Chapter 6 (Continued)

[78rpmlife]

"Hey..." she cooed gently. "It's going to be okay. I don't think you have anything to worry about. That didn't exactly look like a lover's quarrel. A woman who runs like that doesn't want to be caught, and I doubt he's going to be able to change her mind anytime soon." Rubbing her back, she shrugs. "Besides, he didn't look that handsome. Unless he's got some sort of heart of gold, I think you could do better. I mean look at you, you're adorable! I'm shocked you even have eyes for that big oaf, when you probably get asked out all the time."

She has no idea why she's saying any of this. This woman's mental state meant next to nothing to her, but damn it all if she was just going to stand there awkwardly while she cried her eyes out about this.

"Look, let's get you set back up with the cart, and clean this up a bit. I'm sure most of this can wait until tomorrow. It sounds to me like you need that quiet night more than you realize."

The woman nods. She wipes at her dripping nose with the back of her hand, producing a sharp snuffly snort in the process. Her skin is blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed. She is the dictionary definition of an ugly crier. "I do. I ruh-ruh-really d-do," she stammers out.

She snuffles in through her nose deeply and loudly once more and breathes out heavily. "You're very kind. You're wrong, I don't ever get asked out. But you're very kind," she mumbles. "I'm a mess. I don't know how to talk to anybody, I just watch and remember everything. Do you know what that's like? When you can't forget anything?" She gestures miserably at her frizzy hair. "My da used to say 'Vensa, you've got so many thoughts trying to push out of your head, they make you hair stand on end.' Gee, thanks da. Not helpful, you know?"

She hunches her shoulders. "Makes me a good librarian but not much of a date. 'Hi, Ishan, thanks for dinner. Are you going to get the vichpas? I remember the day three years, six months and sixteen days ago when you brought some vichpas and flatbread for lunch, so I know you like it. The last time I had vichpas was two weeks after my cat died.'. Pathetic, isn't it?"

Vensa, which apparently is the hapless Archivist's name, turns her eyes to look at Asra and gives her a watery, shaky-lipped half-smile. "I don't talk to people much, so you get all my words. I'm sorry."

[Asralynn Beauchaud]

The woman nods. She wipes at her dripping nose with the back of her hand, producing a sharp snuffly snort in the process. Her skin is blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed. She is the dictionary definition of an ugly crier. "I do. I ruh-ruh-really d-do," she stammers out.

She snuffles in through her nose deeply and loudly once more and breathes out heavily. "You're very kind. You're wrong, I don't ever get asked out. But you're very kind," she mumbles. "I'm a mess. I don't know how to talk to anybody, I just watch and remember everything. Do you know what that's like? When you can't forget anything?" She gestures miserably at her frizzy hair. "My da used to say 'Vensa, you've got so many thoughts trying to push out of your head, they make you hair stand on end.' Gee, thanks da. Not helpful, you know?"

She hunches her shoulders. "Makes me a good librarian but not much of a date. 'Hi, Ishan, thanks for dinner. Are you going to get the vichpas? I remember the day three years, six months and sixteen days ago when you brought some vichpas and flatbread for lunch, so I know you like it. The last time I had vichpas was two weeks after my cat died.'. Pathetic, isn't it?"

Vensa, which apparently is the hapless Archivist's name, turns her eyes to look at Asra and gives her a watery, shaky-lipped half-smile. "I don't talk to people much, so you get all my words. I'm sorry."

She most certainly was getting all of her words. Once again Asra found herself having to take serious efforts to not let her surprise and discomfort show on her face. Not only that, but small tinges of agreement in the idea that someone who remembers everything might be a bit awkward to talk to. Luckily, she has tons of training when it comes to pushing through her own discomfort to offer kind words.

"It's quite alright, Vensa," she offers, retracting her comforting arm as she studies the strange woman in front of her. "Seems unlikely you'd come across those willing to engage in casual conversation when you work in a place that demands silence from its inhabitants." She chuckles softly at the horrible image she conjures in her mind of a research library filled with chattering fools.

