> Noctavia

>

> Nok-tah-vee-ah

>

> Type: Noun

>

> Meaning: "Noctavia" refers to the esteemed tailors who serve the high society within Menschen culture. The title originates from the traditional nickname earned during the Fallfest, where such tailors are known to work through the night, foregoing sleep for three moons to meet the demands of the celebration. The term embodies the dedication and exceptional craftsmanship recognized by the upper echelons of society.

The forest's edge was bathed in the glow of the encroaching night, its darkness punctuated by the soft dance of firelight from a small campsite. Above, the stars played hide and seek behind the gentle sway of treetops, and the Meerio River whispered as it caressed the banks. The smell of roasting fish mingled with the smoky air, and the fire crackled in a comforting rhythm.

Noctavia's face, illuminated in the warm hues of the flames, turned the fish over the fire, the skin crisping to a perfect golden hue. Across from her, Xendrix's eyes were alive with a childlike glee, an endless stream of words pouring from him as he recounted his day's conquest over the earth element.

She listened with half an ear, her thoughts adrift. Noctavia was craving silence, a moment of solace from his incessant chatter. The plan seemed straightforward enough—feed the boy until sleep claimed him and then bask in the sweet reprieve of quiet. Yet, the young prince was an unwitting tormentor, his energy unyielding.

The fire popped, a spark flying into the night as Xendrix, blissfully unaware of her inner plea for peace, shifted the conversation to a place she'd been avoiding. "Are you sad because he is gone, the Commander?"

She kept her gaze steady. Her reply was a cool dismissal, "I'm not sad."

"You look sad," he insisted, tilting his head, observing her.

A firm, "I'm not sad," was her answer.

"But it's okay to be," he pushed, with the persistence of idiotic youth.

Her facade cracked, just slightly. "I'm not sad. I'm tired, that's all."

He considered her words, his brow furrowing. "Would you like me to be quiet?" he asked, though his tone suggested he knew the futility of such an offer.

"I'd appreciate it, but I doubt silence suits you," she replied.

Xendrix just grinned, taking another fish bite, his response muffled by the mouthful. "You say I talk too much, but it's only because I'm usually alone. Here, people listen. And it's not because I'm a prince."

As he spoke, a sudden cough interrupted him, a fishbone caught in his throat. Noctavia's annoyance shifted to concern. "You need help?"

He waved her off, finally dislodging the bone with a cough. "I'm fine... but I've heard things," he started, then hesitated.

"Things?"

"That you have the title Magi, but you're not one," he confessed.

"Titles," she scoffed lightly.

"But is it true?"

"What do you think makes a magi?" she challenged back.

"Well, they need to complete a trial… and-and they get a Black Robe. So, are you a Magi?" he pressed.

A smirk was her answer. "Do I have a robe? No."

Confusion crept into his voice. "But you know so much."

"Age has its advantages, Xendrix."

"And how old is that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You're asking a woman her age?"

He stumbled over his words, and she chuckled softly. "Titles are just words. I'm a stylist, a tailor, a weaver... Whatever you want to call it."

Under the cloak of night, with only the campfire to bear witness, Xendrix's curiosity seemed to kindle like the flames before them. His words tumbled out in a rush. "How did you get here? I mean, a Commander and a Tailor... You're stunning, perhaps the most stunning woman I've ever seen, but I can't see what you two could have in common," he rambled, pausing only when his breath ran short, his eyes wide, expecting her tale.

Noctavia turned a fish over the fire, considering her words before she broke the silence. "I wasn't merely a tailor, Xendrix. I was the tailor to our Dame. I don't just stitch fabric; I weave significance into each thread. And as for titles," she continued, a wisp of amusement in her voice, "they are but labels if the essence does not match. A prince who neither talks nor behaves as one is hardly a prince in the eyes of the court. There are steps to ascend the social ladder, dances to master—I choreographed those dances."

His intrigue deepened. "So, how? How did you meet the Commander?"

She poked at the fire, sending a flurry of sparks into the air. "I crafted his wedding robe. He was to marry the Dame, Veilla."

"And he didn't marry her?" Xendrix leaned in.

"No, he did not."

His eyes sparkled with the reflection of the fire, searching her face for clues. "So he saw you, and that's the story?"

Noctavia let out a soft laugh, the sound mingling with the crackle of the fire. "He discovered my true... talent, my actual magic," she said.

