CLOSED | two logs one cup.

[murderbaby]

WHO: Character(s)
WHAT: Interview with a mudpire / Interview with an elfthing
WHEN: Nowish
WHERE: The Library / The Docks
NOTES: N/a atm, will update if needed, tw: mud.

FOR EDGARD.

The library is a quiet place in general, but especially in the earlier morning, when most haven't woken enough to focus on books. Mhavos has always been an early riser, though, and waits in an alcove for Edgard.

It's strange to be genuinely excited. Mhavos has always had a thirst for knowledge, but it gets greater around truly unknowable qualities. Why is this man obsessed with mud? What does he think a book about mud will contain? Is the mud a metaphor? Does he know what a metaphor is?

Mhavos sits with a book in front of him, a candle for better lighting, watered ale and coffee in equal measures. He's taken dictation before. You never know what you may need.

FOR VANADI.

Mhavos is terribly fond of The Greedy Hag.

The sign out front is a cruel caricature of an old Elven woman, but walking inside, one is greeted by the real thing. Matron Tarell has been working on the docks for decades, and knows how to bargain for the best fish, the best prices, and has built up enough goodwill to stake out her own little corner of the world. Mhavos appreciates her tenacity, and the fact that she allows him to take up one of her tables, sometimes for hours, just to eat sparingly and read a book. She never asks why. She never bothers him.

Mhavos takes a seat at the time agreed upon with Vanadi, and tells Tarell that he's expecting a guest. Then he waits, occasionally looking out the window, occasionally reading from a small chapbook he's brought along with him.

Comments

[highborn]

"That's good of you to say," he says, dropping his hand without sitting back any. "Here I'd been thinking it was a bit unsettling to see from myself, but — well, seeing it in your eyes has changed my mind somewhat. You really do make it look good, you know."

A little heavy handed, maybe. So he grins, blows out the candle with a quick puff, and sits back again to something more comfortable.

[murderbaby]

"At best, I look like some exotic nocturnal pet. You have some dignity to your bearing; it's nothing to be discounted."

Bringing himself down to compliment another is a far easier thing, and comes to Mhavos' tongue smoothly. He orders them food with a few simple hand gestures; there aren't that many things on the menu.

[highborn]

He's agreeable to the order, not much minding what Mhavos asks of the kitchen. He'll eat it (probably; he'd eat around any meat), so it's hardly an issue. And when they're alone again at their table, his smile goes playful.

"Really, though. Dignity to my bearing. I already told you I liked your bit on elves, you flatterer, what more do you want?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos blinks a bit slowly, clearly surprised. "It was... it was only the truth."

The tips of his ears are going slightly pink, but he rallies himself despite that. Or perhaps because; he can't change his reaction, but he can move forward.

"You are the one that suggested this meeting. I'm only acquiescing, though I won't pretend as though I don't enjoy your company."

[highborn]

His smile pricks briefly into a grin, there and then gone again with a shift in his seat.

"And I am very grateful for it, never think otherwise," he's quick to assure. "Picking up on the rules of a new world is slow going, you know. I really can use all the help I can get."

Not entirely true, his progress has been fast, but it does make a great excuse for a friendly lunch.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos allows himself a brief expression of skepticism. "Tell me, how long have you been in," ahem, "the area?"

[highborn]

Oh, that's a good question. He pauses to consider it, gaze finding a wall over Mhavos's shoulder as a resting point.

"Ah ... it was late spring when I arrived. Half a year, then? Time has felt somewhat slippery."

[murderbaby]

Amused, Mhavos replies, "I wonder what sort of questions you could still have?" And then, lightly sarcastic, "beyond your striking eyes and noble bearing, of course."

[highborn]

His gaze slides, Mhavos becoming the next thoughtful resting point for a few seconds. This would be an excellent place to keep up the light and slightly flirty banter, and he would think of nothing else in his old life.

Today, though, he says, "They're about elves, largely. I've come to expect the poor treatment from humans, but I'm having a bit of difficulty wrangling anything but wariness from elves."

[murderbaby]

Ah.

"Have you yet met Thranduil?"

[highborn]

Met, no, but — "The extraordinarily old fellow?"

