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  Memoir #15 - The Tan Muarki (Zharal) by Rairen
  Added on Dec 29, 2009

  An escaped slave and the gypsy who escorted her home speculate on the best way to spend one's free time.

  ---

  It is late afternoon on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Low Sun,

  In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.

   

   

   

   

   

  Atop Lucky Ghaati, Overlooking Poet's Circle [D]

     The adobe roof of the teahouse furnishes a surface here for several small tables and benches in a rooftop garden that overlooks the main sweep of Poet's Circle to the north.  Halved wine barrels have been planted with crimson-flowering cacti.  The edge of the roof is surrounded by white tiled, raised half-walls.  On the street below, crowds swirl and eddy, making their way along the Circle's concourse. 

   

   

   

   

   

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, in her bemused, crystal-like voice:

   

       "And I've rarely had so pleasant a trip.  I'm also pleased to see that I have at least one type of tea left for you to try before you weary of my company."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, chuckling shortly:

   

       "Try me."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you:

   

       "There's plenty I'm curious about, and plenty I could ask of you."

   

  You notice: The short, dusky woman's eyes narrow in a brief wince.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, mock-sobriety falling over her features:

   

       "I've charmed you for... hm, three meetings now, but you'll soon see through my idle chattering.  We've talked of mutual interests, of tea... Will there be enough to last through another serving, though?"

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, levity warming her tone:

   

       " I'm uncertain... and therefore must insist to share your next with you, at your leisure, to discern the truth."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes study the short, dusky woman's features with accustomed calm and a brief flicker of curiosity.

   

  You notice: The short, dusky woman's expression remains distantly distracted, though she glances from time to time at you.

   

  Features serene, you sip from your small wooden cup.

   

  This tea smells and tastes strongly of fragrant mint.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down over the Circle as she drinks from your small wooden cup, contentment settling into her posture as she rests and elbow on the back of her chair.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes kindly occupy themselves away from the short, dusky woman, untroubled.

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, re-focusing on you:

   

       "Well, I'm a dull girl. Not much to me. So I rely on others to provide me witty banter and stories to tell."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a relaxed half-smile as she pulls her attention back to the short, dusky woman:

   

       "Oh?  Mm, then we have a problem.  I'm a better listener than conversationalist, by half, I think, and witless to be sure, unless I can steal it from another."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, with a thoughtful expression:

   

       "Then I'm forced to wonder where all these words are coming from."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a slight gesture of your small wooden cup in the short, dusky woman's direction:

   

       "It is a mystery, to be sure.  I'd blamed a gypsy's talents, but it seems she denies them."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you:

   

       "Perhaps we've caught each other stealing wit and fencing it off?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, waggling a finger, then plucking up a wooden cup to take a measured sip:

   

       "I knew there was something about you I hadn't quite uncovered."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, the corner of her mouth lifting:

   

       "If so, I swear not to tell your secret.  What a peculiar circumstance it is, then, when two dull, spiritless sort meet for tea and cause such... amusement."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes sparkle with mirth as she drinks her tea.

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, taking in a long breath and letting it out in a sober sigh:

   

       "A mystery. Mmm, now that's something else I enjoy."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a soft, reluctant sigh of her own:

   

       "... I have so few secrets, and you'd seek to tear them all from me.  Cruel, cruel woman."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, glancing out toward the circle:

   

       "Cruel? I prefer 'curious'. As I've so recently stated, a mystery is irresistible to a dull girl like me. It fills my empty head with intrigue."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, head canting to one side as she studies the short, dusky woman:

   

       "Hm.  And if a secret enthralls you so, it could only mean a greater presence in the Ivory if we can provide them - which means I may have to devise some, true or otherwise."

   

  Out in the Circle, the sinewy, bald-headed man walks east.