"Though I can't say I remember absolutely everything I come across, I do have a pretty good memory, so I can sympathize," she continues. "Though to remember everything sounds a great gift to me. Have you considered a career change? If you've an aptitude for magic, Whitestone is always looking for research assistants, and I can't imagine a more frightening force than a Jade Advocate with a mind like a steel trap. Anything has got to be better than such thankless work," she gestures towards the cart and the multitude of documents still strewn about them.

She nudges the poor woman with her shoulder, trying to encourage a bit of playfulness to peak through her dour expression. "And don't worry so much about romance. Broaden your horizons and you're sure to come across someone who appreciates a good mind protected by a good head of hair."

[AftermathGM]

Iana blinks back at Chavon. "What?"

The question is both bewildering and disappointing.

Disappointing because it does not give her any more information, beyond the fact that this is something that he and the other conspirators wish to know. Which might be valuable later on, but does not answer any of the thousands of questions Iana has right now, and certainly does not help her figure out where she is or how to escape.

Bewildering, because she has no idea what he is talking about.

"What box?" Iana asks, entirely honestly.

Chavon tsks and lets out a disappointed sigh. "What box, indeed," he muses. "Of course you have no idea what I'm talking about. How very convenient for you, that you know so much about so many things, that you have so many answers at your fingertips, except for the one thing I really want to know."

He leans back again, crossing his arms and glaring at Iana. "I recognize you're nothing more than a desk jockey, M Tigenet, but surely you learned more in your Novice-level interrogation courses than 'I'll just lie and hope everything works out!'. Tell me where the thrice-damned box is and this is going to go much more pleasantly for you. Otherwise..." Chavon shrugs casually, as though the potential for said unpleasantness isn't much more than a passing concern. "Your friends Georg and Eldarin took it from me, and I would like it back. If you're going to attempt to convince me that you know all the other things they know and they neglected to mention that little tidbit, I'm afraid I'm not going to believe you. So I suggest you search your memory very carefully and tell me what I want to know."

These last words are snarled through clenched teeth. He affects an erudite manner, the effete well-to-do noble disguise he's adopted, but if the bits of his story he's told are true, there's likely a deep reservoir of resentment and anger underneath and the edges of it are beginning to show.

[AftermathGM]

Georg could, and would, return that sentiment, but that might make Finch cry, so instead he says, "I know. I love me too." He jumps back to dodge the inevitable swing.

"Someday we'll have matching rocking chairs at the retirement home for useless old warhorses. Well spaced apart, of course. And the nurses will have to take away our canes to keep us from swatting at each other."

Finch extends the first three fingers of her right hand and taps her chest above her heart three times. It's a Rhamian gesture with its origins in prayers to the three deities, but in these modern days simply means a wish that a statement become truth.

"I look forward to the day, you big lovable idiot," she says, looking up at Georg with her head tilted to one side. "But, enough sappy shit. We've got work to do, old warhorse. You've got some academic weirdo to be lectured by, and I have to either sneak into the Master's office or brave the kinship alone."

She purses her lips as she considers. "I think I've got the better end of that deal, actually." Reaching out with both hands, she tries to shove the great mountain of friend in front of her. It's as ineffective as it ever is. "Get to work, you lazy lump. Go! Stop distracting me."

[AftermathGM]

"Though to remember everything sounds a great gift to me. Have you considered a career change? If you've an aptitude for magic, Whitestone is always looking for research assistants, and I can't imagine a more frightening force than a Jade Advocate with a mind like a steel trap. Anything has got to be better than such thankless work," she gestures towards the cart and the multitude of documents still strewn about them.

She nudges the poor woman with her shoulder, trying to encourage a bit of playfulness to peak through her dour expression. "And don't worry so much about romance. Broaden your horizons and you're sure to come across someone who appreciates a good mind protected by a good head of hair."

"L-leave the library?" Vensa says in a whisper. "Like... outside Obsidian? But... but... you think I can't h-handle it?" That sets off a new round of sobs. "My da said I wouldn't be able to huh-handle it! 'You're just too fragile, dear.' That's what he said. But I didn't do anything wrong! They were the ones who knocked over my cart, why does that make me the one who needs to leave? Ishan's the one who's been talking with all those people outside Obsidian. I see him when I'm walking home." She seems to realize how that might sound and she quickly adds, "I don't follow him! We live in the same district!"