The fire continued its quiet crackle, casting a soft, flickering light on their faces as Xendrix waited eagerly for more of her story. "How so?" he prodded, his eyes bright with curiosity.

Noctavia sighed, a wistful look crossing her features. "What else is there to say?"

"I don't know, it's your story," he encouraged, his youthful eagerness palpable.

She relented, her voice taking on a reflective tone. "I finished his robe... but then, he began to find faults. One day, two stitches would come undone; the next, three, the other four. As the wedding day neared, I found myself fixing more and more stitches. The robe was a work of art, a true masterpiece. I outdone myself! But he kept finding faults, reasons to keep me working, to keep me close, to make me stay longer."

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She paused, lost for a moment in the memories. "We talked for hours as I worked, sharing dreams and thoughts, the kind of things people falling in love talk about and share. For people, it was only a couple of days, but for us… it was a lifetime. And then, the night before the wedding was supposed to happen..."

Xendrix leaned forward, hanging on her every word. "What happened?"

"He destroyed the robe," she said softly, her eyes reflecting the fire's glow. "Burned it beyond repair. There was no wedding, no robe, no need for pretence anymore." Her voice trailed off, leaving the story hanging in the air, as tangible as the smoke that rose from the fire.

“He called off the wedding after a grand row with Veilla. Overnight, I became the scapegoat, the woman who led the future Rame astray, the one who tipped the scales of the world into disarray. Yet, all I did was create a beautiful robe... for the most captivating man I had ever laid eyes on.”

Xendrix, with the guileless manner of one unused to the intricacies of court life, chimed in. “But people like you here, right? I mean, sure, there’s talk. Mediah made a passing comment about Black Robes, and... well, some people dub you a Magi. They don’t get why you have a Spirit if you can’t wield Magic,” he said, then hastened to add, “I shouldn’t have brought it up, sorry. I’m still learning to navigate this social nonsense.”

“It’s fine,” Noctavia reassured him with a slight, enigmatic smile. “They can't comprehend what’s beyond their sight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Magic,” she mused, staring into the fire as if it held answers, “is not about donning a robe. It’s not the earth beneath our feet, the flames that warm us, nor the water that quenches our thirst... Magic is like a coin.”

His laugh was light, a release from the heaviness of their conversation. “A coin? I’d probably be cursed by that coin.”

She looked at him. “You’ve gone further than most. You’ve mastered an element, something tangible and real. For a human, that’s an achievement far surpassing any robe! Now sleep, we still have a long journey ahead to the next Spirit."

Xendrix, fighting the tug of exhaustion, protested weakly, "I'm not tired."

But she saw through his stubborn veneer to the fatigue etched in the lines of his young face. "Yes, you are! Sleep," she commanded softly, her voice a lullaby blending with the night's chorus, coaxing him to surrender to rest.

Reluctantly, the prince settled down, the resistance leaving his body as he found comfort in the soft sounds of the forest. As his breathing deepened, Noctavia finally found the silence she longed for, a serene smile gracing her lips as she watched over him while she murmured like in a prayer.

“I hex with whispers soft as night's own hush. Feel my highs, my lows, the push and shove. In every quiet, fleeting rush, I hex you. I hex, I'll taste the same, the skin, the tear. I hex your ups, your pull, your touch and your tongue while speaking, screaming or hiding. I will be there. I hex you with my laughter and tears, with every beat of life's in my blood. If you stray, we'll share the fears. I hex until back into my arms you come near. I hex your children, and the children of your children with this love will cling to their children of their children. I hex you to death and never leave you alone, and should you fall forever asleep, I hex, and I hex myself to sleep by your side and trick death until the end of time.”

The trek had stretched on, the sun tracing its relentless arc overhead as Xendrix laboured up the serpentine path. It was a gruelling ascent, each turn in the trail promising rest, only to offer more rugged heights. His feet, bare and tender at the outset, began to forge a grudging pact with the jagged stones.

Beside him, Noctavia moved with graceful ease, her footsteps whispering against the ground in a delicate ballet, a stark contrast to the harshness surrounding them. The further they went, the more Xendrix found solace in the stillness of his own voice, learning that being quiet is a gentle ally, sparing him the weight of needless words and effort. He found that it not only preserved his breath and fortified his stamina but also seemed to cradle his soul, allowing him a peace he hadn't known was needed.

