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  Memoir #11 - The City Elf by Rairen
  Added on Oct 24, 2009

  Aja hasn't improved at managing elves - particularly the unusually intriging ones - since her days as an Apprentice,

  ---

  You are Aja, of many people.

  Objective: To persuade Muk to give her a child.

  You are 36 years, 2 months, and 29 days old,

   

  "The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den [NESW Quit]

     A haze of sweet-smelling spice dominates this circular chamber, tantalizing your senses with its seductive allure.  The room has been fashioned into a large circle, set halfway within the grasp of the hard packed earth.  The walls are lined with long baobab planks, stained a rich, earthen hue that add to the relaxing atmosphere of the den.  A line of plush, silken pillows and stuffed mattresses have been strewn about the entire room, providing welcome arms to any that would enjoy their purchase immediately. 

     A wooden ramp, covered in thick rugs of woven cloth, leads to an impressive circle of raised stone in the center of the room.  In the middle of the circle stands a small area for a merchant to conduct their business from several stations about the stand. 

     Along the walls lay several dim, oil lamps marking the path along the ramp that leads up and out of the den.  A small stage curves along the northeastern wall, a polished agafari pole affixed in the middle of it.

  An empty dark red bottle lies here covered in dust.

  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on the wall.

   

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

  You think:

       "... Mm."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "And here I thought I would serve as a lure to your entrance."

  Resting an elbow on the back of the couch, the ethereal, fair-haired woman closes her eyes, a soft breath escaping her.

  contact morn

  You contact the graceful, platinum-haired man with the Way.

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "Hm?  Good day, Morn, I mean to say.  Is all well?"

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes tighten.

  Somebody brushes past you.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a few fingers along the back of her neck before her free hand lifts to press a thumb and forefinger at her eyes.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "That it is, Seeker Aja.  The day finds you well also?"

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "Always, always.  Busy, I suppose.  New students and new lessons to give."

  Opening her eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her attention wander over the crowded room, features untroubled.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Ah, good to know that the circle works diligently to liven the streets of the Ivory."

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "To liven the streets?  Hm, we do, though I wonder if those are my particular brand of instruction."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a slow, calming breath.

  You think:

       "Please, don't find me.  Please, don't find me."

  The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak has arrived from the west, resolutely moving down the rampway.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman twists a few strands of hair around her fingers, pale eyes lost and distracted.

  Sweeping deeper into the hazy den, the very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak slows his stride to pluck up the empty bottle before settling unto an empty pillow.

  The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak picks up a dark red bottle.

  The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak sits on a black silk pillow.

  Closing her eyes, features practicedly tranquil, the ethereal, fair-haired woman shifts her hand to rub at the back of her neck, elbow propped on the back of the couch.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "I did have a matter I wished to speak with you on.  Aja, do you possess a flute?"

  The sleek, dark male lowers the hood of a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

      "... A flute?  Hm.  Not at the moment, I... think.  No."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, irritably.

  You think:

       "... For pity's sake."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Well, isn't that fine news."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her head hang forward, a quiet groan escaping her lips.

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "... Is it?"

  Touching a gloved thumb and forefinger to her eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head back, letting it rest against her arm.

  Thrusting a slender index finger into its mouth, the sleek, dark male turns his dark red bottle upside down and idly contemplates it in his comfortable lounge.

  (hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck sinks into her slender shoulders.

  Shaking her head a few times, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lowers her hand, attention travelling over the room.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a deep, calming breath of the spice-scented air.

  Chuckling in a self-amused baritone, the sleek, dark male swats at the bottle with his other hand, setting it to spinning upon his finger.

  Fleetingly, through a gap in the crowds, you look up at the sleek, dark male.

   

  Dark and sleek, this elf's taut physique mimics the lean, balanced proportions of some deep-waste hunting beast.  Tell-tale marks of weather-wearing are found in the myriad tiny sand-speckling scars across his exposed skin and by the premature squint creases at the corners of his narrow, liquid-green eyes.  Black-haired and dusky skinned, this elf displays the deliberate, spare efficiency and posture of someone who knows their own body well.

  The sleek, dark male is in excellent condition.

  The sleek, dark male is using:

  <worn around neck>       a tortoiseshell gorget

  <worn across back>       a rough canvas backpack

  <worn on arms>           a pair of gith-toothed armguards

  <worn on hands>          a pair of shell-backed gloves

  <secondary hand>         a curved agafari shield

  <worn around body>       a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak

  <worn on legs>           a pair of rough canvas pants

  <worn on feet>           a pair of grey hide boots

   

   You think:

       "Mm... welcome to the Tooth."

