2017-05-16: To Build A Future
- Log: To Build A Future
- Cast:Myyah Hawwa Kestrel Apricity
- Where: Adlehyde Adventurer's Guild Hall
- Date: 05-17-17
- Summary: Myyah Hawwa -- 'Miang' -- corners Kestrel in the Guild Hall with fascinating implications and the bare suggestion of a hint of a thought of a proposition. There is a great deal of dissembling. Interest and paranoia are piqued. It's probably fine, though...
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
The Guild Hall of Adlehyde was in recent years a quiet place, as Guild Halls of Filgaia go. The vast bulk of ruins-delving and relic-hunting happens further to the west, and Drifters being decidedly pecuniary creatures, they tend to stick close to those places where the payouts are plentiful and frequent.
Recent events have seen a sudden influx of Drifter activity in eastern Ignas, however, with reports of strangely aggressive creatures twisted out of true, caverns tainted with mysterious dark energy, a missing King and a strange young man people are calling a Shepherd -- whatever that means. Where there's strife and discord there is gella to be made, and like bluebottle flies transient mercenaries and hands-for-hire have been flocking eastward, eager for a slice of that profiteering pie.
Kestrel has come with them, for decidedly different reasons. Following the followers. She is distinctly unlike them -- physically unimposing, appallingly unguarded -- but she's managed to ingratiate herself with the age-old currencies of paying work and free food and drink. Enough, at least, that she's tolerated loitering in the Guild Hall even though she hasn't taken a single job, for all the time she's spent staring at the board and pestering people who take the ones she finds most interesting.
For the moment she's seated in one of the booths, biting at the inside of one cheek and staring at a half-filled page in a hand-bound, leather-covered tome as though boring into it with her eyes could fill it faster.
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
During some hours, the guild hall is not a wise place to accomplish any kind of thoughtful reading. The kind of person who becomes a drifter typically has within them, to some degree, the desire and ability to turn a bar for like-minded fortune-seekers into its own kind of adventure. (That means dirty and loud and unpredictable rather than romantic and noble and meaningful, which does speak well for the guild's authenticity.)
At this time of day, most of the noise comes from people trudging in and out on business. It is an irregular but endless rhythm of boots and clunking packages and coarse words with the bartender-slash-guildmaster. It can all become too dreadfully familiar at some point, which is dangerous for the perception of someone whose attention is already devoted to letters.
This go-round goes off script at some point. It begins usually: door opens, boots come in. Multiple people is regular; adventurers travel in packs. However, the boots are soon coming in Kestrel's direction.
The woman approaching is striking in several ways. Some of them are contextual (she does not look like an adventurer) and some are not (that distinctive violet hair). Kestrel may recognize the woman from the meeting of concerned minds held by that shepherd boy, Sorey. Today her traveling dress is a different color and design (blue with black details, stitching instead of lacework) so she must be wealthy enough to own multiple sets of go-about-town clothes.
Two hard-eyed men in button-ups and durable jackets remain near the door. Maybe guards. They weren't there at the meeting, or at least they weren't inside.
The woman stops near Kestrel's booth and clasps her hands together. "Excuse me," she says, and interrupts Kestrel's reading if the other woman hasn't noticed her yet. "I apologize for the interruption, but it may be worth your time."
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
Highly irregular.
Another point of difference between Kestrel and the majority of roughneck adventurers who haunt the Guild Hall, though: unanticipated intrusions are not unwelcome events. That would be true even if she weren't at a standstill in her work, fighting the yawning emptiness of an unfilled page; taking it into account would explain why, as she looks up from the page to the person now standing beside her table, there's a grace note of relief in her expressive eyes to pair with the warm welcome and instantaneous curiosity. She's already smiling -- closed-lipped, but in a way that percolates light through her gaze -- before the well-heeled stranger has said more than 'excuse me,' and by the time she finishes speaking it's unnecessary for Kestrel to utter a word, her answer plain as day on her face.
"No need to apologize at all! You're saving me, actually. From..." Slim, inkstained fingers gesture impatiently at her still-waiting work. She gives the moment a pause long enough for courtesy, then folds her forearms on the table's edge and leans forward, pitching her voice -- which is soft-spoken by default, and tinted Aquvy -- down into something more appropriate to confidences, though the question is hardly sensitive. "Didn't I see you in Port Timney? At the Inn, for that meeting. About the Malevolence." Question, but not, because she gestures again, this time at her own copper-gold head of hair. "It's the hair," she explains.
