» On A Mission, ISO: Morgisil

[Sofi]

Putting it off could not last forever.

With a look of resignation on her face, Sofi finally pried herself from her chair and with the sigh of the horribly put-upon, skipped down the stairs and into the tavern foyer. Business was booming as usual, serving girls and bus-girls and blonde-haired call-girls skittering to and fro in an effort to serve all their clientele at once. Delorian was behind the bar, deeply engrossed in a bottle of whiskey, as a frustrated bus-girl tried to do his job for him. He had a solid two and a half hours till the end of his shift, but he was acting for all the world as if it had already ended.

“Wake up, Delorian,” Sofi called to her boss, rapping on the bar’s polished surface, “I’m out. If I don’t get back before then, lock the door when you close up for the night.” Of the nine burglaries that had struck the Sylvan in the past eighteen months, Sofi was proud to say, they had all been under Delorian's watch. Nonetheless, she wasn't about to let any more moonlighters empty the Sylvan's hard-earned coffers. With a faintly threatening gesture, Sofi pushed open the tavern door to make her way to the Daylight District.

It was odd, Sofi mused, how very much the Black Mass district felt like home. Earlier, when she'd taken her first steps under the blanket of darkness, it had seemed an oppressive, sickening place that reeked of gutter filth and death. Now, however, it seemed as though the place had changed -- or maybe she had changed. Darkness and the warm scent of corruption made the district close and... strangely familiar. It made her think, very briefly, of the multicolored, neon-lit streets of nighttime New York, and the heady decadence of her twenty-first century lifetime.

She pushed the thought from her head as swiftly as it appeared. If there was one thing she’d learned during the eighteen months in the October Country, it was that past lives were best left forgotten.

When Sofi crossed the divide between the Twilight and Daylight districts, she squinted against the sudden change in lighting. After hours in the dim lantern light of the Sylvan, the sudden burst of sunlight singed her retinas like an open hearth. She'd forgotten how powerful the sun could be, and quickly tugged down the hood of her cloak to shade her eyes from its rays. She wanted nothing so much as turn tail and break for the dark familiarity of the Black Mass district, but she had business to take care of.

Sofi's errand was a simple one: she needed employees. The Sylvan had grown significantly in the past eighteen months, due in no small part to her intervention, and business was bustling. Despite this, though, the Sylvan staff was overworked and underpaid, and Sofi figured it was high time she found herself some help. Delorian rarely pulled his weight behind the bar anymore, pleading senescence ("I'm almost two hundred years old!" he'd complained; and to that Sofi had countered, "But you look younger than I do!"). Sofi snorted; the man was one giant, walking excuse. And a lazy one at that, she thought, bitterly.

Well, she wouldn't make the mistake of picking up another Delorian Carter off the streets of the Daylight District. No, what Sofi needed was someone tall, dark, handsome -- all the things that Delorian was decidedly not. What she needed, simply put, was a hottie. Besides, she was getting tired of the Sylvan's painfully uneducated bus-girls, women who Delorian had hired solely, Sofi suspected, for their impressive feminine endowments. Well, it was high time the Sylvan started attracting more respectable clientele. And to accomplish that, Sofi needed a man. And not just any unshaven lowbrow -- she needed someone sophisticated, educated. She needed someone that was, well, like her.

Sofi threw a preliminary glance about the bright midday commons. Did such a creature exist?

This post has been edited by Sofi on Mar 3 2008, 01:45 PM

[Morsigil]

“Diamond dust… crystal vial… boar’s blood? Now where do they expect me to get boar’s blood?” There were very few people who could walk in the Midday Commons without looking and without hitting anyone. Morsigil was not one of these people, in the time he had entered the common area with his nose buried in a musty sort of book full of complex symbols and scrawling letters that seemed to crawl and move across the page even as the elf’s green eyes followed the patterns. Whatever the spell was, it must have been complicated, anything that required blood as a component was a difficult spell to formulate properly, half of them ended with a bang, if one can excuse the humor.

The elf was not tall, nor was he dressed particularly well. With only two days left in his stay in the city (More than a week and his guard and librarian were known to forcibly remove him, often with ropes) the Doyen had decided he needed to procure some new spells. For the most part is was a Geas he was interested in, but lacking the ability to find one he had come across a spell nearly as interesting. Trapping a spirit, he couldn’t imagine where he would use it or how he would use it, but by the gods it was fun to have around.

The elf achieved a level of obscurity in his garb, his dark hair was tied back over his ears, hiding the swept points, and he had managed to find the least peculiar of his clothing, simple human garb he used when he happened to be attempting something dangerous. For as messy and ruined as his robes usually were they were almost always saved from spills of mixing acids and accidental fires thanks to the plain woolen pants and shirt. He even had on boots today, worn and rough. Even the rough clothing didn’t manage to hide his fair countenance, his green eyes flickered up every once in a while to apologize to those he accidentally bumped against, his nearly white skin seemed to reflect the light around him, giving him something of a glow. His long fingers clasped the book and a bulky gold ring on his right hand caught the light every once in a while.

“Boar’s blood…” He muttered it again, flicking through the pages of the book to see if the ingredient was an absolute necessity. No doubt about it, how odd, “Salt, earth, and blood… the fatal grace…” He whispered, trying to remember how the components functioned as a cohesive whole in a fatal spell, and then working the knowledge over to a spell that was non-fatal. No salt or earth, but the blood was disturbing, it made one wonder precisely what became of the spirit when it was trapped. Nothing good, still, he liked the spell, it was always nice to know things like that.

Of course, it was also good to know what was going on in front of you in a busy market-place. This was one thing Morsigil was unaware of; resulting in his running smack into what he could only assume was a woman. As soon as he was aware of the collision, which took nearly a second to work its way past the thousand other things on his mind, he snapped the book shut and looked up with apology covering his face, “Oh godsbedamned, I’m terribly sorry! Are you alright?” He didn’t know if he had smacked her with the book, or struck her on accident or what, but he felt awful about it.

[Sofi]

I mean, I know that good men are hard to come by -- just take a look at Delorian for godsakes -- but you'd think there'd be someone worth a half-pence--

Oof. Sofi nearly had the wind knocked out of her by what she could only assume was a brick wall with legs. She wheeled indignantly, blurting some expletive that's best left unrepeated. Watch where you're going, you miserable sack of-- Then she realized that the brick wall was about twenty inches shorter and thinner and Sofi, for the second time in less than a minute, stopped herself in mid-thought.

