♂ ILLUMINATED BOOK, kotaline's Phasmas

[kotaline]

[a familiar tune]

 

[kotaline]

[Yates was the most idealistic of all the first nine families, and in the Society he found not wisdom, but fancy. A man of Bone was to him something more majestic than man alone, and he used his knowledge to cultivate that image, going from impish minstrel to minstrel mystic as fluidly as a fish might take to water. To temper his passions, he was placed with Yawley, who would brook no foolishness and waste no time. Yates could not respect such a man, and made no secret of it, until they faced the quiet village, and he saw what made Yawley worthy of the title he found such romance in. Not dull, but steady, Yawley could face what made Yates flee, and still forgive him after it was said and done.

DEATH hung heavy over the village,
Some said it was a curse, and others an omen,
All fell ill and wasted to nothing, regardless of sin or suffering.
Yates and Yawley arrived at this cursed hamlet,
AND as men of Bone, could not turn from this mystery,
Their faith demanding answers for each question and truths from each lie.
Yawley set to work, with little care to his own health, but Yates,
Whose task was to document songs and dances,
HAD no taste to sit and record the suffering of the damned.
In fear of his life, and repulsed by the dying,
He fled the village, leaving Yawley to shift for himself.
But he was yet too late to avoid being exposed to the illness,
AND in his flight, fell, gripped by the sickness which he so detested.
Consumed with pain and regret, he suffered, the most romantic of men,
Knowing that his cowardice would cause his last act to be a lonely death.
Wracked with guilt, he thought to repent, and turned towards the village,
WITH the last of his strength, he confessed his folly
To Yawley, who listened, and then with all care,
Announced he had found the disease in the well,
And administered medicine to his sick comrade.
IN the fullness of time, Yates did recover, yet still suffered keenly from guilt.
But Yawley bore no grudge or resentment, tho' the betrayal was heinous.
In those weeks, Yates realized the romance in Yawley,
Who expected much but forgave much, and worked even in the face of death.

DEATH.]

 

[kotaline]

[the broken bone]

 

[kotaline]

After the departure of Agnes, Marian, and, though one of the party could scarcely know of it, the book of Wickwright Finch and a cup of cocoa once intended to be enjoyed by Dorian Arelgren, Finch and Yates proceed to sit.

They regard each other, or rather, Finch regards Yates, and Yates regards the door that Agnes has left through somewhat unhappily, as if he cannot attend to business anymore without her presence informing his decisions. It is a most nonsensical sort of notion: no man of Bone would stoop to allowing his daughter of all people to attend to his business, but Yates's posture and demeanour once she leaves the room reminds Wickwright of nothing more than a puppet whose strings have suddenly been cut. Whereas before he was shaking hands and lutes and who knows what left and right, he now seems quite lost, and furthermore most surprised to find that he is so. In short, he is not the sort of man who one would confidently confide in about grave matters, but whether confidently or not, it is unfortunately Wickwright's task to do exactly that.

"Yates," he remarks, and this seems to pull his companion from some sort of stupor, a smile returns to his face and he exclaims as if seeing Finch for the first time.

"Finch! That is quite right, what is this business you've traveled so far to speak to me of? My word, but we haven't seen your face in ages, tho' you're the first family in Imisus. We were sure you had died, just like-" Another marionette string is cut here, it seems, and he coughs, smile flickering, hands fluttering for his lute, which he puts in his lap. He strums it sadly, and the sound brings the grin to his lips once more. "I don't suppose that you know of any new tunes? Ah, but Finch men, they never do write down the notes!"

"No," Wickwright agrees, appraising Yates cannily. This does not seem like an Obscuvian spy, but he cannnot for the life of him tell what Yates is now. He is like himself, in some superficial ways, but there is something decidedly strange. He is, Wickwright decides, like a traveling cloak left too long in the must and dust of an old trunk- there's a distinctly insubstantial feel, and it makes Wickwright uneasy, but he shakes it off. It's all too simple to overdramaticize matters. He is a Finch man and Yates is a romantic, and in a room together, they can -and have many times before- make great mountains out of the smallest molehills. Yates is tired, an understandable circumstance considering the tragedies of the past few months. Nothing, he thinks, that will impede his business, as desperate and urgent as it is. Indeed, a new cause to cling on to, a truth to defend, could be exactly what Yates needs to revive himself, something to wax poetic over and croon about. Yates is a noble man, and fiercely just, but the same sort of just that revels more in the justice than the cause. For centuries, Yateses latched onto any old thing, and it was only Yawley which prevented them from getting carried away entirely. With the situation of the Yawley family at present, there seems to Wickwright to be no impediment of this nature to concern himself with. Indeed, now that it seems that Yates's long absences might be melancholic rather than traitorous, he begins to take pride in himself on having come at precisely the right time.

