Jaysehn (prime)/Reflections/Dust

Jaysehn took slow deliberate strides through the grounds of the ruined Monastery. The quiet and desolation of the place always gave him a mixed sense of serenity and despair. It had been nearly a year since he had attended to duties in Mist Harbor on a daily basis. In that interim, affairs in other parts of the world had commanded nearly all of his attention. The formation of the Sentinel Fleet, opening a Company Store in Ta'Vaalor, the acquisition of land and the construction of Commodore Hall in Solhaven. Then came the rise of the vampire threat of Moonsedge, Imperial refugees, Akenna's growing status in Illistim and abroad, the resttlement of more Caligosi, hiring Orlov as Captain of Silver Sun, outfitting Golden Dawn as a merchantman, and more....oh so much more.

He walked these paths often, but had not really paid attention to them until Zofiya's notice was posted. He still used the renovated Grandmaster's workshop he had rebuilt as his 'office' on the island, but with the evacuation of the orphans from the grounds during the Sheruvian troubles, the place had become quiet yet again. The pleasant sounds of children playing in the ruins accompanied by the smell of food cooking or wash being done were absent.

Now there was just silence.

He passed through the once-again overgrown courtyard, remembering in his mind's eye how much progress he and the orphans had made in clearing the brush. He could hear the voice of Alosaka tutoring the children in medicines and wound care. Not so long ago, this ruin of monastery had been alive. Now, it once again resembled more of a tomb.

Jaysehn never did well when facing his own lapses in duty and the ruins brought these lapses into focus. The orphans that had fallen into his care were safe enough, having spent months on his docked ship in Solhaven. Most of them were old enough now to have small jobs in the Fleet's trade business or helping to tend to Commodore Hall. He had made sure they had safe housing, education and a purpose for rising each day. One 'could' call those successes. On the other hand, he had failed to make for them a home IN their home. Mist Harbor was lost to them in so many ways. As he gazed at now abandoned bungaloos he had converted into children's bedrooms, he sighed.

"Perhaps that is best.", he muttered aloud, recalling his own distance from the place of his childhood. These children had watched their family and friends die here. Maybe they are glad to not see this island again.

He spared a glance for the small building housing his office, pondering just how much the title of 'Grandmaster' actually fit him. It wasn't a title he had, of course. No one called him that. No one recognized him as that. On the other hand, his Fleet was clearly something like a floating series of monasteries, connected in a common purpose under Voln's code. It was independent, self sufficient and free of oversight. In many ways, his Fleet resembled the very nature of the founding of Lord Fashtr's own manor. Still, no one called him Grandmaster of anything. They called him 'Commodore' now. Even people he didn't know called him that.

When did that happen?

He couldn't remember, but found himself already crossing the precarious rope bridge to the lone plateau upon which the citadel's ruins stood. The doorway's warding magics yielded before his Oath and he entered within. The torches were unlit, but the light of the setting sun streamed through those windows that yet remained. Taking up flint and steel, he plunged the torches in the available pots of oil and lit them, placing them back in their sconces in preperation for the evening. Akenna had returned abrutly to their home earlier. He could tell her mind was heavy with decision. He would not return home tonight. He would give her the space and time that she needed, as solitude was often her refuge in times of difficulty. Hee intended to spend the evening cleaning and dusting the few remaining rooms in this ruin, and take up the cot he had placed here some months ago.

As he began to shrug off his coat, the corner of his eye caught a flare of movement that was unexpected in the torchlight. The flames on the torches seemed, off. They didn't quite dance in the lazy way a torch tended to once the initial oil was burned off. Instead, it seemed almost urgent in its movement. Or...had he simply grown used to the comforts of his magical lantern and the slow, warm glow of his brazier. His mind drifted to Zofiya's posted notice and he watched the fires for a few more moments. At last, he found himself unable to truly discern if they were acting strangely or not.

Ghosts of the mind, born of my own immagination.

Frowning, in that way that he often did, he finally removed his coat and gathered up a broom, setting to the task of cleaning the room, and, his heavy spirit at the same time.