Ridahne was engulfed in her work, and if one were to look over her shoulder at the notes and sketches she scratched out on the paper, it would become clear that she had narrowed in on some concept or another, and was refining its details. Whatever she put to paper, whatever she decided would be the final marks would be passed down for generations upon generations. They would outlive her. This notion unnerved the elf a little. Unlike Ajoran, who spent his younger years as a smith, Ridahne was not a craftsman. When she was young, she either hunted the land or hunted the sea, and then she was methodically and perhaps even brutally trained to destroy. Ridahne did not create things of importance, much less things that would outlive her (hopefully) long span of years. 

But this... 

People to come would see the work of her hand and would not know it was hers. They would not understand the events that came together to form it. They would not know the pain that came before it, nor the joy afterward. They would not feel the uncertainty of two young women trying to find their place in this world. They would know only the marks and what they stood for, not why they were ever there to begin with. She supposed that she ought to feel like she was leaving a legacy, but honestly she couldn't shake the feeling of insignificance that knowledge brought. 

A cold sweat formed on her brow as this dread sunk its claws into her like a bird of prey that had swooped straight into her chest. Ridahne was a decent hand at tattooing, but she was no master artist. What if she got it wrong? What if her chosen design was mediocre and inadequate? Rough and unrefined? In any other situation, Ridahne might have walked away then to get a little distance between it and her, but the task was pressing. At the very least, her own marks needed to be sorted. She had to do this. She had to figure this out now. Suddenly every stroke of her quill felt deeply permanent. 

A flicker of movement made her jump; Darin knocked her inkwell over suddenly with a startled gasp. Ridahne gasped too, instinctively leaping out of her seat with the nearest book in hand. The abyssal liquid pooled on the desk and dripped onto the floor like a black waterfall, but the ancient books were unharmed. Ridahne let out a breath, though it came out oddly choked. Darin was furiously apologetic, but Ridahne simply knelt and helped her clean the mess. The elf's face shifted from inscrutable to oddly contorted, and back again in the span of a few seconds as she wrestled with an emotion she didn't rightly understand. And then suddenly Ridahne burst out in a choked laugh marked with tears. The strength and warmth of her laugh increased, though the tears kept flowing as if something had been pent up inside her and was finding a way to come out. 

Ridahne struggled to get a grip. "I'm not laughing at you, I promise, not really. It's just...well, it turns out making an Ojih mark and marks that will outlive me and my grandchildren and their grandchildren is ah...well, it's a lot of pressure. And...well I'm glad you're with me." It was not the most eloquent thing she'd ever said, but it was certainly vulnerable. For Ridahne, that was a feat in and of itself. She chuckled a little and shook her head. "Don't worry too much about the ink. Have you noticed that the floor is dark? In the countless centuries this place has existed, can you imagine how many times this exact thing has happened? You've just made your timeless mark on the Great Archives is all. Not many can say they've done that."