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
There is already a glint of warmness in Miang's eyes when Kestrel looks up to her with a welcoming expression, but she has the decorum to save the outright smile for when the other woman verbalizes her willingness to be bothered. Good teeth. Another rarity.
"Always gives me away," she replies. "I don't suppose I must ask you if I may join you, then."
Miang waits a beat anyway for Kestrel to indicate what should be done with the rest of her booth space, but she also accepts silence as consent for her to sit. Miang smooths her skirt and slides into the booth opposite of Kestrel, and then folds her hands in her lap.
"I recall seeing you as well. I didn't catch your name then, but you may have heard mine. If not:"
Miang reaches over the table to offer Kestrel her hand.
"My name is Miang. I'm a historian and antiquities dealer."
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
The Conclave offers a very patchy, peculiar education to its would-be scribes, but manners and etiquette are, thankfully, a core part of the curriculum. Kestrel's sweeping gesture of the hand wouldn't be out of place in a palace, though she tempers the formality with a wry, even self-deprecating smile, a glance to one side and down. Calculated little gestures, all of them.
When she glances up again it isn't at the woman seating herself but at the man with the tray keeping her in fresh water while she works. She flashes him two fingers, index and middle, to summon another glass for her tablemate, then turns her focus back in time to take the hand she's offered and give it a brisk shake, the pressure and length of which is also almost certainly calculated.
Easily overlooked, given the spark of interest that job description inspires. "It's good to meet you properly, Miang. I'm Kestrel. I'm sorry, I missed it in all of the-- it was lively." For a fleeting moment her smile widens enough to show teeth and her shoulders shake twice, presumably with a laugh. "I shouldn't have gotten distracted by flying drinks, but..." She draws her shoulders up, in, a tiny, tight shrug. "I'm a sucker for compelling drama, what can I say?"
The glass arrives in short order. It's even mostly clean. The pitcher of water she's been pouring from is still sweating on the tabletop. "If you're here to find a Drifter for a job, Miss Miang," Kestrel says, perfectly aware that this is unlikely, "I should probably admit I'm not a dues-paying member."
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
Kestrel, being a woman of calculated little gestures, may notice the subtle movements of Miang's attention. The purple-haired woman is noticing the way Kestrel moves, both conscious and unconscious. Now, the real trick: is Kestrel being able to notice Miang's noticing itself a calculated little gesture?
"Aren't we all," Miang agrees to the concept of compelling dramas. She is otherwise quiet while the drinks are being delivered, though she offers the man a smile for his trouble. When he is gone, discussion resumes.
"Neither am I," she says. "Though I suspect that I've injected enough money into the guild's economy to have earned honorary considerations. But, no, I am not."
Miang leans forward--only slightly, just enough to signal the idea of her interest.
"You must forgive me, but I am here as a result of subterfuge. I was informed of your... shall we say 'professional residency'? I had a thought that we are very nearly in the same business."
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
At least Kestrel doesn't feign surprise when the confession comes. Her smile intensifies, but she visibly pushes back against it, as though trying to quell it as something unseemly. "You mean the Spectorate. I had a feeling. Everywhere I've been on Filgaia on my way here, academics seem to emerge from the woodwork to disappoint themselves by finding out I'm just a documentarian. Usually, though, that's after I put up a notice to announce myself."
She reaches out with both hands, one to grasp the thick handle of the pitcher, the other to balance the weight of it as she leans at the waist and fills Miang's mostly-clean glass. As she does, one of her brows arches, painting her expression with undisguised curiosity. "I haven't yet. You must be very well-connected?" Inflected as a question, it invites an explanation.
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
Miang does not immediately respond. She lets Kestrel exposit on her history with such meetings, and is further silent as the other woman fills her glass. When Kestrel asks a question of her, Miang's first answer is an apologetic smile.
"You may have leapt ahead of me," she says. She gestures out to the floor of the place. "I meant your hanging about here and asking for stories from the members. A few of them are in my employ."
Miang allows for a moment of reflection as she reaches for her glass. She slides it closer to her, but does not pick it up. Instead, she uses the edge of her gloved hand to rub off a dirty spot. (She still does not pick it up.)
"The Spectorate, though! That sounds prestigious. And documentarian does fit my suspicion. Are you here on official business, then? There's certainly enough to document."