“Oh godsbedamned, I’m terribly sorry! Are you alright?”

Sofi was too busy appraising the stranger to pay much attention to what he was saying. He wasn't terribly tall, but he had the dark and handsome bit to a point of perfection. From the looks of his accouterments, he wasn't anything special -- a merchant's son, perhaps, maybe even a day laborer, though he was too pale to be working the fields. He certainly stood out as an item of interest, and Sofi, for her part, was sure she'd have noticed him even if he hadn't bulldozed straight into her.

Luckily, though, he had, and that was as good a reason as any to strike up a conversation. Under ordinary circumstances, she'd have boiled in abject fury, maybe even launched into a threatening tirade, making vaguely threatening gestures and scaring the poor sap away before he could so much as blurt out an apology. But these were extraordinary circumstances, and Sofi managed to overcome her annoyance just enough to see the value in making nice with the man. He would, she thought, would make an excellent addition to her regular staff. If she could get him to stay and chat awhile.

Sofi paused in her shrewd appraisal and glanced at the stranger’s face. The long dark hair was a little effeminate for Sofi’s tastes, but there were plenty of girls who were into that sort of thing. “It’s no problem,” she said dismissively, as if the entire matter were beneath her concern. It was a hard thing to do, to smooth the rough edges out of her irritation, but sometimes necessary. The man looked quite distraught over his misstep, so she tried for a smile, long-practiced habit pulling her face into a convincing facsimile. “Really.” Her eyes glittered darkly, and it seemed to be through charm or friendly cheer.

Sofi peered at the book responsible for Morgisil's inattention. She couldn't make out the title, but it was large and dusty and when she stood on her toes she could jut make out a jumble of unfamiliar symbols. She wasn't surprised; half the languages in the October Country were inexplicable to her twenty-first century mentality. It seemed every day she’d stumble across a new and more deviously indecipherable tongue, and she’d learned to accept that as one of the many eccentricities of this alien world. “Interesting book you have there. I can understand why you’d be too engrossed to watch where you’re going.” There was a bite to her words, she knew, but even Sofi Sanguszko wasn’t perfect. “What is it?”

[Morsigil]

Morsigil tucked the book under his arm and gave the woman a quick once-over to make sure she was alright. She was certainly very tall, how embarrassing. Every time he came to the human city he felt depressingly short, maybe when he got back to Aether City he’d feel better, he was tall there. Regardless of his height situation she seemed quite fine, maybe even a little annoyed. Well, if annoyance was the only injury he had caused he could be quite pleased and perhaps on his way, someone in this marketplace had to sell boar’s blood, after all.

She gave him one of the most frightening smiles of his adult life, the sort of smile one shoved on when they wanted something. Though he didn’t take a step back he did shift his weight back almost imperceptibly, recoiling just a little bit from this frightful woman. Some men wouldn’t imagine that women could be a threat, but Morsigil had never entertained such a notion in his life. In his childhood it had been his mother, the knight, who had administered his training and she had always been quite adamant that he take every threat seriously. Morsigil was a little bit afraid of women, especially women with sharks' smiles.

He smiled back all the same, just in case she might be considering eating him. It never hurt to be polite to frightening women; even with all of the magic and fighting skills in the world such women could be deadly. Best just to smile and sneak out of their way. He wouldn’t be so lucky, it seemed, she asked about his book and before the elf could process his desire to avoid farther conversation with this woman his enjoyment of any sort of conversation took over. “This? Oh, Theory on Spiritual Caging, it’s a type of spell that can hypothetically catch a human’s spirit within a crystal vial. It’s a bit odd, though, it requires a lot for a simple trapping spell, blood and even salt in some cases, makes one wonder what happens to the spirit once it’s caged…” He trailed off, switching the book under his other arm and looking up as politely as he could. Alright, so he was a bit of a sucker for discussing hypothetical magic. It seemed as though any time magic or any such thing was mentioned he couldn’t help but participate in the conversation. It was a bad habit he needed to break. Regardless, he at least needed to attempt to break away from this conversation so after a moment he inclined his head very slightly.

“Again, I’m very sorry for running into you. It’s just a bit more crowded here than I’m used to.” He apologized once more, forced a slight smile on to his handsome face, and accidentally allowed chivalry to win out against intelligence. “Could I get you something to drink? Tea or wine or something? Just to make up for my bumping into you.”

[Sofi]

Morgisil's initial impression was spot-on: Sofi did want something from him. But she tried her damndest not to let it show as she indulged the man's digression. Human souls and crystal vials, blood and salt and spells and all that mystical mumbo-jumbo. She knew, of course, that magic was much realer in the October Country than it was in modern-day Manhattan (or modern-day anywhere, for that matter), but she'd never quite warmed up to the idea of it existing in any meaningful sense. Sure, she'd heard tales of wizards and witches and even one instance of a midget who could swallow a whole watermelon, but never had she witnessed any of these fantastical accounts for herself.

It briefly crossed Sofi's mind that this stranger, whoever he may be, was probably some sort of performer. He certainly looked the part, with his handsome features, interest in magic, and affable demeanor. That must be it, she decided. He's a street performer. Satisfied with her assessment, Sofi impatiently rushed an errant hair from her face, loosened from her ponytail by the impact. Well! -- If she couldn't lure a petty street performer into a conversation, then her name wasn't Sofi Anastasia Sanguszko.

“Again, I’m very sorry for running into you. It’s just a bit more crowded here than I’m used to.”

Sofi watched the stranger smile with vague approval. He had manners, which was more than could be said for many of Sofi's regular staff, even the women. Especially the women, Sofi amended, recalling one particular instance in which one of her bus-girls had spilled a fortune of whiskey all over her favorite black silk evening shirt. Afterwards, she'd threatened to fire the wretch if she didn't scrub the stain right out of the fabric. To this day, that blouse still smelled like stale alcohol. In any case, this stranger was at least apologetic for his clumsiness; perhaps he could teach that serving wench a thing or two about proper decorum. And he was certainly conversational, even if it was all mystical nonsense, so far as Sofi was concerned. Who knew? Maybe the Black Mass district had a vast untapped reservoir of magically-inclined clientele that were just waiting for the Sylvan to open its doors to them.