Still, there is the matter of Finch's bad luck, the long-lamented curse which the Finch men have been rumoured to be plagued with, a curse which seemed all too believable when Hopkin sprang from his book. This bad luck has been suspiciously absent in the past few months, save for the disastrous meeting with the Emperor, which resulted in money coming his way, and is misfortune that Wickwright would not mind more of, so long as it continues to be a profitable sort. Contrary to all of the long-established chestnuts, Wickwright's luck as of late has been good, excessively so, and as a Finch Man well versed in the folklore, he is inclined to a good deal of suspicion regarding this. He must be sure. "I ran into several Obscuvian raids in my journey," he begins, steepling his fingers. "They have impeded my Society duties- I did not wish to lead them to any Bone family." He spreads his hands as if to ask the world what it can make of this injustice, all while cringing inwardly at how close he is to lying to Yates. True, he has met several Obscuvian raiders- but many months ago now, and almost forgotten by everyone but Hopkin, who remembers all.

If Yates is supposed to be disturbed at this news, he shrugs it off with a smile, remarking to Wickwright, "Well, I would not mind them so much, if it meant a visit from Finch! This house is too empty, we need people to fill it. Sometimes I despair I will not be able to marry Agnes off, no gentlemen of any sort ever call." He pauses, as if he has thought of a particularly funny joke, and asks, "I don't suppose you are up to the task, you old bachelor!" When Wickwright murmurs his apologies, he laughs, and remarks, "That is just so, all Finches are lovelorn over Bunting." At this, Wickwright stiffens, the joke is an old one: At the time of its inception, Bunting was a woman, and Finch was certainly given cause to feel the pain of love lost for her, but now many centuries have passed, and Bunting, as far as Finch knows, is a stout man in the mountains. The barb is as old and tired as he, Wickwright, and Tristram combined.

"I believe you would feel differently," Wickwright rebukes, "If you saw the raiders! So close to Auvinus, many men must be Obscuvian, but only the most radical and fierce seek to raid up near Gadu and Rosstead. No, it is not a thing I would wish on anyone, even the loneliest man in the world."

"Oh! But it's all a lot of nonsense, don't you think?" Yates encourages, reaching for the refreshments which Agnes has left. "A bird headed god! I would hate to be the one to transcribe his holy books! I cannot listen to crows caw for more than an hour without coming down with a dreadful headache." He laughs and Wickwright joins him, pleased by this talk: Yates might spy for Obscuvos if he takes a fancy to, but upon no consideration would any Yates mock a cause he believes is a just one.

"I am glad to hear it, for I was half afraid that so close to the border we would have lost you! I have much to speak about regarding the Society, and I must admit that I speak it in the strictest confidence."

"Oh," Yates says, a strange sort of smile on his face, "Do tell me!" and leans in with overblown solemnity.

Wickwright's brow furrows, but he continues gravely. "My contribution," he begins, taking a breath, "Has been Plagued."

"No!"

"...Yes," Wickwright hesitates, for there is something in that 'no' which does not sit well with him. Nevertheless, he continues, "I have spoken to O'Neill regarding the matter, for as you know, I've reached an age which is too advanced for me to entertain much hope of reproducing my book, nor do I think that I should make attempt to- Apart form the Plaguing, it is quite unaltered, and the Plague itself remembers the contents exactly. The question at the root of this is whether or not a Plague can be true, which he- we thought best to put to a general assembly, so this I ask of you. Will you defend the truth of my contribution? Will you assemble the minor Jawbone Men who answer to you to attend a meeting to discuss such matters?"

"I suppose," remarks Yates, airily as possible, "If it means so very much to you, I shall."

Wickwright can take no more of this and enquires, "But Yates, does it mean much to you?"

"I suppose not," Yates counters lazily. "It is not my contribution, and now that you think of it, isn't it like O'Neill to be so puffed up about such trivial concerns? What matter is it that our contributions are even turned in at all? No one judges them or holds them or looks upon them again at all but us, and even then we needs must travel to some great gloomy cave in the middle of nowhere up north to do so. I ask you, what purpose is in it? We all parade around like sagacious men of truth, so burdened with knowledge that our heads bob back and forth like that bird-headed god." he strummed his lute more, a sad, ridiculous sound. Rolling his eyes back to Wickwright, he laughed, drily noting, "Surely, you, Finch, see the humour. What is there left to take seriously?"

Even Wickwright, a liberal Jawbone Man by any measure, is taken aback by this blatant heresy. "Yates," he urges, "Surely you believe in the justness of the search for truth?"