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
"Ah!" Curiosity yields to characteristic enthusiasm. Kestrel sets the pitcher down, sitting back, and casts a bright-eyed look around the rough-shod, recently-refurbished interior, carefully patting her fingers dry on the outside of her suede leggings. None of the condensation left on the scarred, worn table comes anywhere even remotely close to the book still splayed open there, an obvious point of care. "I have been. Trying, at least. People in eastern Ignas are..." Her head tilts, gaze winging up into the rafters. "Cautious?" She ventures the word almost uncertaintly, and after a moment returns her attention to Miang. A kind of rueful affection softens her small and seemingly perpetual smile. "With good reason, I expect. Earning their trust takes time, so..." She doesn't quite shrug, but it lives in her tone of voice.
Two, three heartbeats of time pass before she reanimates on the associated subject. "'The Spectorate' is a big, fancy name that means less than nothing to most people. Historians are the only ones who ever seem to have heard of us, or the Conclave, so I just...assumed." This twist of her lips is impatient, less than pleased -- with herself, to gauge by her tone. "A mistake we're not supposed to make, actually. The worst kind. I think sometimes I let my eagerness run away with me." She reaches out with her left hand, lifting the cover of the leather-bound volume to close it. The covers themselves are unembossed, exceedingly plain.
"To answer your question, though: yes! Official business. Always. Recording everything there is to record, or at least whatever seems worthwhile, and the Conclave has interesting ideas about what that means, if what I'm told by other academics is any indication. They -- ah, we? -- apparently paint with a broader brush than most." After a short pause, she edges into her question almost tentatively: "What can a historian and antiques dealer possibly need with a scribe?"
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
Miang follows along through Kestrel's theatrics with easy acceptance. Kestrel ruminates on the nature of the local culture, Miang nods faintly; Kestrel pounces upon the subject of employers, Miang is attentive; Kestrel poses a question, Miang considers.
"Do you consider yourself merely a scribe, after all that?" she says. Miang seems to be a woman given to subtle gestures, and her so the slight furrowing of her brow may imply the depths to which she's seized this idea. "Even if you picture yourself merely copying an enormous and living tome, that is willfully reductive of the professional management that you must exercise over your task. You said it yourself: 'whatever seems worthwhile.' Wouldn't that qualify you as a historian yourself, albeit one with a greater view toward a grand purpose?"
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
The answer to her question never comes, but she doesn't seem to mind. What she does is laugh: shining, unguarded, musical. "If you're asking for my opinion? I don't think so. I try not to curate. I do, obviously, because I can't help it. One of my instructors used to tell us that we're imperfect windows. The way they make glass panes, you know--by hand. You can see through all of them, but there are ripples sometimes in different places, and they distort whatever is on the other side." Thick fans of lash lower, her gaze lidding with some cousin feeling to nostalgia.
"Besides," she adds, reaching for her glass to lift it, "Historians specialize in history. I don't really do that--hence all of those very disappointed historians I mentioned. I'm supposed to record what becomes history."
One sip later, she lowers her glass and cradles it in both hands in her lap, studying the fair-skinned, well-kept features of the woman across from her. "I'm also not especially articulate when I'm speaking about myself, as you've probably noticed. It's not something I do often. I honestly prefer to ask other people questions instead, but sometimes you've got to give a little to get something in return."
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
"They are a poor historian who believes there is no history in the present," says Miang. When Kestrel studies her, Miang seems unconcerned and unashamed.
"I think you are very articulate," she says. "You told a simile through an anecdote, the context of which was foreshadowed by your earlier exposition. And you had a relevant prop. That's good storytelling."
She uses her fingertips to push her glass back away from the edge of the table, still untouched.
"I can tell when I've been caught," she says, sliding out of the booth. She smooths her skirt as she stands, and then looks over her shoulder to show Kestrel a sly smile. "Follow me, then. I'll show you your return."
Miang crosses the guild hall's floor toward the message board on the far wall. She stands in front of it and its multitude of postings, hands folded neatly in front of her.
"I assume you're up to date with all this."
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
Most people would find those compliments very flattering. Kestrel smiles, but it's a knowing and very wry kind of look. She shakes her head a little -- as though Miang were being an absolute /card/ -- and turns it to the side, visibly repressing more audible amusement.
