77th Zi'da, 723
.
The library again- a heavenly atmosphere that offered nothing short of calm and tranquillity. The ambience was just as it had ever been; candles set aflame, adorning the sills of windows stained with glass that came close to rivalling the Glass Temple. Pictures of elderly men and women who had been imbued with immortal-like excellence, granting them their face placard upon the walls. The implied sense of etiquette in putting books back where they had been found and leaving study tables as cleanly as they had been acquired. It was glorious to a man who valued perfection with a little too much sincerity.
He found the table he had claimed several days ago and rushed for it, claiming it as his once again. He unloaded his belongings- notebook, pencil, stick of charcoal in case the need to draw arose. Then, he slung the shoulder strap of his knapsack over the next available chair before taking a seat himself.
He was here for a reason, as he always had when going to different places. And it was not simply because he was called to the beauty of the books. He desperately wanted to learn more about his ancestry, his heritage, the racial blood that coursed through his veins. He knew he was part human, but there was more to him than just that.
He stood and walked over to the area of bookcases that consisted of history and nonfiction, casually pursuing the spines of bi-coloured texts. But then he began to panic. What if he didn’t find what it was he was looking for? Or worse yet, what if he found what he needed but it wasn’t what he wanted? What if he came across the lore of his other sides and found awful things? His anticipation had skewed his expectation toward purely positive things. Unjustly so, but still. There was always some negative that contradicted the positive or else it wouldn’t be called positive, now would it? He hoped for common ground, to find information that was neutral and simply stated rather than distorted toward bias.
He closed his eyes for a few moments, taking in the smells of his surroundings. Most folk would have taken in the sounds, but being mostly deaf gave a little bit of a problem in that regard. There was the smell of pieces of parchment being turned- the biblichor wafting through the paths between the bookshelves; there could be crinkling sounds in harmony amongst those of metal tips against paper, scrawling notes at an eager pace but Kotton would never know. He latched onto the specific smell of old leather and musky cologne- probably another man searching for clues about who he was deep down inside. He felt the overwhelming sensation start to evanesce with the beat of his heart.
Calm swooped in to settle and to stay.
He opened his eyes again and reached up to pluck an arbitrary book from out of its spot on the shelf, enchanted by the drawings of tidal waves across its spine. A swarm of dust particles fell down like rain onto his head- it seemed this book hadn’t been touched in a while. He rushed back to his table, attempting to escape the onslaught of sneezes that were slowly taking hold on the poor man’s nose.
It felt like fate, as the book he had placed on the table told stories of the Biqaj. He was part Biqaj.
The Biqaj, as the poorly legible handwriting had documented, had eyes that changed colours like the leaves changed with the passing seasons. ‘None, did I see, bore anything other than a myriad of tones. T’was like they had diamonds in their eyes, reflecting the light as the sun shifted in the sky. Silver, gold, blue, purple, pink and even red- all reflections of the sun during its set. Perhaps they were linked to the position of the flaming star or maybe the oncoming reign of the lunar orb that came later.’
Kotton made sure to note this, as he made a mental picture of his eyes- as beautiful as a sunset, when day turned into dusk.
His eyes drifted across the words, soaking up every detail he found, even those that might have been hidden amidst the scrawl. He focused more attention on words of particular value to him. For every author, there were filler words, details that were not always necessary in regards to the main point that was being made. Kotton planned to scan over the added fluff in hopes of finding what he was after in less time. He had not, however, expected to find excess detail that pertained to the information he was looking for.
His finger paused under a sentence describing the modifications that decorated the Biqaj’s bodies. It appeared they valued jewellery, it being one of the select forms of innovativeness of the race. Jewellery, for them, was not only a route toward self-expression but also an important display of wealth and capital.
There was one thing, however, that crept up in almost every paragraph and that was the fact that the Biqaj were exceptional seafarers. Kotton hadn’t stepped a foot on a boat in his life. Whilst he had noticed his eye colour changed with the shapes of the moon and its position against the sky, he was not quite keen on surrendering his life to the wills of the waves of the ocean. There were sharks in there.
Nonetheless, it was interesting finally becoming acquainted with the details of a race that shared space within his being. There was so much more he could have learned, time he could have spent and opportunities he could have taken, but his mind had hyper-fixated on the other part of who he was. He was also part Eidisi.
He traded out his text on the Biqaj for one on the tall, blue race of the north. It wasn’t difficult seeing as how all books of similar category were stored within the same bookcase. Once taken from the shelf, Kotton deposited the tomb onto his table with an excited ‘thump’.
The first thing Kotton came to understand was suffering. Apparently the history of the Eidisi was lost to immaculate forms of forlorn and injustice. There was slaughter, there was pain, and there was destruction, but like with all present day conjurings, there was hope.