Sofi was getting ahead of herself. After all, she didn’t know the stranger’s name, let alone whether he was looking for work. Never mind whether he wanted the job or not; she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. Sofi could be very persuasive when it suited her.

She was surprised when the stranger offered to buy her a drink, but not unpleasantly so. Well, she thought, in a rare moment of positivism, saves me the hassle of having to treat him to a drink. I’m paying enough in salaries without wining and dining potential employees. Of course, the stranger had extended the offer as a courtesy, and probably expected her to graciously decline and mosey on her way. But Sofi was neither gracious, not courteous, so it should come as no surprise that she did not decline. "Tea would be great," she said, before Morgisil had the chanced to retract his offer, “You have a place in mind?”

This chance encounter was going rather smoothly, Sofi thought. She hadn’t even had to persuade him not to bolt at the sight of her.

This post has been edited by Sofi on Mar 4 2008, 04:40 PM

[Morsigil]

Morsigil chided himself for inviting this frightening woman anywhere, or offering to spend any more time with her than was entirely necessary. He would make it quick, get it done with, and run. Lucky for him the city was so big, it was almost impossible to run into the same person twice. Summoning all of the steel of someone who spent a fair bit of their youth running around battlefields with a sword in hand, he gave another smile and waved his free hand around absently. “Well, I don’t know the city terribly well, but there are usually little cafes set up around here.” He had pulled a little of his nobility around him like a cloak to ward off the chilly air about this woman, straightening out of the nearly slouching posture he had adopted earlier and gaining a few inches in imaginary height. Once he felt taller (Even if the straightening was only minute and hardly noticeable) he felt better, and casually extended his right hand, the heavy ring he wore glinting slightly in the sunlight.

“I think I must have passed something when I was walking… I seem to recall running into a chair…” And a table, and a few people, and a stack of something, but at this point who was counting? Morsigil only remembered things in the vaguest sense anyway, too caught up in the book, he couldn’t have waited a few minutes until he returned to the inn where his guard and his librarian slept, then he wouldn’t be in this mess at all, but he had never been able to hold off on a good book. The elf peered about for a moment and seemed to recall from which way he had come, tucking the book tighter under his arm and heading in the direction he came across a smallish collection of tables that formed one of the market’s many outdoor havens. Just a place to eat something in between shopping and selling, tucked away so as never to be found again by any who sought it.

It occurred to Morsigil that he had no earthly idea how much money he had, nor what sort it was. With his free hand he began searching his pocket, unused to the smaller pockets of these pants and wishing momentarily for the varied, deep pockets of his long robes. He finally managed to come across the little pouch filled with small metal coins and found it at half its usual weight. Considering it was filled with almost entirely gold, even half its weight was a significant amount of money. He might have been worried about being mugged had he any attachment to the money he kept. As it was, if he really needed more he could make it, or cause a simple illusion over a button to make it look like a coin. He didn’t like doing that, it was dishonest, but sometimes you just had to do something, even if you didn’t like it.

He pulled the hand from his pocket and indicated a nearby table, “This looks as good a place as any, I’m Morsigil, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you…”

[Sofi]

Sofi didn’t notice the heavy ring Morgisil wore on his right hand, but if she had, she might have had to rethink her strategy. The peasantry hadn’t the luxury of buying expensive jewelry, and street performers were no exception. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), she was too busy watching Morgisil’s expression to notice the ring. He’d straightened himself up a bit, Sofi noted, but the difference in height was negligible. Sofi always felt a twinge of pity for men who were shorter than she was; she could never quite bring herself to take them seriously.

“I think I must have passed something when I was walking… I seem to recall running into a chair…”

Sofi watched with barely-concealed amusement as Morgisil spelunked about in his pocket, wondering whether he had the currency to treat her to a drink. If he didn't, all the better: anyone without the dough to pay for a measly flask of mead must be hurting pretty badly for employment. Unfortunately, Sofi hadn't a chance to see whether he'd discovered any coin, because he removed an empty hand from his pocket and gestured toward a table that Sofi hadn't noticed through the throng.

“This looks as good a place as any, I’m Morsigil, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you...”

Sofi glanced at the table Morgisil indicated, trying to conceal her impatience. Morgisil was right in saying that it was as good a place as any -- despite her imperious nature, Sofi wasn’t a snob, and she could share a drink with a street performer if it meant earning herself a good employee. "Morgisil, eh?" Sofi repeated, the syllables skipping awkwardly off her tongue. Her Californian accent, combined with the New York brogue she'd picked up as a collegiate, meant that she could not pronounce half the names she came by in this backwards world. But she was used to being unable to pronounce words; as a Polish transfer student studying in the United States, she'd overcome her fair share of language barriers. Who named this guy, J.R.R. Tolkien? she thought ruefully. Why couldn't the denizens of the October Country pick nice, practical names, like Adrian or Joshua or Andrew?

Sofi did not recognize the name as that of the October Country's reigning Doyen, nor did she recognize his face; during her eighteen months in the realm, she'd spent as many in the Black Mass district, tending bar and exchanging gossip and making the occasional foray into the Midday Commons for the neccessary supplies. Her knowledge of the domain concerned matters of burlargies and crime lords and alcohol, not the affairs of elves.

Sofi was about to set off in the direction Morgisil had indicated when she realized that she hadn't introduced herself. "Well, I'm Sofi Sanguszko. Sofi, if you please," she said, offering a hand. She didn't know whether he'd recognize the gesture -- Delorian Carter, who hailed from the Julio-Claudian dynasty of ancient Rome, had never so much as heard of the custom of shaking hands -- but she was willing to take her chances. "You treating?"