"Oh, I suppose I must," Yates replies lazily, "At any rate, Agnes insists that I must, and she's usually right about these things these days. But it did occur to me, when we had that boy over, that Whitney boy, how ludicrous it was! That he should be so dark and angry over Percy leaving for something he believed in merely because he believed something different, and then, you know, I got to thinking that all this belief was in itself a silly thing altogether." A wry smile visits his lips and he strums his lute quite absentmindedly now, playing a merry little tune that clashes terribly with the dreary rain and the dreary room and the dismal conversation. "If you think about it," he informs Wickwright, "A detached jawbone that speaks is quite as ludicrous as a bird-headed god. Imagine the sermons of a little jawbone! I'm certainly fond of the Society, but by the Bone, we must seem to be a laughable bunch. By the Bone! That saying is also funny to imagine."

"You're tired," diagnoses Wickwright, "Your wife is dead, Richard's dead, Percy is lost to you, so these things seem this way naturally. Once the wounds heal, you'll regain your old self again."

This seems to do nothing but anger Yates, who sits up in his chair, and says, "Do not! Do not, Wickwright Finch, bring up those names and say I'm tired. Percy isn't lost to me at all, and my wife is dead of a disease that is as nonsensical as everything- One that Yawley tried to cure and found it was like spitting into the eye of a whale. That's all truth did for him, and for you it made your book a Plague, and don't you think, don't you just think that our state of affairs is easier to laugh at than curse? I know when it's time to laugh, Finch, and I think I am not tired at all. Rather, I see very clearly now, for the first time in a long time, and I don't care who knows. Tell O'Neill, if you like. If you like, you can write it in your book, however that works now he is a Plague, and publish it far and wide. I care not a whit, but I will collect songs for you since I find it pleasing, and they are the loveliest things in the world."

Wickwright is stunned into silence. Of all the men he has visited, he was sure Yawley would be the worst- So far deviated from his path as to be a new man, almost. But Yates is so similar to how he was once, which makes him worst of all In Wickwright's mind. Everything is there in Yates but his faith, which once burned in him like a merry fire.

"I will make the men I know come to the meeting. Agnes, she will arrange it, arranging things is tedious and as of late, tedium suits her well," drawls Yates. "It sounds to me to be good fun to ruffle O'Neill's feathers! Or is it Finch whose feathers should be ruffled? There is no bird named O'Neill, it's a poor pun."

"I daresay I've been ruffled sufficiently," Wickwright retorts, and Yates's assurances, though precisely what he came for, are a very cold sort of comfort to have.  

[kotaline]

getchur hed in the game  

[kotaline]

******** this s**t  

[kotaline]

some s**t w/lettie goes here or in the last post  

[kotaline]

It is most strange in Hopkin's mind, but Auvinus and Shyregoed are much the same.

Oh, there are substantial differences in temperature to be sure, and the people speak and look a certain way, but the overwhelming sense of isolation in each place leaves a great impression on his mind, as he is a book made of the narratives of many, and here they run into only a few at a time. Now that Lettie and Marian are departed, the isolation of this dry, hot place is almost intolerable, and Hopkin feels in his chest a great hunger for stories, even here in the heart of Obscuvian lands. For this, too, is true, and different from the nest of the Jawbone Society in Shyregoed: Here the Obscuvians have roosted, and it can be seen in many doorways, bird signs and markings and feathers hung up in prayer. It makes Hopkin, a book of a different faith, uncomfortable, and yet more curious than he would like to be, for he knows each feather represents a wish, and each wish a story, and he is nothing if not a vessel for stories such as those. It would at least give him reason to feel useful, for Wickwright is more cautious than ever in Auvinus and Hopkin rarely has the chance to come out of hiding, not even for lessons, in case some passing crow is a spy. Hopkin, rarely able silence himself or to stop his pursuit of knowledge, has grown restless, and Wickwright, having had to foil his Plague's inquisitions more than usual as of late, has grown irritable. The wagon is choked in a thick tension, as muggy and uncomfortable as the summer air.

It manifests itself finally, not in Wickwright, or Hopkin, but in the wagon itself, which all of a sudden comes to a halt, jolting Wickwright's hand over a page and causing an inkblot that makes him swear violently. Hopkin himself is startled and falls over from his Grimm's shoulder, but a spindly hand quickly catches him, and he clings onto one of Wickwright's long fingers. Wickwright breathes out in relief, but then clicks his tongue, looking at the ruined page. "Corpus bones, I was nearly finished," he mutters. "Tristram!" he calls, pulling himself slowly into a standing position. "You useless lump, what's gotten into you!"