Kotton erroneously skimmed through most of the past with the inclination of garnering more knowledge with that of the present. The Eidisi, he came to understand were tall, intelligent creatures with their skin shades of blue, their eyes devoid of pupils, mimicking those of man gone blind from cataracts.
These minute facts were nothing compared to the following paragraph denoting the cruciality of their intelligence. It read,
‘“The most dominant trait of the eídisi is the superiority complex that they have over all other races. This complex is born for a second reason too: the eídisi have inherited Yvithia's unwavering thirst for knowledge and, with that, an enhanced intelligence compared to the average human.”’
Was this why he felt so bored with the commonalities of life? Was this why he struggled with the dislike of considering himself egotistical because he believed he was more intelligent than the majority? He knew genetics weren’t perfectly ½ and ½ or ⅓, ⅓, ⅓ as what pertained to him. Maybe his Eidisi side shone through with greater luminescence than the other parts of himself.
Backtracking a little, Kotton stripped his arm from his coat and examined the slightly blue hue of his flesh, and the oddly vibrant veins that popped out from under his skin. His eyes blinked in quick succession. He hadn’t exactly taken the time to examine his body the way someone weary of their ancestry would, but now it was apparent to him that there were some traits that declared things other than simply human.
And this Yvithia character? Sorry, immortal? She seemed utterly complex and intelligently beautiful. Kotton wanted to know more about who she was and the attributed religion to her existence.
Kotton ensured to inscribe an anecdote at the bottom of his current page about her. Maybe he would have to take a holiday to investigate the familial structure of his blood mother’s side, get to know his grandfather or grandmother and accumulate more knowledge on who he really was. One thing was for certain, however, Kotton was energised to follow the teachings of Yvithia.
Once his mind had stopped branching into multi-facets, Kotton finally concluded his tangents. There was more to learn about the Eidisi.
They were individuals blessed with the ability to hone the aptitude for understanding multiple languages. And so it seemed, they “can live naturally for somewhere in the region of 120 to 160 arcs, dependant on their heritage and adult lifestyle.” They also had unique names.
Kotton spent the next half hour slouched over the textbook, arrested and immersed in things he had never once pondered. For someone who always sought to learn more, it was peculiar that he would not once step foot inside a library, a collection of knowledge ripe for the plucking.
Perhaps it was the lack of motivation. The paradox that plagued him- being bored with routine but lacking the drive to change. Maybe he was deficient in his ability to properly engage. Maybe he was able to fixate on some things but remain distracted when it came to others. Whatever the case may be, his mind was always aching for more. More, more, more, the screams lashed at him from an insatiable brain.
Fortunately, for the time being, Kotton’s brain was at peace, in the throes of new information and ensconced by the scent of papyrus and discovery.
He found the table he had claimed several days ago and rushed for it, claiming it as his once again. He unloaded his belongings- notebook, pencil, stick of charcoal in case the need to draw arose. Then, he slung the shoulder strap of his knapsack over the next available chair before taking a seat himself.
He was here for a reason, as he always had when going to different places. And it was not simply because he was called to the beauty of the books. He desperately wanted to learn more about his ancestry, his heritage, the racial blood that coursed through his veins. He knew he was part human, but there was more to him than just that.
He stood and walked over to the area of bookcases that consisted of history and nonfiction, casually pursuing the spines of bi-coloured texts. But then he began to panic. What if he didn’t find what it was he was looking for? Or worse yet, what if he found what he needed but it wasn’t what he wanted? What if he came across the lore of his other sides and found awful things? His anticipation had skewed his expectation toward purely positive things. Unjustly so, but still. There was always some negative that contradicted the positive or else it wouldn’t be called positive, now would it? He hoped for common ground, to find information that was neutral and simply stated rather than distorted toward bias.
He closed his eyes for a few moments, taking in the smells of his surroundings. Most folk would have taken in the sounds, but being mostly deaf gave a little bit of a problem in that regard. There was the smell of pieces of parchment being turned- the biblichor wafting through the paths between the bookshelves; there could be crinkling sounds in harmony amongst those of metal tips against paper, scrawling notes at an eager pace but Kotton would never know. He latched onto the specific smell of old leather and musky cologne- probably another man searching for clues about who he was deep down inside. He felt the overwhelming sensation start to evanesce with the beat of his heart.
Calm swooped in to settle and to stay.
He opened his eyes again and reached up to pluck an arbitrary book from out of its spot on the shelf, enchanted by the drawings of tidal waves across its spine. A swarm of dust particles fell down like rain onto his head- it seemed this book hadn’t been touched in a while. He rushed back to his table, attempting to escape the onslaught of sneezes that were slowly taking hold on the poor man’s nose.
It felt like fate, as the book he had placed on the table told stories of the Biqaj. He was part Biqaj.