((Oh, and... there was a sentence at the end of your first paragraph that made me think he might’ve already tried to shake hands, but I wasn’t sure, so... if he did, just ignore the last few sentences ^^;; ))

This post has been edited by Sofi on Mar 5 2008, 06:04 PM

[Morsigil]

Morsigil stared at her hand for a moment, vaguely familiar with the human tradition from dealings at the Russian palace. Sure, the first time he’d had a hand offered to him he hadn’t been quite certain what to do with it, but about two centuries later he was almost positive he had a good grasp on the situation. He shook it once, feeling rather foolishly proud of himself for achieving something as simple as a handshake. Sometimes one just had to take the small victories and leave it at that. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sanguszko.” Well, maybe it wasn’t, but a white lie never hurt anyone, at least not badly. Drawing the heavy book from under his other arm and setting it on the table before drawing the chair on the other side of the table out slightly. He was polite after all, in a forgetful sort of way, and he sat on the other side of the table and toyed with the corners of the book, flipping the cover up a half an inch and letting it fall back down again.

He wasn’t entirely sure where the name was from, though he’d hazard a guess of somewhere to the east and north of where he’d lived as a child. The way human languages could change depending on where one looked. Here it was more evident than anywhere else, look around and performers sang in their native language, whispered secrets so no one would understand, or shouted curses. Even the common language of the Country didn’t do well to hide the dissimilarities, the names still spoke of different nations and the clothing was never quite the same in any one place.

He smiled brightly when she asked if he was treating, “Of course. It’s the least I can do.” He didn’t plan on ordering anything, along with the odd enjoyment humans took from eating meat they made things like tea in the oddest sorts of ways, adding the most unusual things to it. As a matter of etiquette he ate at the palace, but not very often outside, humans had weird habits he wasn’t terribly fond of, not to mention the ones he met didn’t bathe half as often as one should. Weird views on washing, very weird.

The elf leaned back in his chair, brushing a stray dark hair from his face while he watched a nearby street performer. Someone breathing fire into the bright sky while the onlookers gasped and applauded, Morsigil had never quite figured out how they did it, something about oil he’d never really grasped. All the same, it was an impressive bit of illusion, he fancied he’d be able to do it using straight magic but somehow it wasn’t the same. The ability to do something so remarkable without spells was more impressive than simple magic, humans had the uncanny talent for imitating magic without understanding the first thing about it.

Realizing that his not paying any attention to this woman, Sofi, was quite impolite, among other things, Morsigil made a stab at conversation. “The street performers here are really remarkable, I’ve always wondered how they managed to do that…” He waved his ringed hand to indicate the street performer. It was better than nothing, though not a particularly good start.

[Sofi]

Fortunately for Morgisil, Sofi was exceptionally forward-thinking when it came to personal hygiene. Even in life, she'd been obsessively well-groomed, and after her death she’d carried the habit into the October Country. Despite the filthy squalor of the Black Mass district, she'd remained a paragon of cleanliness: her pale complexion was free of blemishes, save for a faint smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her clothes were neat, trim, and emphasized the narrowness of her waist and neck. She pulled down her hood, and her long dark hair was twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck, smooth and burnished by the sunlight into a rich rust-red. She wasn't beautiful in the typical sense of the word, lacking the luxurious dark lashes or the red rouged lips of her mother -- plus her features were stronger and more assertive, without a trace of feminine softness -- but she certianly wasn't ugly. Handsome, is the word. A handsome young woman.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sanguszko.”

Sofi watched Morgisil fiddle with his book with mounting amusement. Though the nervous habit could have been just that -- an unconscious gesture, without meaning -- she couldn't help but wonder whether he might be nervous. It wouldn't be first the first time she'd frightened a stranger into meekness, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Sofi had that effect on people. She endeavored to make the man feel more at ease, smiling in a way that she hoped was reassuring, and slid into the seat opposite the Doyen. She clasped her hands in the table in front of her and leaned forward, trying to catch Morgisil's words over the din:

“Of course. It’s the least I can do.”

This man, Sofi thought, was too polite. He was throwback from another era, an age of knights and chivalry and honor and all that romantic nonsense. Sofi, ever the practicalist, had never put much stock in good manners -- unless, of course, they could be put to some higher purpose. In this case, that purpose involved getting herself a handsome new employee, so she could endure being polite... for the moment. “The street performers here are really remarkable, he said after a moment, I’ve always wondered how they managed to do that...”

Sofi's eyes followed Morgisil's gesture to the nearby performer, her thin eyebrows making an imperceptible little leap up her forhead. It was obvious to her, of course, how the trick was accomplished: a little oil, an open flame, and the spitting prowess of an angry llama and you could achieve the most spectacular performances. "Oh, surely someone who can trap a soul in a vial could accomplish a parlor trick like breathing fire," she mocked lightly, indicating Morgisil's book with a jerk of her chin, "Hell, you might even find a chapter on it in your little grimoire there."

When a grizzled old waiting-woman wheeled by to take their order, Sofi gave her less than a cursory glance. "Ah, yes, a tea for me," she said curtly. Light fare for such a blistering hot day, but she didn't want to empty Morgisil's coffers to the dregs: if there was one thing that could be said of Sofi, she was miserly to a fault. She looked at Morgisil expectantly, waiting for him to place his order. “You know, if you ordered some mead I could show you exactly how the trick is done. Our performing friend might accuse you of stealing his act if you tried it here, but the Black Mass district is always hurting for a good street show.”

It was her attempt to segue into her offer, and she thought it a rather good one.

[Morsigil]

Morsigil’s eyebrows nearly shot to his hair-line before he laughed brightly, suddenly aware of his playing with the book. He removed his hand, settling for fiddling with his heavy ring. Morsigil had had the ring since the elves had first entered the October Country, it was the signet ring he had received from the Nemesis. Not that anyone would be able to tell, he had enough enchantments on that ring to make it appear only as a plain, heavy gold thing, unadorned and unattractive. He spun it around with his thumb, “You think I could, really? I haven’t got the talent for that, magic is one thing, but acting is quite another. I can’t act to save my life.”

He frowned slightly when she mentioned he might find something about it in his book, she had a most unusual view of magic and of magic books. Spells weren’t mixed up in books, not often at least, especially in books like this with a specialized purpose. It wouldn’t be any use explaining it to her, though, so he didn’t bother, just brushed away the comment and looked up to the serving woman with a smile, “Nothing for me, thank you.” One couldn’t pay him to eat here, not by a long shot, he didn’t trust the food by a long shot and he didn’t feel much better about the drink. Give him a clear stream any day, but human tea and mead was quite another thing. “But I think this will pay for everything…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the first coin he came across, a thick silver piece which he handed over without much noticing. He didn’t pay much attention to money, and whether it had been gold or silver he couldn’t have cared less.