He sets Hopkin on the table and leaves the wagon, and Hopkin collects his own nerves while he goes, feeling the reassuring old wood grain of the table he was partly written on. His coppery hands bump up against the edge of the ruined letter, when he opens it, he sees it's a flowery letter to Gravesend. Foolishly, Hopkin notes, Wickwright appears to have signed it "O'Neill". Dutifully, Hopkin pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment and transcribes the letter, signing it "Finch" instead, sprinkling sand on the wet ink, then neatly folding it up. He seals the wax with a Jawbone symbol, rather than a Finch Symbol, for though he is not a Jawbone Man, he is definitely not a Finch, and he helped write the letter now, if not compose it. He replaces the letter on Wickwright's desk, and then, since Wickwright has not returned from checking on Tristram, carefully shimmies down the table leg to find him.

He discovers his Grimm laying against Tristram's side. From his disheveled appearance and Tristram's utter indifference, budging has been attempted, and failed miserably. Hopkin approaches them cautiously, since he remembers all too well the few hours he spent lodged in Tristram's mouth to hide from questioning guards, and clambers up onto Wickwright's knee. Wickwright's blue eyes swing lazily to consider him.

"It's too damn hot for this, Hopkin. Strewth, I came here once in my youth and it was bad enough. Let the Cult have the damn country."

"There are feathers in almost every doorway," notes Hopkin. "Are you sure they do not have it already?"

A short, sharp laugh. "Who knows? The southern Jawbone Men have always been strange. They have their own code, just like we have ours. A relic from the Kingsley War that they never changed. And the war, they have their own version of that, too."

Hopkin frowns. "Their version must be wrong," he asserts. "It is foolish for them to keep it."

"If we told ourselves only stories that were all true, you'd be a very thin book, Hopkin," Wickwright notes drily.

"Well, being flat is far more aesthetically pleasing! I do not like the notion that any lies live in me. This plagued body is a lie hideous enough to begin with."

"Hope that these liars like you, then," Wickwright says, stretching and patting Tristram, who finally moves. "We need their support just as much as we did the men of the north, and they are only half as likely to give it."  

[kotaline]

If Auvinus is characterised by long bouts of nothing, Hopkin cannot be surprised to find that the Jawbone residences that they travel to are much the same. Fruitless visits, leading to families who do not recognize the name "Finch," and thus cannot necessarily be assumed to be part of the Society, families who are obviously Obscuvian and thus must be avoided, and sometimes, just empty homes, hollow and sad shells which tell worrisome stories. By the time they reach Gravesend's home, Hopkin and Wickwright have become cautious as scared birds, and approach it with trepidation.

True to the nature of Auvinian lands, the home reveals nothing, empty and dark. Wickwright swears, and then begins examining the furniture.

"Gravesend wouldn't defect," he insists. "There must be some kind of clue as to where he went." Hopkin watches him quietly, and then, with some reluctance, removes himself from the book bag and begins to search as well. An hour or so passes in this way, and then Hopkin, his small hands nimble and light, finds a clue.

"Wickwright," he offers, crouching further to examine a hearth stone, "This is loose."

Wickwright rushes over to examine the stone, and without hesitation pulls it from the hearth, leaving a small hollow in which a scrap of parchment and some animal bones are crammed. He pulls out each item, frowning at the note, which is not made up of intelligible words, but symbols. "Kingsley code." he mutters in frustration. "Gravesend must have left it as a message to visitors here, but I certainly can't read it."

If Wickwright can't make sense of it, Hopkin surely isn't able to, though he tries with all his might. "This is why the Auvinian Jawbone Men are fools!" he exclaims in dismay. "Kingsley hasn't been a Jawbone Man since his great treachery."

"Many of Kingsley's old supporters who stayed in the Society moved to Auvinus after the split," Wickwright explains, "It was the farthest place from O'Neill's most faithful allies after the Collection was settled in Shyregoad."

"Surely they wanted to be close to the Collection, though!"

"Oh, I don't doubt they did, but O'Neill's supporters were hardly keen to trust them, and Gravesend, the most senior of Kingsley's supporters who remained, thought it was best to avoid conflict. The Jawbone Men of Auvinus developed their own support system. Many of them still felt persecuted by O'Neill's men- Clarke, for instance, left the Society rather than watch Finch take all the power as Society historian."

"But Finch stayed truer to the values of the Society than he did," insists Hopkin.

"He was on the winning side, at any rate," Wickwright comments drily. "Anyway, the point is that Kingsley's Men aren't loyal to a dead man, but they kept his code to use for communication that homines leves mustn't interpret rather than learning O'Neill's codes. It was easier." He let his eyes sweep the small, dusty room. "The problem is, Gravesend had something to say before he left, and we can't read it. And we haven't met anyone who can, either."

