faderift | RIFTER ARRIVAL: Guardian 9:45

"She is a Chantry mother," he explained slowly, pausing a moment to let Misao catch up.

"They share a... similar prestige as Christian vicars in the west."

Such as tolerating dated opinions from someone who was still, mentally, living in a time when giving voice to such things so blatantly was much more socially acceptable.

"Though she forgot I sold her medicine for her rheumatism," the Medicine Seller remarked, his cold, flat tone slightly amused. Senility was a big part of being eighty-five, he supposed.

Oh, good, he was one of those mostly polite types who waited for people. Misao spared a moment to make note of it -- always good to know what you could use in the future -- but didn't comment. Instead, she smiled a little, like she'd always been expecting him to wait.

"That's a lot of prestige, then?" Her only real knowledge of Christians was the girls' school, which, so far as she was concerned, hadn't done much more than teach a few girls to read English and make it fashionable for women to wear hakama.

At his remark about forgetting he'd sold her medicine, Misao actually laughed. "So you're saying she's gotten all foggy? Makes sense, with the way she kept distracting herself."

She found herself glad that Jiya's mind was as sharp as it had ever been, if still mostly focused on girls who could never have been evil enough to actually deserve his attention.

Although these days, he mostly whined about finding a replacement for her: somebody to fuss over him and bring him tea, since apparently Aoshi-sama took up too much of her time now.

"Probably."

Most likely. He'd never been farther west than the parts of Russia that were in spitting distance of Sakhalin Island, but he's met many traders and they'd been rather fervent in their faith. And he noticed a lot of similarities between Andrasteism and Christianity.

Not that he gave voice to any of this.

He cast a sidelong glance to Misao, keeping his pace even with hers.

"You arrived with the rest of us. Is your hand doing well?"

He held up his own, the pale green glow lodged in his palm casting his pale features in a light that made him look a bit ill.

Misao was used to keeping pace with taller people, so her steps were quick, even if it took her more of them to get anywhere. Still, it was nice that somebody was bothering to match her.

"Probably a lot of prestige, or probably she's... not as quick as she used to be?" A more polite euphemism than 'all foggy.' Better if somebody overheard.

At his question, she looked down at her hand. That little sliver of green light was still there. She'd been pressing at it all throughout the lecture, running fingertips and thumbs along the place where the light was, but for the most part, the skin didn't feel any different. More sensitive, maybe.

Except for that strange, dull ache. It would have felt almost like an over-worked muscle, if it didn't ring deep in the bone and spread little pinpricks out to her fingers and down her wrist.

"I don't know," she said after a moment of silence. "I mean, what's 'well?' There's a green light in it and it feels weird. But it's not, um, unbearable or anything." Not quite a lie, though close to one. But she wasn't about to show such an obvious weakness to a total stranger.

"Thanks for the concern. Oh! I'm Makimachi Misao. I must not have been paying attention when you introduced yourself; I'm sorry."

He hadn't introduced himself at all, actually, and she damn well knew that.

"...Both."

He paused beside a window without explanation, and peered into the courtyard before carrying on.

"I make a painkiller that treats the worst of it," he continued - he either hadn't heard the request for his name (how could he not with such big ears?) or he was pointedly ignoring any and all requests for something he simply didn't have.

Fortunately for him, he'd reached his destination and slipped into the kitchen where he was greeted by one of the cooks. She was a plump, middle-aged woman, her cheeks and nose burnt red from sun and lye soap and working over a stove all day.

He exchanged pleasantries with her, something about the well-being of her daughter. The girl apparently had a nasty flu and her fever recently broke thanks to whatever he'd sold the woman and his payment was on the counter.

The payment was a small crate of fresh vegetables (or at least the hardy sort that kept fresh for a long time like carrots, cabbage, onions, potatoes, radish, turnip) and a couple of fat slabs of raw salmon packed in snow to keep it from spoiling.

"Misao. Do you care much for ishikarinabe?"

Misao paused when he did, turning to look out the window into the courtyard. It seemed busy, if a little dismal -- just the same stone everywhere, banners with the sword going through the heavy-lashed eyeball, as if to say we own this, people walking with their heads down, almost all of them in uniform.

She said nothing of the way he'd stopped to look out into the courtyard. Maybe he was comparing it to his own home, the way she had; there was little use in bringing up something so painful.

And while she noticed that he gave no name, she said nothing of that, either. If he was Japanese -- which his clothing suggested -- then it was possible he been cast off as a child, rather than given back, and those children often weren't named. Han'nya hadn't until he'd been adopted into the clan by her grandfather, and no real given name until he'd received his mask.

She listened to the exchange between the stranger and the cook, and then blinked, startling a little backward, at the offer of Ishikari Nabe. Her startle put her in somebody's way, and she dodged slightly left and forward again to recover.

"You mean... the town? In Hokkaido?" She furrowed her brow. How was he supposed to -- "Oh! You mean the hot pot?" She smiled, but she reached up to rub a hand against the back of her neck. "I've never had it. The last time I was in Hokkaido..."

She'd been on the verge of starving. But that was such an unpleasant thing to talk about, that she said instead, "I was chasing a rumor toward Sendai. But I do love salmon! And, back home, I prepared the fish portion for our inn's guests. If you'll show me how to make ishikarinabe, I can certainly make a few dishes for you."

"No no," he said, cold and even and slow, even as he tapped the side of his head in an apologetic gesture.

"I would not want to put you through such trouble. You see, she gave me a lot..."

And he turned his head to the crate of vegetables and huge slabs of salmon. It was far too much for one person to eat before it would spoil, even if the vegetables were the sort to keep longer than most.

"...I simply dislike wasting food, even a little."

So Misao was an innkeeper - or perhaps the daughter of one. Such things tended to be family businesses. Perhaps he'd even stayed there at some point.

"May I ask - which inn did you work at?"

Misao waved her hands, shaking her head. She wasn't sure if he was fake declining for politeness' sake and would change his mind, or genuinely declining. Neither of those would have changed her answer, anyhow: "It's no trouble at all! The least I can do, really."

Judging by how they'd eaten on the way to the Gallows... Well. Being able to whip up a taste of home would be comforting. And of course, there was giri, limited as it was between one of the Oniwabanshuu and one who wasn't. A gift obligated her to gift him back -- at least something like this did, anyway. If matters became at all complicated, her highest duty would be to her family.

"The Aoi-ya, in Kyoto." She smiled. "I'm trained in Kyoto kaiseki; you should consider that before you turn down my food for good."

His wasn't a face she thought she'd ever seen -- and it was one she thought she'd remember -- but she'd spent entire seasons away from the ryokan. He might well have stopped in while she'd been searching for Aoshi-sama. She couldn't help but wonder what Jiya and Ochika-han would have made of him.

"It is possible," he said. "I have been to Kyoto many, many times."

At many, many different times as well, but he was the sort to conveniently leave out that little tidbit of information.

"Perhaps it slipped my memory. How silly of me."

He stepped out the kitchen, leaving the cooks to their work. It was best if they weren't in the way - the Inquisition operated like a machine and the food was the oil keeping it running.

"It will be nice to have someone else around fond of cooking."

He cast a sidelong glance at Misao.

"The food here is not bad, but it is heavy. And I have something you may appreciate."

RIFTER ARRIVAL: Guardian 9:45

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