  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

  Lowering her hand, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets it drape over the instrument at her side, attention falling to an, oh, so interesting spot on the floor.

  The sleek, dark male stops holding his curved agafari shield.

  You feel that you just want to be... inconspicuous.

  The sleek, dark male swats at the spinning treasure of the vineyard a few more times building up speed to its rotations.

  Save for the gloved hand that twists, periodically, through a few thin strands of hair, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the floor, motionless.

  Shifting his narrow eyes for just a split-second, the sleek, dark male looks up at a human Tuluki soldier.

  You begin watching the sleek, dark male.

  At a black silk pillow, you overhear the sleek, dark male say in sirihish, murmuring:

       "... ah... and now?"

  (hemote) A garish red-violet bruise mars the skin beneath the ethereal, fair-haired woman's left jaw.

  Grinning and leaning his head back to consider you upside down and his black hair streaming over the end of the pillow, the sleek, dark male looks down at you.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks an emotionless smile, only a hint of wryness to it.

  Even inverted so, the sleek, dark male manages a pretty respectable tip of his sharp chin in pleasant acknowledgement to you before his spinning bottle requires a few more swats.

  Stirring, recollecting herself and her surroundings, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her attention to watch over the room from her quieter corner with nary a blink in the sleek, dark male's direction.

  You think:

       "... I do wonder what he's doing, however."

  In a pleasant sing-song, the sleek, dark male says, in sirihish:

       "Purple Cross amidst rubies strewn.... tinkling bard's bells..."

  (hemote) Briefly, through periodic gaps in the crowded room, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the motion of the sleek, dark male's bottle on the floor.

  The sleek, dark male breaks off the end of a dark red bottle, leaving a dangerous looking piece.

  In that same pleasant sing-song, the sleek, dark male says, in sirihish:

       "... and so the exit must be soon."

  l self

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman is in excellent condition.

  <worn in hair>           a trailing glossy crimson ribbon

  <face>                   a black rose tattoo

  <worn in right ear>      a coiling, emerald-adorned ivory ear cuff

  <worn around neck>       a necklace of glass bells

  <throat>                 a purple cross tattoo

  <worn across back>       a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel

  <worn on hands>          a pair of long, ruby-adorned ebony gloves

  <worn around body>       an ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat

  <worn on legs>           a flowing white linen skirt

  <worn on feet>           a pair of soft, ruby-buckled boots

   

  Features serene, untroubled, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches a nearby table, head leaning into her arm.

  Rolling over to his side, the sleek, dark male tucks away the remaining fragment within on outer pocket.

  You think:

       "Finally... seclusion..."

  (hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck melts away.

  Continuing his roll to end up boots beneath himself, the sleek, dark male stands up from a black silk pillow.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman rubs idly at her neck with one hand, a quirk of a content smile flitting across her features.

  You think:

       "No Morn... no Peli... How did I ever become so lucky in this?"

  You think:

       "Not even a Lindrick.  My."

  Stalking the long-way about the circular perimeter, the sleek, dark male makes a point of passing before your couch.

  (hemote) Periodically, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her attention travel over the crowds and the sleek, dark male nearest her, attentive if untroubled.

  With a flick of a glance up to him, you look up at the sleek, dark male.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman draws her legs closer to the couch, crossing them beneath your flowing white linen skirt.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand stills against your creamy white, leather instrument case, tensing.

  Pausing, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "No... no.  Your manners are marvelous.  But misplaced."

  With a long pause, pale eyes mirthless while she looks up at him, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "... Perhaps I should place them elsewhere, then."

  You think:

       "... So much for my peace."

  You feel that there's a reason that you never come here.

  His baritone gentled and polite, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "I was passing to find the source of the mint.  Not, Circle Bard, to inconvenience you.  Your graciousness, I am sure, will find a more worthy recipient."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's body stiffens, jaw working to one side.

  Somebody brushes past you.

  With a brief dip of her chin, attention travelling down to his side, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "... I'm sure."

  After a single, obviously manufactured-for-effect step away before turning back to a plush, embroidered couch, the sleek, dark male exclaims to you, in sirihish:

       "Oh!"

  You think:

       "He wouldn't try anything.  Not here."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman jumps, starting, at the sudden shattering of glass.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances back up to the sleek, dark male, features impassive, only mildly at best curious.

  The sleek, dark male asks you, in sirihish:

       "COULD I ask for some guidance?"

  With that still impassive look, voice coming on a quiet breath, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "I suppose that is up to you."