   

   

   

  You think:

   

       "... The sun about shines off his head, doesn't it?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:

   

       "I was always good at putting puzzles together. Finding the pieces that fit, watching the picture slowly take shape... an enjoyable diversion."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur as she savors her tea:

   

       "Mm.  Puzzles.  I think we share a common interest there.  I find with most others that they lack the... hm, patience for such a pursuit.  Does it trouble you?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, her attention lingering, still, on the busy circle:

   

       "Sometimes I lose patience, or find that the picture isn't to my liking."

   

  (hemote) Brief and, oh, so sardonic amusement flits across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes as she speaks, gaze distant a moment.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, crystalline voice serene as she takes up studying the Circle as well:

   

       "That happens to the best of us.  We can't be faulted for the picture's deficiencies.  What do you find makes for the most entertaining puzzle?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, pensively:

   

       "I've always enjoyed portraits. What about you?"

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a thoughtful frown:

   

       "As have I, to be honest, though broader landscapes have their appeal, too."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, wavering a hand side to side:

   

       "Those are usually the most complicated and frustrating. I often find that many pieces have gone missing."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, gaze falling to the short, dusky woman's hand:

   

       "I enjoy the game of finding the missing ones, I think.  It becomes a puzzle within a puzzle."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:

   

       "That said; the harder the challenge, the sweeter the taste of success."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with an approving smile as she dips her cup in the short, dusky woman's direction:

   

       "Precisely."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman sips from your small wooden cup.

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, at length, staring off at the horizon:

   

       "Sometimes a simple, dull-witted girl tires of puzzles."

   

  Glancing into it before laying it to the side, you discard your small wooden cup.

   

  You think:

   

       "But where is one of those here?"

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you, during a pause between two gulps from her teacup:

   

       "Too much of a good thing."

   

  The short, dusky woman drinks fruit tea from her small wooden cup.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, in her soft, crystal-like voice:

   

       "As a fellow simple, dull-witted girl, I can agree.  I've missed them, though, when I haven't... had access to them."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, lifting an assuring hand:

   

       "That said, I often find that I have too many puzzles to sort through, or too few.  A... pleasant balance would be more desirable."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, with a brief, leisurely grin:

   

       "There's the trick of it, isn't it? I admire those who have a neatly organized puzzle collection. I suspect it's a rare circumstance."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with an equally relaxed smile:

   

       "Impostors, all of them.  I can't see it as possible."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, a lazy jadedness in her voice:

   

       "Sometimes, I get the urge to just throw them all away and find some other past-time, like.. oh, needle-work."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes flash with cautious irony as she looks at the short, dusky woman.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, mouth quirking:

   

       "Mm, an honored pasttime.  I've never had the skill for it.  My sister was better gifted."

   

  You notice: Weary cynicism mixes with amusement while the short, dusky woman regards you.

   

  The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.

   

  (hemtoe) The ethereal, fair-haired woman meets the short, dusky woman's eyes with a slight nod before looking over to the sunset.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the sunset, her smile easing with quiet contentment.

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, agreeably, relaxed in her chair while she takes in the fading sky:

   

       "It takes dedication and a deft hand."

   

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, sitting up, straighter:

   

       "On that note, we've seen a sunrise, and we've seen a sunset. Nearly full-circle, and I'd better see my bedroll between now and the complete turn."

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a quiet smile as she looks back to the short, dusky woman:

   

       "You took the words from my mouth, as sad as they are to me."

   

  To you, tilting her chin up, the short, dusky woman asks, in sirihish:

   

       "We wouldn't want the quality of our company to suffer. 'Til next?"

   

  With a respectful nod to her, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

   

       "Until next.  I'll pass on your gifts and send you word of them, if we don't meet before then."

   

  Unhurriedly, the short, dusky woman stands up from a small wooden table.

   

  Flashing a smile as she walks for the stairs, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

   

       "His Light guard you, gypsy."

   

  Following, the short, dusky woman says to you, in sirihish:

   

       "Good fortunes to you and yours."

   

   

   

   

  It is late afternoon on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Low Sun,

  In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.

   

   

   

   

   

  Atop Lucky Ghaati, Overlooking Poet's Circle [D]

     The adobe roof of the teahouse furnishes a surface here for several small tables...

  
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