[Ianaeveli Tigenet]

Chavon tsks and lets out a disappointed sigh. "What box, indeed," he muses. "Of course you have no idea what I'm talking about. How very convenient for you, that you know so much about so many things, that you have so many answers at your fingertips, except for the one thing I really want to know."

He leans back again, crossing his arms and glaring at Iana. "I recognize you're nothing more than a desk jockey, M Tigenet, but surely you learned more in your Novice-level interrogation courses than 'I'll just lie and hope everything works out!'. Tell me where the thrice-damned box is and this is going to go much more pleasantly for you. Otherwise..." Chavon shrugs casually, as though the potential for said unpleasantness isn't much more than a passing concern. "Your friends Georg and Eldarin took it from me, and I would like it back. If you're going to attempt to convince me that you know all the other things they know and they neglected to mention that little tidbit, I'm afraid I'm not going to believe you. So I suggest you search your memory very carefully and tell me what I want to know."

These last words are snarled through clenched teeth. He affects an erudite manner, the effete well-to-do noble disguise he's adopted, but if the bits of his story he's told are true, there's likely a deep reservoir of resentment and anger underneath and the edges of it are beginning to show.

A shudder runs through Iana at the sight of Chavon's bared teeth, the sound of his threats.

If he thinks that he doesn't have any use for me, then he might…

She can't bring herself to finish that thought.

Iana doesn't need to pretend that she is gathering in a long sustaining breath; nor that she is trying to tamp down her panic enough to let her mind work.

This is someone who is out for himself - she is fairly sure of that. What else does she know? What else can she infer?

She knows that they were planning to lure Chavon in with another appearance by the Lady of Mists - that he already associates the Lady with a certain scent, and mysterious appearance and disappearance. She knows that something is going to happen at the Mayor's Ball.

She can infer from his manner that he wants to be in charge; he wants to be the smartest person in the room. Iana does permit herself the arrogance of suspecting that he is not the smartest person in this room, but also knows that that will not make a single bit of difference if she cannot stall him for long enough to figure out some way to free herself. Or, she hopes, for one of the others to realize that she's gone…

Very well. He wants to show how superior he is. How intelligent he is. So…she can let him think that he has won, and that she is giving in.

"All right!" Iana doesn't need to feign the little spike of fear that cracks high in her voice - she just lets out what she has desperately been trying to conceal. Nor does she need to put on a show of struggling to clamp down on that panic - can't run, can't escape, can't hide - as she shifts in her seat, wincing against the new flurry of pain that shoots through her hip and knee.

"All right," she repeats, voice more carefully controlled now, as she lifts her eyes to meet his. "I-I'm sorry. I should have realized that you would be able to see through anything that I tried to do." A little flattery; a little show of vulnerability.

"You mean…one of the black boxes, don't you?" It truly is the only box that she can think of. If it's the one he means, then he'll think she's giving in; if it isn't…perhaps he'll think she's still stonewalling? Or perhaps he'll be happy to correct her, and then she can actually get some information from him. The thought of Chavon correcting and explaining makes Iana swallow back a wince of intellectual pain that she tries to disguise amid the physical pain of another shift in her chair.

"I do know where one of them is, but I - I haven't seen it for a while. Not since the last time the Lady of Mists appeared…" Iana wishes that she knew exactly what scent Asra mentioned in connection with the Lady, but she must settle for a brief sniff: it will call forth an association with the idea of scent if she's lucky. Or, perhaps, it might make Chavon think that she's close to tears.

(Which she will be, just as soon as she is out of here. Not yet. She needs to hang on just a little longer…)

"I don't know when she'll appear again. It might not be before the Mayor's Ball…"

[Georg Elsebethson]

Finch extends the first three fingers of her right hand and taps her chest above her heart three times. It's a Rhamian gesture with its origins in prayers to the three deities, but in these modern days simply means a wish that a statement become truth.