Hopkin flops on the floor with a gloomy, papery sigh, and Wickwright laughs. "Oh, don't look so glum yet. These symbols may be Kingsley's code, but they're not unfamiliar to me in theory- they're all Jawbone symbols. We might yet be able to decipher this. We're at least able to decipher part of it." He held up the animal bones. "These belong to a pine marten, which means that this is a message for Toure." He bit his lip and drummed his fingers on his leg, adding, "The problem is that Toure hasn't come to collect it."

He unfolded slowly and stretched, sore after spending so long searching the dusty home. "Tell me, Hopkin," he asks easily, "What do you do with a letter?"

Hopkin doesn't hesitate. His purpose as a book is much the same. "You deliver it."
 

[kotaline]

Wickwright spends his nights leaned over the missive for Toure, trying to decipher it as best he can. The dearth of news from the Jawbone Men of Auvinus is genuinely alarming, now that he has seen the empty houses, the Obscuvian families in their place. Previously it had been supposed that the men of that region could not get missives through a corrupt postal system or otherwise were preoccupied with surviving to spend time updating a faction in northerly areas that they were barely civil with of their doings. Conversions to Obscuvianism were anticipated and expected by O'Neill, Finch, and even Paxton, the most optimistic and good-natured of the lot of them. The scope, however, of the defections and desertions, and the empty houses that Hopkin and Wickwright visited in the past days come back and weigh heavily on the Grimm who has been too preoccupied with his own agenda to think too heavily on the pattern of nothingness that has been emerging from the houses he seeks to visit.

"Ah," he mutters optimistically one night, causing Hopkin to look up from where he's practicing script with one inky finger. "It's about..."

He lets out a frustrated noise. "Oh, festering corpus bones! I really have no idea what it's about. I assume that it's trying to tell us where he's gone, but place names are hard enough to decipher in O'Neill code, let alone a code I don't even know properly. Damn and blast these Auvinian Jawbone Men, can't they just do things properly?" Jabbing a long and spindly finger at a particular symbol, he says, "I know that mark refers to the Nine Families, but damned if I know the symbolic meaning of it. For all I know, it could mean that they've turned into songbirds and flown away. And in O'Neill code, that one there means danger, but it's a sign associated with Kingsley, so in this code it could mean danger overcome for all we know. All I can say for sure is that it's for Toure."

"Could Toure read it?" Hopkin offers hesitantly.

"He's going to have to. He wasn't the next stop I was planning to make, but considering the circumstances, that's where we need to go."

"They could have at least written it in Ardenian!" Hopkin exclaims, full of offence at any letter that elevates Toure to a position more useful than his own author. This gives Wickwright pause, and he looks over at Hopkin, who is quite taken aback. "Well, homines leves can hardly read that," he replies defensively, anticipating the unpleasant sensation of being informed that he is wrong.

"No, you're quite correct, Hopkin. Most Jawbone Men would have written this in Ardenian- I haven't used O'Neill code in years because I never had need to. Ardenian usually sufficed. Why was this message so carefully hidden anyway? Underneath a hearth stone, written in code that the Northern Jawbone Men can't understand, when the house isn't even near a city where there might be a man learned enough to decipher our usual language of communication." He peered harder at the letter, mulling things over. "Gravesend wasn't taking any chances. Whatever he's away dealing with, it must be particularly thorny."

Hopkin clambers up on his shoulder to look with him, and nearly topples off as his Grimm jabs at the paper again, exclaiming, "There! There's no code word for Cultist, that was long after the split that group rose to power, so if the missive was about them, Gravesend would have had to make up something that couldn't be mistaken by someone who knew the context." He pointed at a black bird. "I thought that might be a Finch or Bunting symbol he copied hastily, but it could just as easily be a crow- look how many times it appears. Gravesend could have thought that other men of faith, Obscuvian men, would be equally as likely to read Ardenian as a Jawbone Man. He could have been afraid that they'd intercept the message."

"But it was already hidden," points out Hopkin plaintively.

"He thought they might search hard enough to find it. Mark my words, Hopkin, the Cult is doing something sinister in Auvinus, and Gravesend is trying to stop them. And you," he decrees, "Will not leave hiding until we find him. Not once."

Hopkin regards Wickwright carefully, but for once does not say what is on his mind. The strange ways the Auvinian Jawbone Men work, so illogical and unlike the men in the north suggest even to him that there is another alternative, one which Wickwright is avoiding. This missive might be meant to be secret from them, not from Obscuvians at all.  

[kotaline]

The words in Auvinus are sick and senseless, and greasily curl around Hopkin's feet as he runs to find a place to wait for daylight to reach the Wide World.

