gwyr

"Dark eyes, bitter as klah, gleam warily from behind the artless curl of lashes, holes in the muslin universe of his face. Their European shape is accented by the steepled rise of eyebrows, a cynic's eyebrows, backed by the faintest of lines where furrows have been ploughed from their sharp disbelief. Mocha-brown hair, glossy and straight, is left to flow to his shoulders. The draping style softens the angular frailty of his features, make haughty the tight lines of his colorless mouth. He looks as though he'd be tall, could he stand, but his thin and bony frame is instead enthroned upon a wheeled chair. His hands, pen-creased and ink-stained, slim between knobby knuckles, are the liveliest part of him, winging like vtols from task to task, as clever as anything measured in his fathomless eyes."

Bitter, sharp-tongued, and angry at the whole world: this is Gwyr. Any elegance of form that might live within that slender body is well-concealed by the thorn walls of his resentment. Silver-tongued and sly when he wishes it, Gwyr's demeanor refelcts a lifetime amidst the stark, black-and white world of the Archivist. He is quick to judge and slow to change ,as if he has his own set of internal Records and is loathe to alter them.
Punctilious to a fault, he despises anyone with such poor taste as to turn up late or untidy. Gwyr is as obstinate as a clutching gold, hard-headed and skeptical enough to cow the most rattle-witted of inventor-Smiths or enthusiastic of Harpers. He dislikes any color that is considered 'cheerful', and would happily never look for clothing again.
He has the cold-heartedness of his sister, Killaria, and the same almost-ego, though Gwyr conbines his with a sardonic humility guaranteed to have the more volitle personalities at his throat at once. Though his tongue is caustic, Gwyr allows himself to be bullied by those in charge. Gwyr, cool and proud, would never admit that he has limitations. Of course he can do the job, no matter that he has ten other deadlines due that day--he will merely let his employer know how very hard the request has made his life. Gwyr is not above using his disability to get him the things that he wants. Saccharine-sweet, he will sigh ever-so-softly, look at his legs with mournful eyes, and slowly shake his head. His performances are masterful; his motives less so.

Gwyr was born on board the /Seawher/, to the captain, Nabolese Sea-trader Eris. A lean, tall whip of a woman, Eris was well-feared among youngsters of both sea-hold and land-hold. As for his father, well...he may have existed, but Eris has never spoken of him.
Eris cosseted her quick and able secondborn, Killaria, far more than crippled, firstborn Gwyr. Indeed, Eris began grooming Killaria for her successor the moment she could walk. A rift between caustic-tongued Gwyr and arrogant Killaria developed almost immediately. Eris, unusually unperceptive or simply unworried, took Gwyr with only to take care of the paperwork, since the boy was fanatically tidy and a natural with numbers. Killaria soaked up her mother’s attention like a sponge, and only the world of paper and ink was left for Gwyr
Nearly always at sea, Gwyr grew up without close contact with other children, other than Killaria, whom he despised. The crew members ignored him, and only the drummer-cook, Ondros, ever noticed him.
When Killaria reached the ripe age of seventeen, her mother promoted her. She handled her own ship, the /Squareline/, now, and ships for the ‘company’ all along the Southern shore, while her mother makes the transit from Southern continent to Northern and back again. Broken-hearted by Ondros’ transfer to Killaria’s impetuous clutches, Gwyr has been out-of-touch, ‘abandoning’ his family for the needed sanctuary of the Archivist’s craft.
Well-respected in his craft as he had never been at home, Gwyr became a little less of a loner, lending his scathing commentary and sly wit to small groups of acquaintances. As his skill rose, he was alarmed to hear the Masters speaking of posting him elsewhere.
Indeed, before he completed his first Turn at the Hall, they whisked him off to NoWher Hold, who, at the time, had no journeyman at all. Later, he was assisted in his duties by the next crippled Archivist, Senior Apprentice Rohany (that would be me). And here he sits in his solitary sanctum, living among figures, dreaming of new pens. Whether he might open up is yet to be seen." I pause, aware that the visitor is staring at me in shock. "I can't help that I've got good information sources. Does it bother you?" The visitor mutely shakes his (or her) head. I forage on.
"Gwyr just received some fascinating news. It’s not widely known, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go and blab it everywhere. The Hold Healer just had a look at his legs, and she exclaimed over the fact that Gwyr’ lameness is possibly curable. Apparently, that mother of his, Eris, never had it looked at. I don’t know if I wish him all that well, but surely even my ink-dark heart can feel some joy for someone who, more crippled than I, has a chance at regaining him mobility."

"You still want to meet him?" I inquire, and the visitor nods an affirmitive. With a sigh, I open the door leading to a short hallway. At the end is another door; along the walls are shelves and shelves of supplies. "Can't be too prepared."
Cautiously, I open the door, and behold my mentor, face set in a rictus of pain. His oddly-formed legs now appear straightened, beneath the yards of gauze. He is half-asleep in his chair, but he glowers at me all the same. "Apprentice Rohany, knock!" he snaps, and I nod quickly, pulling the door closed with more haste than grace.
"Perhaps another time," I suggest to the visitor. He/she shrugs, and wanders off. I hope that that busybody realizes how much copy-work they've earned me....