"I look forward to the day, you big lovable idiot," she says, looking up at Georg with her head tilted to one side. "But, enough sappy shit. We've got work to do, old warhorse. You've got some academic weirdo to be lectured by, and I have to either sneak into the Master's office or brave the kinship alone."

She purses her lips as she considers. "I think I've got the better end of that deal, actually." Reaching out with both hands, she tries to shove the great mountain of friend in front of her. It's as ineffective as it ever is. "Get to work, you lazy lump. Go! Stop distracting me."

"Alright, I'm going, I'm going," Georg says making exaggeratedly slow motions in the direction of Opal College. A tickle of mischief lights up in the back of his brain and he says, "If you need company in the kinship and can't get a hold of Eldarin, ask for Jaipha of Nerun," he says, trying not to smile and give the game away. "She's friendly."

[Asralynn Beauchaud]

"L-leave the library?" Vensa says in a whisper. "Like... outside Obsidian? But... but... you think I can't h-handle it?" That sets off a new round of sobs. "My da said I wouldn't be able to huh-handle it! 'You're just too fragile, dear.' That's what he said. But I didn't do anything wrong! They were the ones who knocked over my cart, why does that make me the one who needs to leave? Ishan's the one who's been talking with all those people outside Obsidian. I see him when I'm walking home." She seems to realize how that might sound and she quickly adds, "I don't follow him! We live in the same district!"

Asra's temper flares slightly at Vensa misconstrues her words. Though her anger is not directed at Vensa, but at this overhanging send of worthlessness that the girl clings to like a protective shawl. "Nonsense," she spits. "Leaving has nothing to do with being unable to handle anything. If you couldn't handle it, you wouldn't have stuck out for this long." However long that was, she really had no clue, but by the look of Vensa, she imagined she'd been under this stress for some time. "No, this has everything to do with what you are worth."

"Sincerely, I think a talent like yours needs nurturing. Otherwise, its left to rot and be suppressed in a place like this," she impresses upon her. Leaning down to scoop up papers, she slaps them down onto the cart. "Besides, a place like this that holds no respect for the knowledge within it has no business calling itself a Library. You deserve better, and this place deserves better."

She humphs indignantly and looks out among the stacks. She was painfully aware of the fact that she'd lost track of Iana and this Ishan fellow. This Ishan fellow who has been talking to people outside of Obsidian. The same Ishan fellow who lives in Vensa's district.

She sighs. "Listen, Vensa. I need to get going. I'm supposed to meet with a friend, and I'd rather not be late to this particular meeting," she lies... sort of. "You go home. Get some well-deserved rest and think about what I said. If you like, go to Whitestone and ask for Asra. She's a friend of mine, and could walk you through some things over there and talk you through other things."

Thinking for a moment, she adds, "What district do you live in? If you'd like, I can stop by some time, and we can have tea. Talk about boys." She winks coyly.

* * *

It was surprisingly difficult to get out Obsidian, given how easy it was to get in, but now that she was back out in the courtyard, she needed to get in contact with the others. The first person that came to mind was Finch, so she found a quiet corner where she could whip out the communication disc and tried to get in touch.

"Finch, are you there? Iana's gone!"

[AftermathGM]

"All right," she repeats, voice more carefully controlled now, as she lifts her eyes to meet his. "I-I'm sorry. I should have realized that you would be able to see through anything that I tried to do." A little flattery; a little show of vulnerability.

"You mean…one of the black boxes, don't you?" It truly is the only box that she can think of. If it's the one he means, then he'll think she's giving in; if it isn't…perhaps he'll think she's still stonewalling? Or perhaps he'll be happy to correct her, and then she can actually get some information from him. The thought of Chavon correcting and explaining makes Iana swallow back a wince of intellectual pain that she tries to disguise amid the physical pain of another shift in her chair.

"I do know where one of them is, but I - I haven't seen it for a while. Not since the last time the Lady of Mists appeared…" Iana wishes that she knew exactly what scent Asra mentioned in connection with the Lady, but she must settle for a brief sniff: it will call forth an association with the idea of scent if she's lucky. Or, perhaps, it might make Chavon think that she's close to tears.