His long confinement has made the True World sick, or so it seems in Auvinus, which was by far the most troublesome country in Jawbone Lore without the help of the Cult and strange codes. Kingsley's influence haunts the lore of Auvinus, and in doing so poisons Hopkin's head and makes him nothing but desirous to leave. Between hiding from Cultists in the Wide World and everything else here, Hopkin's days have run together and he feels most peculiarly out of sorts, an unpleasant sensation to say the least for a book so meticulous as he is. He hated Shyregoad and he hates Auvinus, and he wonders if there will ever be a place in the Wide World that he will feel comfortable in as Wickwright does. Wickwright, who takes to every new place easily, makes him proud, but makes him fret. For a book written by Wickwright Finch, he is not adaptable or flexible or useful in the Wide World, and in the terrifying landscape of Auvinus, he is useless in all worlds.

He finds a hiding place and skitters into it, staring out from the hollow of a tree and wringing his metal hands together for a long wait. Hopkin is good at one thing at least, and that is waiting, for he spends all his time thinking anyway and can occupy himself for hours with nothing at all. Thinking brings only worry these days, but it goes against his nature not to, and what he thinks of now, in the flat hollow of a flat tree on a flat plain against a flat sky is a flat piece of paper, last seen in the hands of his Grimm. He looks at his own hands, which have chipped a bit from constant rubbing and scraping, and wonders what, precisely, it is he is good for if he cannot provide the answers to those questions which confuse Wickwright. He could not fix Yawley, not when he was so sure he knew the answer, and he could not stop himself from revealing his presence to all those people who Wickwright told him to hide from, and he could not keep Lettie safe for Dorian Arelgren. He is beginning to think that what worth Wickwright has insisted he has as a book is slipping away from him the longer he is Plagued, and this unsettles him deeply.

If he could decipher the code, he thinks, perhaps he could re-establish his value. As he defines the True World, if he could persist in defining himself as a book, he might be able to halt whatever negative effects his condition forces upon him. With this thought in mind, he steps out of the tree carefully, looking at the ground as if it might vanish, for Auvinus is the worst of the lands in his mind. He begins to walk, but it takes a long time to find anything in Auvinus. Kingsley's lands were full of Kingsley's stories, and when he was struck from the Society, the truth in Auvinus crumbled with him. Those Jawbone Men that remain wandering through this part of the world speak in the same riddles that Toure's note is comprised of. The only chance Hopkin has is to hope that their very presence signals some greater truth within them, one that he can interpret, and with that thought lodged in his bronzey brain, he seeks out the true Toure hidden in the dry depths of this country.

He may be confined to the inside of his book bag by day and this sick, senseless world by night, but in this Plagued form he is just as sick and senseless as Auvinus, and he fears it will not change unless he attempts to do something about it.  

[kotaline]

rp with sarge  

[kotaline]

Most days and nights now, Hopkin sleeps.

To Wickwright it is a relief. A sleeping Plague is that much less likely to get in trouble, and Hopkin gives him enough trouble as it is. Trying to hide him is impossible when he feels the urge to investigate every person they come upon and butts in with his answers even when not asked. A sleeping Plague is a much-needed break in the land that makes him most nervous for that Plague's safety, and he is grateful to whatever force of nature prevailed upon Hopkin to see the common sense in hiding silently for once in Obscuvian territory.

And yet, perhaps because Hopkin is usually so irritatingly difficult to conceal, this long sleep makes Wickwright uneasy. He is used to hearing Hopkin's papery whispers even when not wanted, used to forcing the book back into his bag and disguising its outbursts with coughs and diversions. The peace is unsettling, as if somehow Obscuvians have already gotten their hands on his book and stolen it away before he can notice. He finds himself checking in his bag more than ever, only to find Hopkin curled up at the bottom, nestled in the leather and parchment that he sleeps in, just as expected.

"Hopkin," he says now, in the privacy of the night, beside the small fire he's lit for warmth. The book is slow, but stirs slightly, muttering a dry and crackly mutter then falling still. Wickwright's stomach clenches, but he shrugs and looks back into the fire. Hopkin is alive, though he does not know what has caused this unusual behaviour. If it's a safeguard against danger, it kicked in when it was sorely needed, but why not before now? Why not at the meeting of the emperor? They have had uncountable instances where Hopkin needed to be quiet and hide, where Wickwright ordered him to do so, and yet none of them have resulted in so still a hibernation.