When her tablemate relents, however, she's quick to abandon that look. The book disappears in the satchel still slung across her torso with the ease of a gesture enacted dozens of times a day. The pen follows it, and then Kestrel follows Miang, slipping out of the booth and trailing her to the board, pausing beside her. She slides her thumbs into the inadequate back pockets of her leggings, tilting her head back to sweep her attention over the notices affixed to the higher reaches.
"Mostly. Some of the job details are vague, probably for privacy reasons, but I've read what's here."
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
"Some people use codes," says Miang, with the sense of an aside. "They're mostly amateur substitution ciphers, if you find yourself bored one evening and in the mood for a puzzle."
She waits for a beat of silence to indicate a shifting toward the main topic. Her gaze roams the slips of paper.
"Here's a new one," she says, gesturing toward one slip pinned atop other, older messages. "A phantom manor appearing nightly on the edge of town, disappearing in the morning. Hardly out of place with recent events."
Miang raises her hand to touch the paper of the notice. She says nothing of what she gains by this, but her finger traces a path across the board to another posting.
"You must have read of the excavation of Lolithia's Tomb in the paper. No surprise that drifters are trying to probe deeper after that bit of fame."
She moves her finger upward. A well-worn note is enshrined near the center of the board, the respect it carries clear in that nothing else has been posted over it yet.
"The Berry Cave. Drifters visit often to stock up on reagents for curative items. These are especially important to minimize one's downtime. Health is wealth, isn't it? Potential wealth, anyway."
Miang drops her hand from the board. Her look lingers for a moment longer, and then she turns her attention toward Kestrel.
"If you've been in this area long enough, you have surely noticed the wealth of interesting characters. You may have also noticed the confluence of... dramas, shall we say. The king's kidnapping. The Malevolence. The destruction of Lahan. Aveh marshaling its troops in the woods. Which do you think comes first? Do all those interesting people arrive because this is where interesting things happen, or do interesting things happen here because of the appropriate audience?"
Miang looks to the board once more.
"My philosophy, Ms. Kestrel, is that the fine people who have drifted into town and into this guild hall require the proper nurturing in order to do what they do best: knock all the dust off the world and breathe new life into dead history. After all, how else is an enterprising young academic with few writing credits to her name supposed to find an exclusive topic for a book?"
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
"I'm always in the mood for a puzzle."
And that is true.
Kestrel sinks into silence with a readiness that backs her earlier claim: she's more comfortable while other people are speaking. /Willing/ to talk about herself, certainly, but less interested in that than the alternative. Only her head and her eyes move as Miang draws her attention to each posted notice in turn, accompanied by a single small thought about each. She radiates patience into every pause. One might fairly get the impression that she would stand there that way, watching and listening, if Miang decided on a whim to give her a guided tour of every last piece of parchment pinned there.
Pale, attentive eyes are there to meet the glance in her direction. They glitter with interest. There is no guile in them. Laughter, though, when that last question is posed. "Do you mean yourself?" She smiles widely enough to suggest she doesn't think so, widely enough to create the bare suggestion of a dimple. "Scribes for the Spectorate only write to one purpose. Everything I put down on the page will be sent for safekeeping. Preservation. Which isn't to say that I'm not fascinated by your pitch!" She slides her thumbs from her back pockets and shifts her gaze back to the board, a mosaic of needs and wants. She's silent for those few moments of wandering over them with her eyes, and seems to stumble over her question almost suddenly, brow perked: "Which dead history is it that you think they ought to resurrect?"
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
"I do mean myself," says Miang with feigned indignation--it is easy to notice the bluff thanks to the laughter behind her voice. "Or don't you think I'm a young woman?"
Miang turns, stepping backward to lean up against the board and look evenly at Kestrel. She ends up framed by a halo of mismatched notes in dozens of handwritings.
"I won't tell any of your coworkers about your fascination, of course. As for which history: if I knew, I wouldn't be so scattershot in my approach. I'm still in the joy-of-discovery phase. Why, did you have something in mind?"
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
Kestrel tugs in a breath that verges on a shocked gasp, and one pale hand lifts to press over her cheek, as though it could conceal the quick, rose flush that rises there and creeps up the sides of her throat. An honest-to-god blush. "That's not what I meant!" Rubbing at the bloom of heat there, she collects her astonishment and focuses it into a narrow beam, shooting the woman an accusatory look -- in good humor, but with some small self-consciousness. "You do like to keep people off-balance, don't you? And you're very good at it. I imagine it's very useful when you're looking to make a sale."
