Chapter 13: The Words Left Unspoken
Titter, tat, tat.
A light gray slice of paper was being imprinted upon, the long stretching quill that'd been doing the writing tapping along the paper, spotted in ink that was pooled in a nearby glass container.
Rowan's arm stretched to the paper's edges as his hand hastily etched each syllable, the words and their meanings accumulating in a way that he felt most at home.
After a couple seconds, he retracted his arm, setting the quill down to look upon his finished work, short as it was.
"Hm... I think I like this one," he said, crossing his arms but still looking on with a hidden unease in his eyes.
He hadn't felt the same warmth that enveloped his body when his ultimate poem was finished, and he couldn't encapsulate the high he typically associated with his completed works.
But good enough was the general consensus his mind had come to, dozens of other unfolded papers scattered to the left and right of where he'd been writing.
"Well, I think that's enough for tonight," he said, stretching his arms out as he looked back to where his bed lay.
The furnishment of this world was far more decorative than anything he'd been used to, the walls of the room extending further than some houses do, each donned with golden chains, matte black padding, and animal heads while neatly dividing up the decorations into dedicated sections that conveyed the sense that each ornament and trinket was of equal importance.
There were some things unfamiliar to him such as confetti-like strings overhanging the ceiling with a bright purple hue, but he could generally put his finger on what their intended purpose was.
The air surrounding the thin strands was deepened with the same magenta that enshrouded Nezethar's room--although not of the same quantity--and yet, a fruity smell likened Rowan's mind to imaginings of life in an amazon filled with flora and harvest.