The elf laughed again, shaking his head at the thought, “No, no, I think my librarian would have my head if he found me entertaining in the Black Mass district. He couldn’t stand the embarrassment.” The very thought, of him, dressed in his usual robes breathing fire for a gaggling bunch of humans nearly sent him into hysterics, as it was he swallowed back the majority of his laughter and simply chuckled. Talagand already had fits when he found out the Doyen had been wandering around the Black Mass District. The elf didn’t seem to think Morsigil knew how to take care of himself, and was only alive to this day thanks to an exceptional talent for keeping humans from killing him. It wasn’t just good luck, he was an exceptional fighter and enchanter. No one seemed to remember that.

“Why? Do you work in the District? You’ll forgive me for saying but you don’t seem the type to be around there.” He smiled, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his bounds. It was always the risk with humans, they had the most unusual and ever-changing rules of etiquette.

[Sofi]

As Morgisil courteously turned down the serving-maid's offer, Sofi honed in on the ring. It was a simple piece, crafted from beaten gold and completely unadorned. Nonetheless, it made her wonder whether she wanted to reconsider her initial assessment. So far as she knew, street performers could scarcely afford food and lodging, let alone the luxury of adornment.

“No, no, I think my librarian would have my head if he found me entertaining in the Black Mass district. He couldn’t stand the embarrassment.”

All right, Sofi conceded, so this guy isn't a street performer. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't pin him down: he was much too polite to be a crude day laborer, too clean to be of the peasantry. And he'd mentioned a librarian. So far as Sofi knew, the lower classes hadn't the time for books; the only men afforded that frivolity were the upper classes. Yet this peculiar stranger, with his peasant's garb and leather boots, was hardly the stuff of the noble class. Even a domestic servant would be clothed in finery befitting his master's status, and unless Morgisil's master was a penniless lordling, he most certainly wasn't a civil servant.

Morgisil continued, oblivious to her internal monologue: “Why? Do you work in the District? You’ll forgive me for saying but you don’t seem the type to be around there.”

Sofi took that as a compliment, and for a moment her smile reached her dark eyes. She'd been drawn to the nighttime district from the moment she'd set foot in this land, in spite of warnings to avoid it at all costs. It seemed she'd been a denizen of the Black Mass district before she'd even known the place existed. New York city wasn't all that different, really, with its surfeit of bars and drink and women of the night. In life, Sofi had made sure to steer clear of that part of the city, but now she was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Without the threat of death hanging like a sword of Damocles over her head, it was much easier to take the risk.

Sofi spent a moment staving off the familiar pangs of homesickness. What she wouldn't give to be alive again. "Nor do you," she demurred, watching the serving-wench disappear into the throng. She swallowed, hard, then again looked at Morgisil. "Yes, I do. Work in the District, that is. At the Sylvan. You might have heard of it,” she said laconically, not pausing to find out whether he had, “It’s a solid establishment, despite what you may have heard. Small, but solid.” She paused, reflectively. “We’ve been trying to expand these past months, but it’s not easy finding good employees. All the honest ones seem to stay here in the Daylight district. Don’t know why,” she shrugged, “We have better booze.”

This post has been edited by Sofi on Mar 6 2008, 02:46 PM

[Morsigil]

The elf grinned brightly when she mentioned he wouldn’t be there either. Certainly, he avoided it when he was in town as a general rule, but that didn’t mean he never went there. Why, just a few days ago he had been sitting in a bar speaking with a vampire, a vampire for gods’ sakes. Why, when he’d mentioned it to Talagand the younger elf had nearly dragged him from the city on the spot, quite certain Morsigil was getting himself into trouble that couldn’t easily be handled. No one trusted him, that was the problem, no one ever trusted that he knew what he was doing. “Sylvan? I’ve never heard of it, though the city isn’t usually my haunt. I really know very little except for a small sliver of space around the Polestar and the Asylum in the Black Mass district. Aside from that…” He trailed off, holding his hands up slightly as if in surrender. He wished he had the time to get to know this city, all of its little quirks and oddities, but of course it wasn’t meant to be, too much to do back in his own city, though what was to be done still eluded him.

“Really? Well, I can’t say I can help you, I know very few humans and fewer that I could recommend for work in a tavern.” He went back to toying with the corner of his book, looking up only when the serving girl came back carrying Sofi’s drink and his silver coin. The coin she held at arm’s length, as though it might bite her, still, it was held in a death grip. Almost as if she was frightened it would fall and be lost. “Ah’m sorry, sir, but yer coin is too much, we’ve not got nothing to break it with. Have ye got anything smaller?”

Morsigil looked a little annoyed, more at being bothered with such a trivial matter as money than at being interrupted. He reached into his pocket and dragged out the half-empty little pouch, pouring its contents onto the wood of the table and sorting through them. A wealth of little gold and silver circles poured out. Some had designs that looked elvish, others were decidedly human, there were a few that were completely unmarked, but from all that wealth of gold and silver there wasn’t a single thing smaller than what he had given her. The sunlight on the coins was hurting his eyes, he scooped them away and sighed, “I haven’t, just keep it. Tell whoever owns the place it’s to go into your pay, or something. I’ve no idea.” The woman stared at him for a long moment and then dashed away lest he change his mind, the coin clasped tightly in her palm. The elf watched her run away with only half interest and then turned back to Sofi.

“How did you come to work at the Sylvan? If you don’t mind my asking.” He asked, honestly curious about such a simple detail. Human lives were incredibly intriguing to him and whether he cared to admit it or not they were something he was truly fond of hearing about. Maybe it was the way they acted, or the great pains they took to achieve such grand plans in such short time-spans. He wanted to know, really, the tiny details of a person’s life, because it was often the tiny things that made the larger picture whole. Like threads in a tapestry, the picture was only completed through those thousands of little colored threads and not without.

[Sofi]

“Sylvan? I’ve never heard of it, though the city isn’t usually my haunt. I really know very little except for a small sliver of space around the Polestar and the Asylum in the Black Mass district. Aside from that...” There was a lull in the conversation, and Morgisil continued: “Really? Well, I can’t say I can help you, I know very few humans and fewer that I could recommend for work in a tavern.”