She sets her good-natured grumbling aside, though, in favor of more pertinent things. The question, in particular.
It's a question that leaves her looking at Miang for a long, long time, as casual conversations are measured. Ten, maybe fifteen full seconds -- just long enough to be awkward in most company. It's a weighing look, though not a hard one.
"I think, with what I know, what I've been told--that's less than you might think. We're supposed to avoid being biased, and knowing too much about history--well, anyway. Obviously no one had quite gotten things right, had they? All of this talk of Filgaia's twilight. Ravenous deserts spreading every which way. Trying to revive a past that led here seems myopic to me."
And then, as though realizing: "I'm sorry. I don't mean to dismiss the idea altogether. Things change and that's the way of it, obviously. Thinking about how they change makes perfect sense." Her smile is small, full of apology. "You just asked for my opinion, and I wanted to be honest."
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
Miang is defiant in the face of accusation with a small, impish smile. Little gestures can match big performances when artfully deployed. Here, Miang leaning against the wall with her hands folded behind her back and her head canted to the side, it seems she was intentionally building up her pose to place the proper amount of sass into this completely random exchange. That is surely impossible, but making it look possible is called charisma.
The implication is perhaps clear: 'guilty as charged.'
When Kestrel falls silent, Miang shifts to straighten her spine and regard the other woman with a neutral expression. The two look at each other for a long time. Miang doesn't seem to mind. Some people find looking into each others eyes like this to be intimate. If Miang does, this too is hidden in her demeanor.
She looks. Her eyes are the same deep, vibrant color as her hair.
When Kestrel answers, Miang resumes being a pleasant listener. Kestrel's apology hardly seems necessary for how much Miang reacted to it. She cuts the other woman's smile with her own, apology switched for humor.
"Honesty is pleasant. Often, all we are left with is the truth. In this case, honesty allows me to revisit the theme of this conversation: 'history' is the present conceptualizing the past. Reviving the past as you speak it is impossible. The present can only ever build a future. That depends on the character of the people doing the conceptualizing, don't you think? Therefore all my talk of interesting people. One wonders what they'll do differently when given the opportunity to pass judgment."
Miang pushes off of the wall and steps forward. This brings her nearer Kestrel, but not so near as to be awkward.
"I'm afraid I have other tasks scheduled for today. It was my pleasure to speak to you, Ms. Kestrel. I think your job is interesting."
The men at the door perk up. Miang turns toward them, adjusting the shawl about her shoulders as she makes to leave. She glances over her shoulder.
"If you ever get bored and want to talk shop, I can often use a distraction. I wish you luck in your duties."
<Pose Tracker> Kestrel Apricity has posed.
'Personal space' doesn't seem to be a concept that Kestrel is very well-versed in. She maintains it when dealing with others, but there isn't any sense that she's aware that Miang's closeness to her in those nearer few moments differs from the distance at which they'd been standing before. And for the truly canny student of human behavior -- or elven, in this case -- that, at least, is not a facade of any kind.
Ever-silent and certainly always attentive to the person on whom she's focused at any given time, she seems to absorb every last word as though it were the most critical word every spoken by anyone she'd ever met, and she remains that way well until Miang pivots in place in preparation to leave. That is when she cocks her head slightly, and a complicated phantom smile toys with the shape of her mouth, never quite getting a firm foothold on her face. "The pleasure was mine. Though you never did get around to telling me exactly what you wanted with me, so I suppose we ought to sit down again sometime soon. And maybe," she adds, a single drop of cheer falling into the otherwise still waters of her voice, "You'll even let me ask you a few questions. You will have to tell me how to reach you, though. I'm here now, but I may not be tomorrow."
<Pose Tracker> Myyah Hawwa has posed.
"Perhaps I ended up being another one of your disappointed historians," says Miang on the topic of her wants, though the good-humored teasing in her words muddies the read on whether or not she's serious.
One of the men opens the door for her. The other offers Miang her hat. She places it in preparation for stepping out into the sun. Pale people are born but also made.
"I will be here tomorrow. And the next, likely, and so on. Find a quiet booth and perhaps history will repeat itself, though with more questions this time. Good day, Ms. Kestrel."
Miang exits. The men exit behind her, and then the door swings shut.