He sighs heavily and turns back to Toure's missive, tracing the symbols with his fingers. This, like Hopkin's slumber, is a troubling mystery, but its implications are far deeper if his fears turn out to be true. Gravesend's home is deep in the centre of Auvinus, making for a long and dangerous trek, but Toure will be able to read the letter, once they find him. If they find him. Right now he works off of guesses, steering his wagon in the direction of words he thinks he recognizes in this insufferable, impenetrable code. But Toure must be somewhere in this damn country, and Gravesend wouldn't leave a letter for someone he feared had turned traitor. If Obscuvians, bone forbid, have been terrorizing Jawbone Men, Wickwright will learn of it soon.

He just hopes he won't have to learn it firsthand. He won't always be so lucky as to run into raiding parties with a familiar face at the head. Arelgren and Meschke were useful to become acquainted with after all, despite their murders and their youthful confusion, but they were just two men in a vast and often hostile cult. A cult which was aware of Hopkin, which had sent letters demanding Hopkin of Wickwright, and which terrorized him with crows and chaos. Hopkin was afraid of them for good reason. Wickwright, who was older and savvier, was not afraid, but the thought of a Cultist with possession of his book chilled his gut with a feeling not unlike hate, uncharacteristic of the personable mendicant he had crafted himself into over the years. Were it not for the Obscuvians, perhaps the Jawbone Men could have lasted the Plague better. Perhaps O'Neill would have been more open to Hopkin, perhaps he would not have found himself fighting for validation in the middle of nowhere, Auvinus. Even for Wickwright, it's hard not to be bitter, at the Cultists, at O'Neill, at the many empty Auvinian homes where Jawbone Men once resided, even at the simple-minded Plague sleeping soundly in his book bag. What merits Hopkin's peace of mind as opposed to his own? Why must he, at an age where he should be planning his retirement from this lifestyle, be struggling his way across Panymium whilst the source of his torment simply hitches a ride in his bag?

He yelps as a spark lands on the parchment in his hands, and brushes it off, sucking at his finger after he does so. Sighing heavily, he runs a hand through his grey hair. Ariadne was right, he thinks, staring into the embers, all those years ago. He would have been better off marrying her, settling down, having children, taking over his father's work as a scribe. Had he done so, this never would have happened. He could be resting right now, happy, sure of his heir and his fortunes.

But Hopkin is sleeping in his bag, and though he represents what could very well be Wickwright's ruination, so too does he represent years of labour and love that Wickwright cannot really regret for long, even in the middle of an Auvinus night.  

[kotaline]

Deep within the paper-thin world of truth, Hopkin works with a grotesque Toure. All Jawbone Men in this part of the world are somehow damaged, scarred by their former alliance with a false leader that time can no more erase than Finch's own dalliance with Bunting can be forgotten. Toure is a younger Jawbone Man, so he is at least comprehensible. The older Auvinian families unnerve Hopkin too greatly to be approached.

Finding Toure has proved difficult, but Hopkin has rarely returned to the Wide World since. This could be his last chance to prove he still possesses worth, If he can discover the meaning of the Wide World message, he and Wickwright will no longer have to journey blindly into Auvinus and he will have done them a service, once so easy as a true book, and now so much harder as a Plague. Everything is muddled in Auvinus, both in the waking world and in this one, but it is the task of a book to make sense of confusion, and if he can just succeed, just this once, he thinks that Wickwright must be pleased with him. Wickwright wants nothing better than to prove he is a real book still, so if there is any task Hopkin can put his mind to in order to do so, he does it wholeheartedly.

It is the Plague part, he thinks, that is the problem, that has been making so many of his plans turn sour. But here is a problem that even the Plague part cannot taint- Kingsley code is already nonsensical and tainted enough that his own condition cannot worsen it any. Truly, even seeing Toure proves this, for Toure is even more misshapen than Hopkin, and speaks slowly, hesitantly, the words tripping over an uncertain tongue as the contents of the missive hover before their eyes.

"S-safe," he stammers, and the word falls from his mouth in a broken tumble, landing next to Hopkin's feet in a sad heap. Hopkin nudges at them and they sink back into the earth, staining it black, then fading away entirely.

"But which word means safe?" he demands of Toure, attempting to hide his considerable frustration. Toure shrugs helplessly, and Hopkin's anger rises. "How can you not know yet know that there is a word that means safe? It simply makes no sense!"

Toure squints at the Kingsley code and desperately explains, "It feels familiar, but I do not remember how to read it. It's as if something is missing from my head!"