[murderbaby]

"The eight foot tall 'elf'," Mhavos says, and yes, the finger quotes are there. "He looks like what the Dalish must imagine of their gods. When I met him, I was frankly terrified."

[highborn]

He's heard mention of the height probably, but the exact measurement is ... a lot. He arches a brow. "I hope your advice isn't to terrify. I really don't think I could pull it off as well."

[murderbaby]

Thrandruil is only seven foot, but when you're barely five, one is prone to exaggerate. Anyway, he's making a point.

"No, no. I think I see some of the difficulty you have." He picks up the salt shaker and the pepper. "Conventional wisdom tells us that there are only two types of elf, city," he touches the salt, "and Dalish." The pepper.

"The reality is much more complicated, for there is marked enmity between these disparate tribes, and-" he pours some salt and pepper onto the table, mixes them with his finger, "even less kindness shone toward those who do not fit squarely within the boundary of one or the other."

And then he reaches for the vinegar, setting it away from both. "And we have those like you and Thranduil, entirely separate from either, a mystery and a danger to both pride and classification."

[highborn]

He watches Mhavos more than the tabletop display, but does at least cast a glance down for that salty, peppery mix. It's a clear enough example, and he is interested in Mhavos's thoughts on the matter of that bottle of vinegar ... but of greater interest to him, "Where is it you would say you fall?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos offers up his answer with little hesitation; it's a fact of life, something that was once known by everyone he knew. "Unacceptably neither. My Alienage was purged when I was four; an unexpected survivor, I was signed into servitude immediately. The dispossessed... well, suffice to say even city elves consider me flat-eared."

[highborn]

He nods faintly. That Mhavos doesn't fit in with what Vanadi has seen so far was obvious, but it would be a lie to say he'd not wondered at the extent of it.

"Purged." His lips press together briefly. "Is that what it sounds like?"

[murderbaby]

How to explain this fundamental fact of Mhavos' life, the very fabric of his universe... clinically. He will do it clinically.

"They are more common in Orlais," Mhavos says, "Most of the horrors visited upon elves are more common in Orlais, in the southern part of the world. Humans come and burn the Alienage down. The front gates are locked from the outside..." Mhavos shrugs. "If memory holds, I happened to be running an errand or somesuch."

[highborn]

He flinches, his gaze dropping away to the table. This was stupid. He could ask probably anyone else about this, hell, he's certain it would be written in some book somewhere, if he wanted to avoid people entirely with it.

Quietly, he says, "I'm sorry. You really don't have to oblige my curiosity."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos frowns. He lets Vanadi have a moment-- clearly he's upset the man-- wherein he clears the table of excess salt and pepper, sprinkling it out an open window. He clears his throat, then, to get Vanadi's attention.

"You've no reason to apologize," he says, "I'm not ashamed of it, nor do I really even remember the incident. If anything, I'm glad you now know, to guard yourself against it."

[highborn]

"Ashamed is not a word I'd have ascribed it," he murmurs, but sits himself up a little straighter. He's not certain what to think of ... any of this. He has no community with elves here, not really, but he can't feel nothing at the mental image of a purge. He runs a hand through his hair with a quick sigh.

"I'd like to know you better, but — I don't mean to stir up unpleasant memories, is all."

[murderbaby]

"You haven't," Mhavos says, "moreover, you can't. I don't discuss the things that truly bother me."

A shrug. He stares out the window, wondering if he's botched this, or if it's something else. Compassion? How unwieldy. "Does that suffice for mystique? Certainly the best I can manage."

[highborn]

If surviving the death of what Vanadi assumes was his family and nearly everyone he'd known doesn't bother Mhavos, Vanadi can't imagine what would. He does spend at least a second or two making the attempt, but that's not a particularly sunny train of thought and he gives it up quickly.

"How did you come by your job?" he asks, too happy to leave other topics swiftly behind for a segue. "Librarian, wasn't it?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos laughs, because it genuinely is funny. "You won't like that story, either."

[highborn]

Both brows arch up, and incredulously, "I — hate to consider why. I had always figured any job among books to be about as mundane as jobs get."