This follows straight from some plot RP I did LIKE A WEEK AGO i’m slow and this is a clunkfest but i haven’t been writing a lot so i’m outta practice

Rinha’li sleeps, Rinha’li dreams, the book he carries isn’t entirely what it seems – at least not anymore. @moralistcyclops @saerdha @sedatayuun @goldengridanian i think all have a mention at least

It was not the first time Rinha’li had ended an encounter in a dead faint, and it was unlikely to be the last. The calculations that arcanists employed to arrange their aether-flows into finely balanced perpetual motion machines allowed them to channel nigh infinitely – a clever trick, but paid for in almost guaranteed aether-sickness that no amount of mathematical tinkering could avoid. Caution might keep one safe, but Rinha’li still disliked violence intensely and found it easier to suppress the urge to flee if he threw caution to the winds and poured every ounce of his nerve into his magic, heedless of any limits.

It was a dreamless swoon at first, as it usually was – pure oblivion, lit up occasionally by flashes of incomprehensible sensation. At some point his consciousness re-asserted itself, as Rinha’li became dimly aware that someone was carrying him, and that there were familiar voices all around.

His hands were empty, his arms loosely folded across his body. His fingers twitched, reaching for something that was not there.

“My grimoire,” he finally said. It took many tries for the words to leave his thoughts and reach his tongue. “Get…grimoire…” And then, having gotten across what was currently the most important thing on his mind, he fell back into darkness again.

* * *

Rinha’li is ten years old again, sitting and watching as his cousin digs in the dirt with a wrapped flint knife. His first real friend, she often appears in his dreams now that she is long dead. The hole her idle digging has stirred up is completely filled with squirming black worms.

“Do you miss me?” Lhira plucks one of the worms from the tiny pit and holds it up so it thrashes wildly between her fingers. “Now that you’ve left the Forest?”

Rinha’li thinks about the question, and about all he has now. “I don’t really know,” he says.

His cousin squeezes the worm in her hand until it bursts violently, its putrid insides gushing over her hand.

* * *

He might be officially registered as S’aerdha’s pupil by now – he hasn’t seen the paperwork himself, so he isn’t sure – but Rinha’li is still reasonably certain he isn’t supposed to be in this part of the Ossuary.
The walls are carved with warding sigils, and there are temporary ones painted over those in faintly glowing ink. The floor is bare stone, but most of the small square chamber is taken up with a circle of salt, poured in intricate spirals. The air smells like every kind of perfume and Rinha’li can see S’aerdha hunched over in the center of the circle, prowling around on his hands and knees like he can’t stand up straight. He’s dressed like always – showing off his expensive taste with vivid silks and delicate gold filigree – but he won’t speak.
“You can just step over it, you know. The salt.” Rinha’li sits down outside the circle, and S’aerdha looks up at him and hisses with his needle fangs bared, and Rinha’li isn’t quite so certain it’s S’aerdha in the circle anymore.

* * *
The place is beautiful, like all Ishgardian cathedrals are. Rinha’li wanders among the silent corridors, nearly falling over trying to crane his neck upwards to see the endless arches, finding alcove after alcove dedicated to saints he does not know the name of – room after room of heroic deeds and tragic martyrdoms that seem to have no end. Every door he tries leads to a new nave, with enough pews to seat an army and an altar to the Fury more awe-inspiring than the last. He slips through tiny side gates into  long hallways lined with offices, memorials, little private libraries and counting-houses and studios meant for scribes.
“Pardon me,” he finally works up the courage to ask a passing priest. “Which way leads outside?”
The priest looks at Rinha’li as though he is speaking an unfamiliar language. After a moment, Rinha’li realizes he has been talking to a marble statue.

* * *
The woman’s rage is almost palpable but she can’t fight against stone – not here, anyway, with the walls warded. The alabaster cherubim will not move under anyone’s command but their master’s; there are four of them pinning her fast and her magic will not obey.
She struggles, curses, rages, spits. “Idiot,” she hisses. “Fool. You cannot close the door once it has been opened. Mhach will–”
“Mhach!” the other woman barks. Rinha’li is watching this scene play out but he can feel this other voice’s contempt on his own tongue, somehow. “What does Mhach have? Parlor tricks and disobedient little pets. We have power over all life and death, mage of the black. Nothing walks upon Eorzea save that we will it. You are nothing.”
The Mhachi mage opened her mouth to say something, but her words were choked out as flowers took root and burst forth from her throat, filling her mouth with blood and violets.

* * *
Rinha’li awoke with a start, sat up, and immediately regretted it as a wave of nausea hit him full force. He doubled over, retching helplessly, and felt some soothing hand on the back of his head.
“Oh, that’s good,” Atlan said breezily. “I didn’t want to wake you up, but if you were sleeping much longer we’d start to worry.”
“How long was I out?” Rinha’li asked faintly. He swallowed hard; the violent sense of sickness was starting to subside a bit, but his stomach was still twisted up in dreadful knots.
“A little over a day. Vallen brought you some honeycomb when you’re up for it.”
“Is everyone…?”
“Right as rain, for the most part – Kodaro got a bit singed but I think he’s had worse.” Atlan tapped his brow with one finger, right over the side where Kodaro wore his eyepatch. Rinha’li winced sympathetically. “S’aerdha’s recovering and doing a lot of thinking.” Carefully, Rinha’li straighted up, his head still swimming. Beyond all expectations, Atlan looked as cheerful as ever.
“…where d-did…did you put my grimoire after…” Rinha’li began, but Atlan seemed to have anticipated the question.
“Oh, it’s right here, don’t worry.” On the nightstand, right by Rinha’li’s head as he slept. Carefully, he opened the book to the last page he could recall casting from, hoping the flood of black ink that had accompanied his experimental spell had been a spontaneous aether manifestation and not a permanent feature.
Luckily, the pages were pristine. His hand still shaking, he turned to what should have been the next blank page, recently prepared to accept a new geometric variant, once he finished perfecting it.
This page was stained with black and red ink, smeared haphazardly into the shape of a single violet blossom.
Rinha’li let out a breath. “Atlan,” he said softly, “c-can you take dicatation for me? I had…a most evocative dream.”