As they reached the precipice, overlooking the vast expanse of the Meerio, the wind stood fierce, buffeting against them with such force that it stole his words. "I thought we would meet the water Spirit!" he had to shout over the roar.

Noctavia turned to him, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Xendrix," she said, "You talk too much." With a fluid gesture of her wrist, an uncanny calm descended. The wind ceased its howling, and the world around them stood still, time itself bending to her will.

Facing the edge of the precipice, Noctavia summoned, "I am the Noctavia, the Master of the Howling Night, ally to the Earth Spirit; the Walking Tree has foretold of your alliance." Her words were spoken into the stillness. "Please show yourself!"

The world held its breath, the very air charged with heavy magic until the Meerio River's silence shattered with the might of its response. The waters, once placid, vaulted skyward in a majestic plume, cleaving the sunlight into a myriad of dancing, glimmering rainbows. From this aqueous spectacle, a dragon unfurled, its presence an embodiment of raw power.

Scales shimmered in the deepest ocean blue hues, mirroring the sun's brilliance in a display of the sea's grandeur. With a serpentine grace, it presented itself, its snout piercing through the veil of water to confront Noctavia with eyes that bore the wisdom of millennia. Or at least it was what it seemed.

"Who are you?" The dragon's inquiry resonated through the clearing, a voice rich and profound, each syllable echoing the depths of time itself.

A shadow of annoyance flitted across Noctavia's features, contrasting with the creature's splendour. "I just told you..." she retorted.

"I didn't listen."

"You are a dragon, and you didn't listen?"

"I didn't," the dragon replied.

Noctavia stepped forward, undaunted, closing the gap between herself and the creature. With a steady voice free from fear, she reaffirmed her identity, "I am the Noctavia." Her words were firm, standing strong against the grandeur of the dragon's formidable presence that loomed before her.

“You are the Noctavia?”

“Yes.”

“But that is not your real name.”

“No, it’s just a title. I promised my Hexe I wouldn’t reveal my name, no matter what,” she explained, keeping her stance.

The dragon's gaze drifted, descending upon Xendrix with a curiously tilted head. "And who is the fatty?" it inquired, a thread of amusement woven through the deep timbre of its voice.

"That young boy is Xendrix, a young human. He is walking the trial of alchemy. And don't call him fatty. It is rude."

"What is alchemy?" The dragon's question was simple, disarmingly so, for a being that Noctavia assumed must know the secrets of the cosmos.

Caught off guard, she paused before responding with a question of her own. "What is your name?"

"Leviathon."

"Tell me, Leviathon, is this a first for you?" Noctavia's voice held a note of sly curiosity.

"First time of what?" The dragon's innocence, or feigned innocence, was almost charming.

"Of being summoned? To converse with those who are not Spirits like you?"

Leviathon appeared to ponder, its massive form repositioning with a fluid grace that belied its size. "It is more challenging than one might assume," it confessed. "My brothers make it sound easy."

"Well, Xendrix cannot perceive you... only I can as long as I keep time to a halt. Perhaps you might adopt a form less... formidable?" she suggested.

"Is that not against the rules?" Leviathon's question carried the weight of the worries almost of a child.

"In truth," Noctavia's lips curled into a half-smile, "you are a Spirit. Do you not, in part, dictate the rules?"

"You won't tell?"

"I won't tell."

"Anyone!"

"Not a soul," she affirmed, her promise as solid as the earth beneath their feet.

The dragon, once immense and imposing, began to fold in upon itself, its form spiralling into a vortex that pulled the mist into its dance. The air grew thick with the haze, obscuring the world in a veil of mystery. Noctavia waited, her heart a steady drumbeat facing as the mist began to dissipate like the last shadows of night before the dawn.

A child emerged. “I’m not a Spirit. Why is everyone saying that? You can see that I’m a dragon!”

> Menschen society, a fresh breed of nobility has emerged, distinct from traditional power hierarchies and defined by the world of fashion. Within this captivating world, tailors and stylists have ascended as contemporary aristocrats, moulding the very essence of individuals and their impact through the art of clothing. Their expertise lies in enabling people not only to wear their titles and responsibilities but also to elevate them, transforming fashion into a potent instrument for self-expression and influence within the court and beyond. I still cherish my mother's sketchbooks, and the tales that preceded her were undeniably accurate; she was a true Commander in her craft.——Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen Vol. III by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune