extend the complete trust to the other half-elf, but the choice did not trouble him. These things would come with time, and in some things, like the exact connection he shared with the phoenix they both were allied to, he felt like he had not a full understanding of it, especially after what has transpired, and the sense of something more going behind the scenes - something that he had likely broken with all those stunts of his - led him towards even greater degree of caution. He has seen that secrecy and caution returned, declaration of cloak and dagger made in quiet certainty; despite the differences in their demeanor and positions in the tapestry of machinations, there was an unspoken understanding achieved between them, purely through their nature alone. There was no benefit for them to not cooperate; they wanted to succeed in the same task and see same creatures dead; he could recognize the concealed impatience of a predator eager to set off after his quarry, and a part of him delighted at being able to assist him in the hunt, looking forward to vicariously partaking in the fruits of his success.
Just as cautiously, he came to accept temporary presence of Captain Jax as well. He was among allies, was he not? His allies, her allies, gathering up to pull them along the newly chartered course, like a bunch of threads drawn together on a loom. Was this, too, another design of other powers spun beyond the reaches of any of their awareness? He understood that everyone had their own plans, and that he was likely a wrench thrown into the workings of theirs as well and not just the aboleth's. He chose to take the assistance of new arrivals with composed gratitude and a show of trust, despite the lingering exasperation the presence of strings invisible kept giving him. He would carry himself as steady as he could.
Post edited March 31, 2024 by LordKaylar