Sofi may not have been a seasoned citizen of Zenith City, but she knew enough of the city layout to recognize the seat of power when she heard it. The fact that Morgisil should be familiar with the Polestar struck her as odd; but then, everything about this man was odd. Like the silver coin, for example. Sofi had noticed Morgisil remove the argent from his pocket to pay for her drink, but she'd been too engrossed it her own internal machinations to take much note of it. Now, its significance finally caught up to her. Either Morgisil’s patrons were some of the most generous tippers in the October Country, or he was not as common as she’d first presumed.

The sight of currency spilling like a fountain of gold and silver across the table wakened more than just curiosity, though: greed stirred like a sleeping kraken beneath a thin mask of bemusement. Sofi was too intent on the contents of Morgisil's pouch to pay much attention to the tea that she’d been served. Instead she listened to their exchange with keen interest, and by the time the waitress scuttled off with her boon, Sofi had made a shift in mindset.

She was now convinced that Morgisil was no commoner. Nor was he a pampered domestic servant -- if that were the case, he would have been wearing finery to match the wealth of his purse, or at the very least his master’s house insignia. No; there was only one explanation for a moneyed young man masquerading as a common serf: he must be a noble.

“I haven’t, just keep it. Tell whoever owns the place it’s to go into your pay, or something. I’ve no idea.”

Sofi couldn't help it: she was gawking. Her expression couldn't have been more bewildered had he leapt atop the rickety table and burst into a bawdy drinking ballad. Never mind the fact that this man was a walking bank note -- she hadn't seen so much gold come from a single person since she'd run down the Sylvan’s last thief and forced him to empty his pockets right there on the flagstones -- and never mind the fact that there were only golds and silvers in that pouch, and no bronzes. Never mind all that, because, well, he had given away all that money without so much as a bat of the eye. And that, Sofi knew, was inconceivable.

“How did you come to work at the Sylvan? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Sofi didn’t mind his asking, but she had other matters on her mind. Is he serious? she wondered. Did he honestly think he'd get away with a stunt like that without an interrogation? "Excuse me," she blurted incredulously, deliberately ignoring his question, "but you must think me crazy if you don't expect me to at least ask what in the gods' names you're doing with a lord's ransom in gold and silver in your back pocket."

She had the good sense to keep her voice low, so as not to attract the attention of nearby moonlighters. Even the brightness of Daylight District had its fair share of scoundrels.

This post has been edited by Sofi on Mar 8 2008, 01:50 PM

[Morsigil]

Morsigil’s face fell, dropped would have been a more accurate turn of phrase though. His cover was blown, it always happened, he needed to learn to be more careful with those sorts of things. He couldn’t help it though; money wasn’t a common thing in elven society, and using money in the city was something he wasn’t terribly experienced with. Maybe if it meant something to him he would care, but he had no interest in the little coins, that they seemed to make everyone else so happy was not an issue right then.

The elf took in a breath through his nose and brushed his dark hair behind his ears, swept back, pointed ears. “Well, that’s just the thing. I’m a lord, the lord, really, of all the elves.” He smiled, but it wasn’t quite the same endearing, goofy smile he had had earlier, it was a much more mature smile. He looked his age, if such a thing could be said for an elf, sure, he didn’t have wrinkles, and his hair wasn’t as grey as his hundreds of years would suggest, but in his simple peasant clothes he looked older and more powerful than he often did in his robes. “Doyen Morsigil Oraben Beindagor is what they call me, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself properly earlier…” Even his small smile disappeared, his hands on the table and the heavy gold ring twisting on his hand.

He looked deathly serious, his bright green eyes moved over her face in a blur, without leaving them out for more than a second or two he tucked is ears back under his hair, hiding them. Without much effort he looked a little more human, at least, he wasn’t obviously anything besides, but it was still easy to tell what he was by looking closely, the angles on his face were too sharp, his eyes were far too bright and deep. “I’d rather you didn’t mention this to anyone, please, it’s rather…Well, it’s not embarrassing, I couldn’t say that, but I don’t like having anyone knowing I walk around like this. My guards would be furious if they found out I was running about in human clothing.” He forced a smile back onto his face, as if to plead for her understanding in this.

Alright, so they knew he ran around like this, lucky for him thy still hadn’t figured out what he wore or where he went. Sure, he knew very little of the city, but he knew infinitely more than his guard and librarian, and he managed to stay ahead of them with a fair bit of ease. For now, though, he just wanted to figure out how to explain his situation to the calculating, frightening woman across the table. By the gods, what was he doing? He didn’t need to explain anything, but he wanted to, because he couldn’t stand just sitting here and pretending to be something he wasn’t. It wasn’t fair to anyone, least of all her. He leaned back very slightly, his arms still resting in a haphazard way on the table, fiddling now with one of his sleeves. Part of it looked to have been burned away by a spilled chemical, loose threads poked out in an uneven sort of pattern.

It seemed as though every time he managed to blend in the humans caught on, their society was so complicated, he just wanted to grasp it enough to blend in and avoid his duties for a few short days. Not a chance, humans were smarter than anyone gave them credit for.

[Sofi]

“Well, that’s just the thing. I’m a lord, the lord, really, of all the elves. Doyen Morsigil Oraben Beindagor is what they call me, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself properly earlier...”

Sofi's stomach made a funny sideways shimmy. Well, this certainly was an unexpected turn of events. She tried to take this confession in stride, but it was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping to the floor like a deadweight. The Doyen Morsigil Oraben Beindagor? The Doyen Morsigil Oraben Beindagor? Sofi gave herself a little internal reprimand; in retrospect, she probably should have realized who the man was as soon as he revealed his name. She wasn't versed in all the colorful names of the Country's ruling class, but Morsigil Oraben Beindagor was one she'd heard spoken on more than one occasion. She'd been too busy puzzling how to drop her tag line to realize that it had been a lost cause from the start: she wouldn't find a barkeep in the Doyen of the October Country.

Suddenly, their chance encounter had taken on an entirely different light. Sofi was no longer trying to recruit some sorry sap to a sorrier job, but was talking frankly with the realm's reigning Doyen. She was lucky, she supposed, that Morgisil was such an agreeable fellow; had be been some sadistic Unseelie archon or demonic Malaphim, she'd no doubt her insolent attitude would have seen her head on a pike. Luckily, the elves had a reputation for their fairness and equanimity, and Morgisil was living evidence. For once, Sofi was grateful she hadn’t snapped at him for his stumbling into her.

