Abraxas inbox

[unnecessaryflourishes]

[For any and all inbox needs!]

Comments

mid-november-ish

[aquaveiled]

[ Post ghost shenanigans and, well, everything that happened before...Himeka has finally had enough time to sort out some of her thoughts on a discussion she had with Geralt nearly two months prior. And there's really only one person she knows who may understand it better than her. ]

[ Her new old frien-emy.

With whom she will use her now understood Horizon letter-writing powers for his viewing (dis)pleasure. ]

I need to borrow your head. But just for a moment if you can spare it.

[ Great opener. ]

in Solvunn's library, post-Dimming...

[baltimores]

[ He is not even remotely familiar with the Primary Settlement.

Amos had spent maybe a week or two out here when the first group had arrived in Solvunn before surmising that the place probably wasn't for him and splitting. He's been in the Tertiary Settlement for months now, a quiet existence without much disturbance — at least until he'd heard about Solvunn getting itself involved in whatever it was that went down at the Singularity.

Something about it hasn't sat right with him, so he'd come out here. Hence, his current conundrum: okay, he's in the Primary Settlement, what is he supposed to do here.

Wandering aimlessly about town had eventually had him find the library, and it seemed as sensible a place as any to try to find some kind of answer. Only he still doesn't have any idea what he's looking for—

A massive dude sitting at a table with distinctive hair, and it takes Amos a moment to place it, but he does. Not like he'd spent a ton of time milling about when portals had suddenly opened up in Thorne's execution yard, but it's hard to miss, or forget, someone like this guy.

Fuck it, Amos figures, going to sit down across from him. He's got no books on him. Wouldn't know what to pull, anyway. Instead he takes a moment, looking across the table at Emet. He cocks his head. ]

You were in Thorne before here, weren't you?

backdate to feb 12th; thancred's first horizon trip

[funbreaker]

[ While there's plenty more that Thancred could ask Stephen Strange about this place, the Horizon, eventually his need to let his feet carry him elsewhere to explore and see for himself wins out. The best way to understand this place is to see it with his own two eyes, he determines, and there's no reason he can't circle back to Strange and his sanctum in due time.

He does comprehend that he cannot remain in here forever, and that all of this will make more sense when he leaves. Yet at this point he knows enough to press forward, drawn by the desire to eventually find a spot within this plane where he can create his own place — a little slice of home, whichever form that might take.

It's hard to know when his memories have left him, and yet he is still him enough that he expects he'll come up with something if he lets his instincts take point.

During his wandering in search of an empty plot, he comes across something that he's drawn to almost instantly, as if being tugged forward by a string tied around his waist. The dark spires stretch into the sky even from a distance, somehow familiar even if he has no frame of reference to understand how or why that's the case. It's a bone-deep sensation of nostalgia that brings him closer, one foot in front of the other, something written so deep into his soul that he cannot ignore it.

Time here is difficult to measure, and he isn't clear on how much of it he spends walking, but eventually he reaches the city, its buildings looming above him in a way that should feel ominous. Yet instead, Thancred is only more curious. He moves ahead, finds one of the main streets, and continues on. ]

a gift!

[lackingtalent]

There is a very Amaurotine-styled book resting in Emet Selch's living room, hiding in plain sight underneath a long-finished mug of coffee. It should be familiar. Not just by the look of the cover, but in feeling as well. It should be without doubt to Emet-Selch that he once possessed this book, and once spent many hours enjoying it, perhaps choosing to revisit it again and again for years upon years. Or perhaps he did not enjoy it. Perhaps it was finished once, and merely sat within his library. Only Emet-Selch would truly know.

Inside is a certain play- scribed in neat Amaurotine, with a series of sublime illustrations penned oh-so-carefully by hand. Even the ink's colors are still vivid. They leap from the pages as if the book were new.

Who would know of this?
And who would have the capability to recreate something long destroyed based off memory alone?