The Biqaj, as the poorly legible handwriting had documented, had eyes that changed colours like the leaves changed with the passing seasons. ‘None, did I see, bore anything other than a myriad of tones. T’was like they had diamonds in their eyes, reflecting the light as the sun shifted in the sky. Silver, gold, blue, purple, pink and even red- all reflections of the sun during its set. Perhaps they were linked to the position of the flaming star or maybe the oncoming reign of the lunar orb that came later.’
Kotton made sure to note this, as he made a mental picture of his eyes- as beautiful as a sunset, when day turned into dusk.
His eyes drifted across the words, soaking up every detail he found, even those that might have been hidden amidst the scrawl. He focused more attention on words of particular value to him. For every author, there were filler words, details that were not always necessary in regards to the main point that was being made. Kotton planned to scan over the added fluff in hopes of finding what he was after in less time. He had not, however, expected to find excess detail that pertained to the information he was looking for.
His finger paused under a sentence describing the modifications that decorated the Biqaj’s bodies. It appeared they valued jewellery, it being one of the select forms of innovativeness of the race. Jewellery, for them, was not only a route toward self-expression but also an important display of wealth and capital.
There was one thing, however, that crept up in almost every paragraph and that was the fact that the Biqaj were exceptional seafarers. Kotton hadn’t stepped a foot on a boat in his life. Whilst he had noticed his eye colour changed with the shapes of the moon and its position against the sky, he was not quite keen on surrendering his life to the wills of the waves of the ocean. There were sharks in there.
Nonetheless, it was interesting finally becoming acquainted with the details of a race that shared space within his being. There was so much more he could have learned, time he could have spent and opportunities he could have taken, but his mind had hyper-fixated on the other part of who he was. He was also part Eidisi.
He traded out his text on the Biqaj for one on the tall, blue race of the north. It wasn’t difficult seeing as how all books of similar category were stored within the same bookcase. Once taken from the shelf, Kotton deposited the tomb onto his table with an excited ‘thump’.
The first thing Kotton came to understand was suffering. Apparently the history of the Eidisi was lost to immaculate forms of forlorn and injustice. There was slaughter, there was pain, and there was destruction, but like with all present day conjurings, there was hope.
Kotton erroneously skimmed through most of the past with the inclination of garnering more knowledge with that of the present. The Eidisi, he came to understand were tall, intelligent creatures with their skin shades of blue, their eyes devoid of pupils, mimicking those of man gone blind from cataracts.
These minute facts were nothing compared to the following paragraph denoting the cruciality of their intelligence. It read,
‘“The most dominant trait of the eídisi is the superiority complex that they have over all other races. This complex is born for a second reason too: the eídisi have inherited Yvithia's unwavering thirst for knowledge and, with that, an enhanced intelligence compared to the average human.”’
Was this why he felt so bored with the commonalities of life? Was this why he struggled with the dislike of considering himself egotistical because he believed he was more intelligent than the majority? He knew genetics weren’t perfectly ½ and ½ or ⅓, ⅓, ⅓ as what pertained to him. Maybe his Eidisi side shone through with greater luminescence than the other parts of himself.
Backtracking a little, Kotton stripped his arm from his coat and examined the slightly blue hue of his flesh, and the oddly vibrant veins that popped out from under his skin. His eyes blinked in quick succession. He hadn’t exactly taken the time to examine his body the way someone weary of their ancestry would, but now it was apparent to him that there were some traits that declared things other than simply human.
And this Yvithia character? Sorry, immortal? She seemed utterly complex and intelligently beautiful. Kotton wanted to know more about who she was and the attributed religion to her existence.
Kotton ensured to inscribe an anecdote at the bottom of his current page about her. Maybe he would have to take a holiday to investigate the familial structure of his blood mother’s side, get to know his grandfather or grandmother and accumulate more knowledge on who he really was. One thing was for certain, however, Kotton was energised to follow the teachings of Yvithia.
Once his mind had stopped branching into multi-facets, Kotton finally concluded his tangents. There was more to learn about the Eidisi.
They were individuals blessed with the ability to hone the aptitude for understanding multiple languages. And so it seemed, they “can live naturally for somewhere in the region of 120 to 160 arcs, dependant on their heritage and adult lifestyle.” They also had unique names.
Kotton spent the next half hour slouched over the textbook, arrested and immersed in things he had never once pondered. For someone who always sought to learn more, it was peculiar that he would not once step foot inside a library, a collection of knowledge ripe for the plucking.
Perhaps it was the lack of motivation. The paradox that plagued him- being bored with routine but lacking the drive to change. Maybe he was deficient in his ability to properly engage. Maybe he was able to fixate on some things but remain distracted when it came to others. Whatever the case may be, his mind was always aching for more. More, more, more, the screams lashed at him from an insatiable brain.
Fortunately, for the time being, Kotton’s brain was at peace, in the throes of new information and ensconced by the scent of papyrus and discovery.