“I’d rather you didn’t mention this to anyone, please, it’s rather...Well, it’s not embarrassing, I couldn’t say that, but I don’t like having anyone knowing I walk around like this. My guards would be furious if they found out I was running about in human clothing.”

The present came crashing back to her, and Sofi scrambled for a convincing smile. She was only marginally successful. "Yes, yes, of course," she eagerly agreed. She'd managed to stave off her initial shock, but her heart continued to make sickening little somersaults in her chest. The Doyen was pure, unadulterated power -- and he was sitting an arm's-length across from her!

Sofi was performing rapid calculations in her head, her thoughts working furiously to catch up. So, she'd botched her chance to hire herself a barkeep -- so what? She had found the Doyen instead. Surely that was worth more than any piddling scumbag she could have swept up off the streets of the Daylight District. Sofi was an intelligent woman, even exceptionally so, but subtlety was not her strong suit. If she thought she could wheedle something out of this meeting -- and she did think she could -- she was going to seize the opportunity with zeal. So she continued, not skipping a beat, “Well, I have to say, this foils my plans for you. I'd been intending to hire you as a barkeep, but somehow I can't imagine the likes of the Doyen tending bar. No matter how good our booze is."

This post has been edited by Sofi on Mar 8 2008, 04:50 PM

[Morsigil]

He watched the fleeting look of shock rush through her eyes and felt a sudden little wave of self-pity. It was a silly thing to feel, really, as it was his own fault that he had been caught in his little act, next time he would have to bring some smaller sort of coin, anything that wasn’t those fat silver and gold pieces. Next time he would remember, but it was an empty promise. Next time would be just the same as this time and just the same as the time before that, the circumstances changed, sometimes the people changed, but the underlying theme remained absolutely the same. Well, maybe if he wrote himself a note…

But she had told a joke, and he felt that twinge of self pity remove itself suddenly. She was acting like a normal person, how wonderful; she wasn’t trying to bow or fawn or, worse, to ask his help. “It’s too bad I don’t drink, or else the offer should be quite tempting.” He said, his smile returning a little though it was only a joke in a small part. Something like that, a simple job in the human style, had always appealed to him very slightly. Being in such close quarters with humans, though, did not. They were fine enough people to visit and meet with on occasion, but he didn’t think he could do it all the time. For all of those times he had thought of how magnificent it would be to make Zenith his permanent home there were at least a dozen other times when the very idea made him very slightly ill. Too many people, too much noise, too much of everything, for now, though, he thought he might enjoy it.

The street performer who had imitated a dragon was replaced by a singer of some sort, a youngish man with a guitar who sat cross-legged in the street with a hat out in front of him. Morsigil watched him play, “I am sorry I can’t even offer any of the humans I know for the job, the only few of them not at the palace wouldn’t even consider it, they’re all far too content on this side of the city. I suppose I can’t be of much help to you at all.” He flipped open the cover of his book without even looking at it, tracing a finger along the runes while he slipped his gaze between the performer and Sofi. He had only bought the book about an hour ago and already he had the basic forms memorized. If only the basic forms were all one needed, but there was so much more to it than that. Blood and salt and a soul to capture, if he had a cruel bone in his body he might have thought of using it, but he just liked the knowledge that he could use it.

He turned the page with his thumb and traced another picture on the page, resting his sharp chin in his hand, “But, you never answered my question, how did you come to work at the Sylvan? You seem extremely educated to be working at a tavern in the dark part of town.” Morsigil had always been good at picking out intelligent people, educated and trained people. This woman, with her shark’s smile and bright eyes was one of the most intelligent people he’d ever met. He felt quite sure of that, and it made him distinctly nervous. Not only was she intelligent and educated, but she looked as though she knew what she wanted, and women like that were never the sort to mess around with.

[Sofi]

Sofi wasn't kowtowing or flattering or asking for help, simply put, because she knew it wouldn't work. She'd known a great deal of powerful men in her lifetime, not the least of which was her own father, and if there was anything she'd learned from those men, it was that fawning never earned any brownie points. Sure, had she scrambled to her feet and bowed and rattled off all the meaingless formalities expected of a lowly mortal like herself, the Doyen would have acted touched, and pretended to appreciate her concern for ceremony. But deep down, the Doyen would know that it was empty flattery.

The fact was, Sofi was no sycophant. She was a good listener, and she could follow orders to a point of excellence, but she did not grovel. Usually -- contrary to what one might expect -- her employers appreciated this aspect of her personality. She was brusque, to-the-point, and sometimes painfully frank, and it was precisely that attitude that allowed her to get things done. She didn't piddle around with pleasantries, and the Doyen was no exception.

Still, she would have to be careful not to offend the man. Flattery was one thing, but self-preservation was another. She could avoid offense and still not reduce herself to fawning.

“It’s too bad I don’t drink, or else the offer should be quite tempting. […] You seem extremely educated to be working at a tavern in the dark part of town.”

The dark part of town, was it? Sofi allowed herself a secretive little smirk. It was amusing, really, the sorts of superstitions that surrounded the Black Mass district. Werewolves, vampires, black-cowled assassins and the shadows of thieves -- all manner of unsavory criminals, or so the rumors said. You'd think the entire district was an unholy menagerie of shape-shifters and pickpockets, by the way the daylight denizens described it. As if the Daylight District didn’t have its own share of petty criminals.

To a certain extent, though, their fears were well-founded: the Black Mass district was no place for the light of heart. But anyone with half a head on their shoulders (and preferably a knife in their belt) could find in the district a reasonable livelihood. To be sure, it was nothing like the cheery radiance of the Daylight Commons, but the darker side of Zenith City had its own advantages. You never had to worry about sunburn, for one. And for two, the criminal underworld offered many opportunities to anyone ambitious enough -- or foolish enough -- to take them. Sofi hadn't gotten herself tangled in the affairs of the Country’s crime lords, at least not yet, but she had half a mind to befriend some of the syndicate bosses who frequented the Sylvan.

