☀️ Arselia and Akonia

On a day like today, all sorts of paradoxical events could occur. Time seemed to flow in a different dimension than it did for ordinary people, and the night was as long as the day, merging with it into a single, continuous band of shadow that gradually and inexorably consumed the light. The idea of a circus performance, which sparkled brightly in the sun and faded with the onset of darkness. A friendly gathering, questions and answers, plans for the future. Repeated knocks on the door, strange visitors, and disturbing news. Stacks of read books. When was this? Maybe just an hour or two ago. But of course, that's not true. Still, the thickening darkness outside the window made it clear that time, however slowly, was passing. It was so dark there... So, dawn was still far away. But it would definitely come, wouldn't it? It seemed that a heavy rain was falling, and the muffled echoes of a storm and thunder could barely be heard from behind the tightly closed and curtained windows. Or maybe it was just another night visitor knocking at the dying hearth? At this point, it didn't matter much anymore. Everyone had left, and there was no one to check – Carneol had departed for the realm of dreams. Only a deserted corridor yawned with the open doors of rooms that one couldn't look into, as if these locations had turned into cut scenes from a happy dream about heroes. Although he had definitely looked into them before, and probably saw something. Or maybe he didn't, he couldn't remember now. Perhaps, in the end, that wasn't particularly important either. Going down, the creaking, rotten steps groaned mournfully. Everything was almost the same as he remembered it last time. A rickety table was piled with forgotten tests of Wrathbone and books about emperors, yellowed and tattered. On the peeling wall, a memorial plaque – the portraits were so covered in dust that the faces were indistinguishable. The flickering lights of dying candles shone dimly and coldly – who lit them? Only he could have done it, because no one had lived here for a long time. But why, since their pale, ephemeral warmth and light could not warm the lost souls. Unless, perhaps, to manifest them for a fleeting moment – if they were truly still here, if they hadn't left this world when they had the chance. Forward, there, to the threshold, where the November draft lurks behind the front door, eager to burst inside the empty abode. Who knows, maybe this time he will be able to catch it and feel it? Here, the door of the old house opens, and behind it... A storm and thunder? No, no, everything is quiet. Very quiet, not a breath of wind, not a single night sound, as if all of Margel had died along with Carneol. In the starless sky, the outlines of buildings across the street can be vaguely seen – against its background, even in the night darkness, they look unnaturally black, as if dipped in tar, reliably hiding the motionless inhabitants and non-inhabitants inside with their gloomy facades. All that remains is to close the door and return to the table, where, in better times, there were lively discussions and epic stories about heroes and their exploits. To keep silent watch until morning, guarding only the memory, indifferently watching in the deathly silence as thin wisps of smoke from the dying embers dance, scattering the ashes of torn pages of unwritten works. They swirl, swirl in a non-existent gust of wind. Beneath them, some shadows move, flickering erratically at the edge of vision, moving silently from place to place. Lifeless, but very familiar, like scraps of fabric from the upholstery of a favorite armchair, fallen like autumn leaves. They cannot be seen, one cannot lower one's gaze any further – the tired head is already bowed under the waves of oblivion. How I want to sleep... ... ... ... ... Garrick wakes up, opens his eyes, and finds himself with his nose pressed against his unfinished essay. He yawns deeply, and his stiff joints creak. He looks with sleepy confusion at the text. An essay? It sounds so pompous and pretentious, who even came up with this? The minister didn't even say anything like that, she just suggested evaluating the rulers in a convenient format. A simple list of numbers with brief explanations would have been enough. But the commander turned it into almost an official assignment, a real job for Carneol. Does she really want to curry favor with the bureaucrats in the government? Well, what can you do, one must find something to occupy oneself with in this endless night. He crumples the sheet of paper that served as his pillow and wipes the remaining ink from his face, and the aster begins to recall his mostly concise thoughts about the Margel monarchs and transfers them to paper: I - V, VI, VII - X, XI - XII, XIII - XVIII And below, he writes the ratings also in the form of numbers.

I - Torvik the Founder - 10/10
II - Arual es Diestra - 9/10
III - Lanigiros es Diestra Arual - 6/10
IV - Delsahid es Diestra Arual - 8/10
V - Hatea es Diestra Arual - 8/10
VI - Floris es Diestra Arual - 7/10
VII - Saikam es Diestra Arual - 7/10
VIII - Sillion es Diestra Arual - 10/10
IX - Flanaravi es Diestra Arual - 5/10
X - Welfern es Diestra Arual - 7/10
XI - Raidark es Diestra Arual - 9/10
XII - Sellun es Diestra Arual - 3/10
XIII - Shinalun es Diestra Arual - 7/10
XIV - Kermaria es Diestra Arual - 10/10
XV - Shen es Diestra Arual - 1/10
XVI - Naer es Diestra Arual - 8/10
XVII - Abeas es Diestra Arual - 2/10
XVIII - Hartrain es Diestra Arual - 10/10

Having considered his last task for today completed, he submits everything for sending and goes back, hoping to fall asleep where he will no longer be disturbed by visions of distorted time and space.