(Which she will be, just as soon as she is out of here. Not yet. She needs to hang on just a little longer…)

"I don't know when she'll appear again. It might not be before the Mayor's Ball…"

Chavon adjusts his shoulders and relaxes back again. The longer Iana talks, the more his lips curve like the proverbial cat that got into the cream. "So the Lady is indeed behind all of this. As I expected," he says. You could almost imagine him steepling his fingers in evil glee. "Doesn't it feel much better to just go ahead and tell me what you know? No need to argue, to make threats, just a conversation. A civilized conversation. I get so tired of the other kind sometimes. 'Why don't we just beat it out of him, boss?' they'll say, and yes... that does work sometimes. But sometimes they'll just tell me whatever I want to hear so that we'll stop beating it out of him, whether it's true or not. I appreciate that you're my partner in this, M Tigenet."

He drums his fingers on his knee for a moment as he considered what to ask next. There are so many options. "Now, I have a lot of outstanding unanswered questions about this Lady, whoever she is. There are those I work for -- with, really, our goals simply align for now -- who are quite troubled by the sudden appearance of a new player in this little game of ours." He breathes in deeply through his nose. Iana's suggestion of scent might have gotten to him. "Especially one who seems to have a number of cards up her sleeves. Are you... affiliated by chance with this Lady? Or are you simply on her trail as well? What do you know of her? Details. I need details. What will she be doing at the Mayor's Ball? If she has access to the box, I have--"

He cuts off, holds up a hand in apology. "I talk too much. Please, you go ahead."

[AftermathGM]

She sighs. "Listen, Vensa. I need to get going. I'm supposed to meet with a friend, and I'd rather not be late to this particular meeting," she lies... sort of. "You go home. Get some well-deserved rest and think about what I said. If you like, go to Whitestone and ask for Asra. She's a friend of mine, and could walk you through some things over there and talk you through other things."

Thinking for a moment, she adds, "What district do you live in? If you'd like, I can stop by some time, and we can have tea. Talk about boys." She winks coyly.

Vensa, for once, doesn't have a torrent of words gushing from her mouth. She blinks owlishly, red-rimmed eyes now empty of tears. "Asra. Oh... okay. At Whitestone," she mumbles, looking down at her ghostly pale hands. Vensa clearly doesn't spend a lot of time outside.

She's silent for a while, then blurts out suddenly, "Tumbledown."

A little quiver passes through her body as though her brain has just returned to her body. "That's where I live," she says by way of explanation. "It's up from Dockside, down below the Plaza, West Island. It's named that because the roads are steep. Stuff tends to... well... tumble down. If you're not careful." Of course, Asra already knows all that, having lived in Meriava for years, but Vensa does like to explain things. And explain. And explain. Tumbledown's a step up from the Canals, but it's definitely not Highside. A lot of small apartments packed into a small space, but they're generally in decent shape. "You're awfully nice..." Her eyes go wide and she claps her hands over her mouth. "I'm such a cotton-head," she squeaks between her fingers. "I haven't asked your name. You must think me awfully ungrateful, you making all these offers and helping me and I c-c-can't even remember to ask your name!" Uh oh. Here come the water works again.

It was surprisingly difficult to get out Obsidian, given how easy it was to get in, but now that she was back out in the courtyard, she needed to get in contact with the others. The first person that came to mind was Finch, so she found a quiet corner where she could whip out the communication disc and tried to get in touch.

"Finch, are you there? Iana's gone!"

For a moment, there's no response, just long enough for Asra to start to worry about Finch too. Then there's a clatter and a crash and a muffled string of curses that could only be Finch.

"Never know how to work these stupid things," Finch says, but she's not exactly saying it into the disc, given the muttered tone and the low volume. "Was I supposed to put my fingers here? Or is it upside down? Can you he--"

Finch's voice cuts off suddenly. She's apparently managed to turn the disc off entirely.

She's back a couple of seconds later. "--wasn't it at all. Shit. Is this thing on now? Asra?" she says, then speaks slowly and loudly. "Can. You. Hear. Me?"