That is easy enough to know. No Kingsley code would have been translated in Hopkin's pages, it is not a true language. Hopkin sags defeatedly, realizing that even in the True World, not everything can be discovered. He can only see what Wickwright has documented, and why would Wickwright document a heretical tongue? Even the reports of Plague can only be found at the very outskirts of this world, nothing more than a curiosity for Yawley to examine, whereas in the Wide World the disease devours Panymium. Still, the Jawbone Men of Auvinus exist in this world, as do untrue things like the Plague, and even if fragmented, they must retain some of their memories of falsehoods and confusion, for Hopkin himself has been perverted into a falsehood and confusion, and with a Source that is not entirely true, there could yet be hope that other untruths have survived and flourished.

"Tell me all that you think you know," he insists. "Please be as specific as you can be."

Toure bites his lip and looks defensive. "What does a Source like you care for the sufferings of the men of Auvinus?" He lookes down at his twisted form and broken limbs, and Hopkin feels an immense sense of repulsion and pity, pity because Toure's grief at being an imperfect man of truth is familiar to him, and repulsion for the same reason. It is why he finds it so hard to have faith in the men of Auvinus, even when Wickwright seems to. It worms into his heart, and he finds he cannot give a suitable response, for Wickwright has never given him one either. He cannot tell Toure that he is still Wickwright's book, for though Toure's grief is familiar to him, it is not the same grief, and Toure is not a book, but a man.

"I cannot say," he replies miserably, feeling the sentiments in his head that he has no words for, and the dream world dissolves around him as Toure turns away in disgust.  

[kotaline]

Hopkin wakes up with a start and finds his world is shaking. This means he is in the wagon, and if all is well, it's safe to emerge, so he wriggles out of the book bag and lands in a heap on Wickwright's desk. His Grimm looks down and smiles.

"Finally awake, book?" he asks amicably, and Hopkin clutches his head. He has no idea how much time has passed in the Wide World, and the statement is disorienting to him.

"How long was I asleep?" he asks, and Wickwright shrugs.

"Days." Remembering that his Plague is a creature of precision, this is amended to "Four days."

"And nights?" Hopkin asks, to which Wickwright nods. "Are we deep into Auvinus?"

"Not yet. We've been going slow." Wickwright is in no mood to look like he has pressing business. Cultists might stop someone with pressing business, and inquiries could be dodged, but were better avoided entirely. "Have you been dreaming of my stories?"

"I have been in a true world," Hopkin replies gravely, to which Wickwright shrugs.

"That makes one of us, then. My dreams have been as scarce as sleep here. I keep seeing Obscuvians out of the corner of my eyes." He sees the fear cross Hopkin's face and elaborates, "But it was merely my imagination."

Hopkin, who has little imagination to speak of, is still perplexed, but Wickwright seems to think the explanation is sufficient, and thus he pretends to understand completely, wishing more than anything not to seem foolish in front of his Grimm. He nods as hard as he can, hoping the force will show his sincerity, and sits by Wickwright to examine what occupies him, as there is nothing more true in the world to observe. In Wickwright's hands is a sheet of paper with crossed out notes on it, and the Toure missive beside it, now heavily marked itself as Wickwright continues to examine it.

"I still can't make heads or tails of it," he mutters as he sees Hopkin approach. "Once Finch cracked Kingsley's code, long ago during the feud, but whatever talents he used to do so weren't considered worth recalling. No one ever thought they'd need to preserve an untrue language except the men of Auvinus, who merely found it more convenient than learning a whole new code."

"But why do you still try when Toure will give us the answer?" Hopkin enquires. "Why do we waste our time on something untrue?"

"Because even if it is untrue, Hopkin, it has a meaning that we must discover. These untrue symbols hide within them a grain of truth, and, most importantly, if we can just bloody figure that out, we don't have to slog halfway through Auvinus only to figure out what a damn note says."

"Do all false things contain truth?" Hopkin persists after a moment of thought.

"I'd like to think so." Wickwright picks up the note and makes another mark on it with his quill, hesitating over some symbol before placing his pen down again in frustration. "Even if we can't work out the meaning, every false thing must come from somewhere. I was not lying to Meschke when I told him he could make up for his sins. Even Obscuvians have redeeming qualities, and even they can have truths. Sometimes those are difficult to perceive, and sometimes the truths in them are not strong enough to overcome their many falsehoods, but no thing can be entirely false."

"Even Plagues?" Hopkin asks quietly, not daring to look up at his Grimm.

"Every Plague was something else once," Wickwright insists, poking Hopkin with his pen. "And some Plagues must prove that they are that thing still. You have truth within you, Hopkin."

"I have truth within me," Hopkin repeats dutifully, and crawls back into the book bag.

"Where are you off to, book?" calls Wickwright after him.

"I must go back to sleep," replies Hopkin, and though his Grimm is concerned, the letter is a more pressing matter for him to attend to, so, unperturbed, Hopkin lets the gently shaking wagon lull him into the True World once more.