"Well," Sofi began, favoring the Doyen’s compliment with a slight quirk of the brow, "contrary to popular belief, the Black Mass district isn’t all thieves and vagabonds. Though,” she reflected, “I’ll grant you that the vast majority are.”

Sofi glanced down at the tea in front of her, as if she had only just realized that it was there. She cupped the steaming mug between her hands, feeling the warmth through the painted ceramic. “A man named Delorian Carter recruited me there, the first day I... came here," she continued, wondering whether that was correct way to phrase her sudden appearence in the October Country. "I had my reservations about working there at first, but I make a reasonable living. Besides, I don’t intend to tend bar for the rest of my time here,” she said, sipping from her cup. She peered at him over the rim of the mug. “I’m always looking for new employers.”

This post has been edited by Sofi on Mar 9 2008, 02:46 PM

[Morsigil]

“Well, those I’ve met in the district are very odd. Then again, I find most humans to be very strange creatures.” He smiled politely, still tracing symbols with one hand and keeping hold of her eyes with his emerald ones. He nodded at the rest of her story, more reserved now than he had been earlier. Sure, he still smiled, but it was more of a polite smile now, not as unnoticed as earlier. In fact, it looked far more conscious, as the elf tried very hard to maintain what he felt was a dignified sort of bearing. Now that he wasn’t trying to hide his identity, it was a constant battle to keep his bearing on par with what one might expect, what he expected of himself. It really was a difficult proposition for the elf, now so used to his freedom.

She said that she was looking for another employer and Morsigil quite missed the implication. He didn’t catch on at all to what she might be suggesting and instead gave a simple, pleasant smile, “I wish you luck then, employment shouldn’t be terribly hard to find in a place like this.” Even if he had caught on it would have done no good, Morsigil was far more open-minded about humans than most other elves, but that was saying very little. He was positively liberal when it came to treating them as equals, even if he had the unfortunate tendency to treat them as very young children or, worse, (When he really wasn’t thinking) like a favored puppy. That being said, he couldn’t possibly imagine hiring one of them for any reason, they were terribly young, and though they knew a good deal, well, he had no use for them. It was simply an unfortunate truth of life.

He was about to say something else, but was interrupted by the serving girl from earlier, carrying another cup of tea. She set it in front of him and watched expectantly, the elf winced internally, yes, he would definetly need to start bringing smaller coins to avoid this sort of awkwardness. Still, it was a matter of manners, and he lifted the cupup and preteded to take a sip. He smiled brightly at the girl and she disappeared once more. The elf followed her for a moment, until she was out of sight, and casually spilled the rest of the tea onto the ground. It steamed into the air until a convenient gust of wind flew out of nowhere and sent the steam flying into the air. Whether the wind was manufactured or not was anyone's guess, though it followed a movement of Morsigil's ringed hand far too easily.

Deciding it was best not to mention the awkward moment that had just passed, Morsigil launched into any possibility of conversation, "So, tell me, what did you do when you were..." He trailed off, unsure of how to continue this statement. His first instinct was to say 'Alive', but that seemed somehow impolite, how did one discuss death with humans, anyway? They died all the time, and yet the view they took was far less casual than that of the elves. It must have had something to do with the finality it presented for them. Elves continued on, more or less, humans had far less assurance. "Before you came here? Did you work?" The tips of his ears turned pink, though they couldn't be seen beneath his hair, "I'm sorry, that was a bit rude of me, wasn't it?" Human etiquette, one never knew what to do or where one stood, it was lucky just to get out in one piece psychologically speaking.

OOC: Sorry for the shortness.

[Sofi]

((No, it's perfect... I was totally cracking up, trying to imagine that scenario actually happening ))

“Well, those I’ve met in the district are very odd. Then again, I find most humans to be very strange creatures.”

No kidding, she thought, completely deadpan. She was curious to hear more on the subject -- what an elf, of all creatures, could possibly think of all the frenetic activities of the human race -- but she didn’t interrupt him: “I wish you luck then, employment shouldn’t be terribly hard to find in a place like this.”

Sofi set down her mug of tea with an audible click. Either the man refused to take a hint, or he was much more subtle than she’d first intuited. Somehow, she didn't think it was the latter, though the thought was enough to set her on edge. She peered at his green eyes, trying to tease out something beyond what he was saying. She was reasonably good at reading expressions -- it was a necessary skill, in her line of work -- but she found herself struggling with this one.

Sofi watched as the waitress returned with tea for the Doyen, amused by Morgisil’s reaction. She thought it somewhat hilarious that the Doyen of the October Country should feel obligated to indulge a simple serving-wench, but then, there were many things about this man that were contrary to what she might think. When the serving-woman disappeared, and Morgisil dumped the tea onto the ground, Sofi couldn't help but grin.

"So, tell me, what did you do when you were... Before you came here? Did you work?"

Morgisil's attempt at delicacy did not escape her, and for a moment Sofi was almost grateful for the Doyen’s tact. Sure, she was no delicate flower -- she knew that she was dead, more or less, and that she would likely never see her parents or friends again. She doubted she would ever see the United States again, and she missed the country as much as she did her friends and family. A cold thought, yes, but Sofi had never known her parents as intimately as she had the neon-lit streets of New York, or the sloping streets of San Francisco, or even the scorching humidity of downtown Philadelphia.

"I'm sorry, that was a bit rude of me, wasn't it?"

Sofi glanced up from her tea, looking confused. "No, why would it be?" she lied, wondering whether she had betrayed her emotions in her expression. She made an attempt to steel herself; it wouldn't do to have the Doyen pity her. After all, she wasn't nearly as emotional about her death as she had been eighteen months ago, when she’d first stumbled into this strange country. Then, she'd been in shock, unable to believe what her senses were telling her. She didn't know what might have become of her had she not found Delorian in the Daylight Commons… or rather, if Delorian hadn’t found her.

Sofi pushed the memories from her mind, and forced a thin smile. "I was an attorney," she said, as if to prove to Morgisil how unattached she really was. It occurred to her that the Doyen might be unfamiliar with the term, so she endeavored to put it into more familiar terms. "I represented people who were accused of breaking the law. But I also earned a degree in business and political science," she continued, "For all the good that'll do me in a place like this." The bitterness was not quite lost in her tone.