Tacitus

Ayre and Vara crept forward until they caught sight of two individuals. They were seemingly in conversation, but no words left their mouths. "Looks harmless," Vara whispered before receiving a swift thump in the back of the head. Ayre gave her a severe glare before whispering, much more quietly than Vara, "I wouldn't trust appearances." She looked like she wanted to tack the word 'idiot' on the end of the sentence. Vara scowled. "You think I don't know that?" she whispered loudly. Ayre tilted her head towards the ceiling. "Well there's no use in hiding anymore," she mumbled, and began walking towards the pair. Vara followed after a long moment of hesitation.

Ayre managed to land on her feet, while her forgotten self was not so lucky. As she took in her surroundings, Vara got up, rubbing her head. "You did that on purpose. You're trying to get me all beat up." Ayre shook her head without looking towards Vara. "Nope. I didn't know about that doorway." "How many passages do you have in that room of yours?" "A few. I don't usually use any of them." "Seriously? What do you do all day?" Ayre shrugged, then frowned, looking around a corner. She signaled Vara to be quiet. Vara didn't understand. "What are you trying to say here? Is that supposed to be rude?" And then she got it, seeing the body lying flat on the ground, stuck with silvery darts. There were others further along. "Come on," Ayre whispered. "This is more like it," Vara muttered, cracking her knuckles, earning a glare from Ayre, who shushed her again as they crept forward.

Vara’s spine tingled from the shock of landing. Her arms hung down to the sides. Where was she? Looking around, she found herself to be on top of a bookshelf, one of many in the library, at the center of which a disconcerted woman looked at her over the top of her glasses. “Sorry,” Vara said, climbing down from the shelf. “Didn’t mean to drop in so suddenly. Did you know there’s a passage there? Probably not. You wouldn’t believe… is there a problem?” Vara disliked being stared at, and this lady had done nothing else for the time Vara had been in the room. “Maybe,” the woman said. “Do you recognize me?” ”No,” Vara replied bluntly. “Should I?” ”Probably. Look over at the mirror.” There, standing in the glass, was someone wearing Vara’s clothes but this woman’s face. Realization struck hard. “What’s your name?” Vara asked. “Ayre,” the lady responded. “I don’t remember yours.” ”Of course not. I’m Vara. Why do you dress like that? Is it a disguise?” ”Huh? No, this is just how I dress.” ”Tacky? That doesn’t sound like me.” ”You wouldn’t know.” ”You wouldn’t remember.” Ayre grumbled and stood up. “Come on. I’ll show you the door.” And to her credit, she did try. Unfortunately, before they got there, the pair of them slipped through the floor into a new room.

Lockstep sat huddled behind the bushes. Through the snarled branches shone the light of a large fire, part of the twisted rituals of the Callay. They had a repeating cycle of traditions, rites, and practices based on the movement of this room's moon, most of them gruesome or disturbing. Tonight, they danced around a bonfire, singing in gibberish. By morning, most of them would probably have been sacrificed. When possible, it was best to avoid groups like this, but some things took precedence. Glancing at the moon, he realized the time had come. Pulling out a notebook and noting the hands of his watch, he made a few quick notes in very tiny scrawl. With one last look at the Callay, Lockstep shrank back, searching for the passage in the treehollow. Feeling his way through the forest, he lost his balance, his hand sinking through a tree, and hit his head on the hardwood floor of a new room. Rubbing his skull as he stood up, Lockstep tried to recognize his surroundings. A library of some sort. Was this the Raptor’s domain? No, surely that would be busier. He made mental notes as he looked around.