  You feel that he's got you jittery.

  (hemote) Sardonic humor flashes across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes.

  Inclining the nod, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "May I ask -you- for guidance, then.  To be more correct."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's mouth twists, sardonic humor lingering alongside consternation.

  Linking gloved hands around one knee while she looks up to him, tone patient, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "You may, though I doubt I'm of use to you."

  The sleek, dark male gets his whitened bone key from his desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes follow the movement of the sleek, dark male's hands with practiced indifference.

  Your mood is now frustrated.

  Producing and passing over his whitened bone key, careful to hold a polite distance, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "It is use to His City that interests me, today."

  The sleek, dark male gives you his whitened bone key.

  Lifting a gloved hand and retracting it as easily with the key, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

      "... With a lock to open?"

  More to herself, looking at the key, you say, in sirihish:

       "How novel."

   

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "Worth anyone's attention, do you imagine?  A key to an annoying stronghold outside the Scaien Walls."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips part, a soft breath escaping them...

   

  Turning the key in her hand before glancing to his shoulder, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "An interesting find.  I can keep it for the appropriate hands."

   

  (hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck, so recently gone from her posture, sinks into her slender shoulders beneath your ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat.

   

  You notice the sleek, dark male start watching you.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.

   

  You think:

       "He knows who I am..."

   

  You feel frustrated.

   

  You think:

       "... All I wanted was peace.  A bit of seclusion.  And a Krath-accursed -elf- finds me here!"

  His empty hand still slightly before his body, the sleek, dark male asks you, in sirihish:

       "And that, then is what becomes of my great find?"

   

  With a mild lift of her forehead, while her pale eyes travel up his hand to his face without hurry, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "... You had another plan in mind in giving it to me?"

   

  A male whore disappears into a crowd of rugged looking men and women.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck has to crane back at an uncomfortable angle to look up at the sleek, dark male.

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "I did.  I thought to gain understanding.  Not lose property, Circle Bard."

  With a slender curve of her warmthless smile, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "But this property can have no value to you if kept.  My favor is better earned."

  Smoothly, adding a velvet chuckle at the end, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

      "But, then... I suppose I will gain some understanding either way. "

  You think:

       "This... is... simply ghastly."

  You feel that elves are the great joke played upon the Known World.  Only slightly after tregils.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's smile doesn't reach her pale eyes, which watch over the sleek, dark male with attentive calm.

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "You are wrong on at least one of those two statements you just made."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's thumb grazes the contours of the key.

  You notice: The sleek, dark male resets his trim shoulders with a slight roll, recentering his balanced posture.

  You notice: The sleek, dark male exhales slowly a moment.

  With a still-patient, strained smile, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "... It has been known to happen from time to time."

  You notice: The slightest twitch at the corners of the sleek, dark male's mouth hints that last statement tickled him.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's posture tenses, pale eyes narrowing with caution.

  You think:

       "I can't so easily let this go."

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "A gift.  A well-placed gift, where it really does have a better chance of doing the most good."

  You think:

       "You aren't His Legions, Aja.  Don't get yourself killed."

  Gracious and oily in about equal measures, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "So be it."

  With a slight tilt of her head, pale eyes never truly leaving him, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "I'll see it delivered, then.  But with whose compliments?"

  (hemote) Though tension remains throughout her neck and shoulders, the ethereal, fair-haired woman relaxes marginally back into the couch, no longer ready to spring.

  A male whore disappears into a crowd of rugged looking men and women.

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "We'll both trust your wisdom, there.  To explain the why, the how and who.  I really -have- overextended any reasonable expectation of tolerance."

  With a fleeting, faint twist of her smile up to him, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "Yes, by all means.  Do enjoy your recovery."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman narrows her eyes, dryly and sardonically amused.

  Twisting up another well-practiced, inoffensive smile, the sleek, dark male backs two steps further away from a plush, embroidered couch, before turning to continue his path around the perimeter.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances away from the sleek, dark male, attention falling to the key and then elsewhere in the room.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, wryly, irritably.

  You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.

  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:

       "My pardon, High Templar.  Is there an opportunity to meet with you but for a minute at most?  I may have something that belongs to you."

  Reaching his hands up to grip the fabric of his cloak, and gaining a decidedly jaunty step upon exiting the den, the sleek, dark male walks west.

  You are Aja, of many people.

  Objective: To persuade Muk to give her a child.

  You are 36 years, 2 months, and 29 days old,

   

  "The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den [NESW Quit]

     A haze of sweet-smelling spice dominates this circular chamber, tantalizing your senses with its...

  
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