Lottelita/MaitreyiPlayLog

Session One (10/20)

Late summer in Icehome. A cold drizzle falls, but it might as well be a Blessed Isle spring for all the gusto with which the frigid city's residents enjoy the weather. The streets and markets are filled with cheerful people, but Maitreyi is inside, getting a headache.

She has been spending the time since her exaltation scouring Icehome's library for anything and everything on Anathema and the First Age. Her search has yielded little. The hefty tome in which she finds herself mired as evening arrives is a dull and uninformative collection of half-recollected folk sightings of Solar Exalted. If she reads about one more slow-witted peasant waving his pitchfork at the threatening cretin approaching his virgin daughter, she'll scream. Frustration gets the better of her, and she returns the useless text to its place in the stacks. Something about this collection, she thinks as she looks around, is off.

Waman, the head librarian, approaches her as she heads out. He questions her politely about her search, and when she says, as usual, that she had found little of value, he prods her for more information about what, exactly, she's researching. She is coy and secretive. Though she has known him for many years, she trusts him little, and he seems increasingly frazzled and watchful around her. She makes her excuses, saying her brother no doubt needs her, and leaves.

The long walk back to Rakesh's apartment takes her past the main marketplace, and she decides to stop and see if the fair weather has brought any booksellers to Icehome. She begins to fear her search is in vain when she happens upon a Guild trader with a wide selection of general goods; he has a collection of books, and she buys a few High Realm texts that seem promising.

As she moves through the market, purchases in hand and a faraway look on her face, she suddenly notices a skulking figure close by. A scruffy lad of no more than ten is stalking her awkwardly through the crowd. Purse-snatching is in his darting eyes. She smirks and approaches him, and, caught, his eyes go wide with terror and his lips open in denial.

"Excuse me," she says, "but do you know where I might find a sweetshop?"

He blinks. "... Sweets?"

"Yes, I've been longing for some candied dried fruit lately, but I can't seem to find a sweetshop in the market. You look like a boy who likes candy. Perhaps you can show me where I can get some."

Now hunger animates his face and he leads her speedily to a nearby merchant. She asks him to suggest the best candy, and she buys two bags of the one he indicates. She places one in his dirty palm and, incredulous, he begins devouring it.

Archly, she says, "I hope it doesn't make your fingers sticky." His hand stops halfway to his mouth, and he gulps. "Go home," she adds firmly, and he scampers off.

Shaking her head in bemusement, she turns, only to realize the exchange with the boy has been watched. Close by in the crowd is a small, shifty man, wiry and alert, dressed strangely in faded garb that might once have been a colorful performer's costume. He sees her looking at him and feigns nonchalance, looking away as though his eyes had only lighted on her for a moment. As she takes the first step towards him, a shiver goes down her spine. She shakes it off.

"Is he yours?" she asks.

Feigned incomprehension crosses his face, but he abandons pretense when she hardens her gaze. "No, of course not," he says. "He tried the same thing to me earlier."

"So you wanted to see if he would succeed on me?"

He shrugs uncomfortably.

"Because," she continues, "he obviously failed on you."

"Of course," he says, puffing up self-consciously. Then, on the defensive, he narrows his eyes and appraises her. "What are you doing here?"

It's only then that her surroundings really register. The marketplace is raucous, and a musical troupe bashes and blares out a rude but melodic tune. An impromptu dance has begun. Overflowing steins of ale and mead pass from hand to hand, from smiling mouth to smiling mouth. Maitreyi is suddenly, painfully aware that she must stand out here, with her spotless gown and reserved manner. Embarrassed, she explains, "I ... I was buying some books," and she raises the tomes in her arms as if to say, "See?"

"Really? What sort of books are those?" He leans in, craning his neck as if to read the spines.

She jerks them away, surprised that he is literate. "Romance novels. You wouldn't be interested."

But he has noticed that the titles are not in Skytongue, and the dusty books look like anything but pulp entertainment. "Those don't look like romance novels," he begins.

"-- I'm an historian," she says, cutting him off. An irrational fear rises in her that whatever his appearance, he may speak High Realm and may have noticed the titles of the books, which would certainly raise more righteous eyebrows. "It's getting late and I must be making my way home. Good evening." With lowered eyes, she gives a stiff curtsey and darts away through the crowd.

She isn't long out of the market when she realizes that she's being followed. Exasperated, she sets her books down on the window ledge of a bakery, pivots abruptly to face her pursuer, and plants her long, smooth staff forcefully. "The last man who followed me without my permission didn't come out of it well," she says in a clear voice.

"I'm sorry," he lamely, "I'm just curious. I'm a bit of a historian, too." She can hardly believe it from the look of him, but she pauses. Despite his guilty, hangdog expression, there's an earnestness in his face that strikes her suddenly as ... familiar. In fact, the unaccountable sense of recognition is so strong that she cannot dismiss it.

"So," she says, trying to place him, "perhaps I've seen you ... at the library?"

He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Ah, probably not."

They stand there for a moment in the dim street in silence, as Maitreyi racks her brain for the memory of his face and he watches her inscrutably. Finally, she says, "Look, do you want a bun or something? I think this is a good bakery." Like the boy from the marketplace, he blinks in disbelief, and then accepts.

(Still TBC ... shit this is getting long)