The golden light seared into his eyes. As the pain faded, the scene around him grew clearer. It was a large circular room, with pillars ringed around a central atrium. There were bookshelves, arranged haphazardly throughout the space. And in the middle of the room, sitting at a large desk, was a woman, wearing silly glasses, looking at him expectantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing happened. "So you're here," the woman said, standing up to approach him. "I wouldn't try talking yet. It might be a couple minutes before you fully arrive. Don't worry, I know all of your questions: Where am you? You're here. Where all the forgotten things go. And let me tell you, people have forgotten a lot. Who are you? I have no idea. You'll remember soon. Probably. Who am I? No idea. I forgot a long time ago. Which means whoever I was is probably rattling around here somewhere." He tried again to speak. His throat was dry but functional. "How to-" "Don't ask that question," she cut him off with anger in her eyes. "You live here now, and forevermore. Don't worry, there's lots to do. Actually, I've been waiting for some company. You took a while to manifest, you know that?" He didn't answer. Instead, he shakily stood up and scanned the room for an exit. Locating a door, he started hobbling towards it. The woman sighed. "I'm telling you, give up. Find something to do." He ignored her, still heading for the exit. She was wrong. She had to be. Why did he want to get out, anyway? His mind was still too cloudy to figure it out. He heard the woman slump down in her chair. "Fine," she called out to him. "But if you wander too far, you probably won't be able to find me again. This is one of the calmer rooms in the Miscellaneum." He kept walking.

I agree that there's a lot of like, "positive vibes mental health love yourself" kind of tone and it's a bit sigh-inspiring, but I think a big reason for that is that Brandon can't afford to say something completely unsupported (whoopsies, there goes the mental health of thousands of people who put too much stock in the advice of a fantasy novel...) so all there is to do is to walk on the eggshells really lightly. So the odd writing is just the price of not making giant mistakes. It's a shame, but it turns out no one actually has the answers, so this is just the safer way to write mental health now that it's being confronted head-on in the series.

Wish did not see reality as reality. Rather, each moment of time, each precious state and arrangement of the universe was a work of art, a story. He was familiar with stories, and familiar with life. He closed the thick, leather bound volume he held with a careful, almost reverent motion, and placed it back upon its shelf, with the countless other tomes that told one grand, immense story. He called them his Memoriam. A vast collection of books containing the intricate story that had been his life. It was a helpful thing to have, a strength to rely upon when he could not recall why he fought against the constantly beating current that was senescence. A blank volume lay closed on his desk. That, he hoped, would become a work of equal, even greater magnitude to his grand collection. This place that defied reason, expectation, even natural law. Yes, this was a place that could harbor such a powerful story. The real trick, Wish had learned over his many years of life, was getting the story, containing it between thin paper and binding it, in its fullness, with the ink of writing. Luckily, Wish had some time to spare.

Cool, cool. The whole 'shard of circus' thing was really just a hyperbole I used to express the pure skill, but yeah, I know what you're saying. And with the whacky antics thing as well, that could turn south for sure, although I wasn't really considering that sort of personality for a character. All in all, that's very helpful in my ongoing quest to understand this thing that is the Alleyverse, thanks.

So I recently heard a rather interesting term, which was 'Divine Investiture of Authority'. What that term means is basically exactly what it says. A god or deity, summat, putting the authority to act in their name, into someone else. Sounds a lot like cosmere Investiture actually. Investiture could just be a physical representation of Adonalsium's authority over the universe (Or whatever it is exactly Adonalsium had power over), being put into other beings. 'Investiture' isn't exactly a common word. Especially considering it has been said that Adonalsium is the source of all investiture in the Cosmere, this could make sense as to why that's the word Brandon chose for his magic energy stuff. (There might be an actual WoB or something on why the word 'investiture'. I don't know, but I just typed this out so too late for extra research now.)

So. I've looked in the Index, and there is no section in skills that defines clownishness (who'da guessed). Like, circus skills. My best guess would be somewhere in between 'intelligence' and 'handiwork'. So what I'm saying is, in theory, how close to ascending to the shard of Circus could one get, assuming one puts every single point into said clownosity, becoming as good as possible at as many things as possible? You know, just in theory. I'm honestly curious.