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]

He finds himself wondering if this is a tale-teller's bias, if they really don't remember it. It would be a significant event to Vanadi, freeing the life of another person. Maybe he simply doesn't know these siblings at all.

"For the best," he agrees lightly. Then, "How long ago was this?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos weighs the sums of months in his mind, twirling his fork adroitly. "A little over a year," he says. "Comparatively speaking, I am a rather junior member."

[highborn]

A year ... gods, but that's nothing, no time at all to be a free man. Vanadi studies him closely for a few long seconds, no thoughts apparent on his face beyond curiosity. "How old are you? If you don't mind."

[murderbaby]

"Twenty-six, next month," Mhavos says with a shrug. Not many people ask, but not many people, he assumes, care.

[highborn]

There's a quick flash of surprise, because Vanadi is still not used to hearing such low numbers. But he nods, filing that information away into some mental Mhavos file.

He hesitates over his next question as he searches for the words, knowing just how insensitive they'll sound if he isn't careful. Maybe even if he is.

Finally he settles on, "How does life now compare to life then? Life under bondage."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos squints. There's a shape to this conversation, and he's gotten the feeling he can only see it by its shadow. "Preferable. How old are you, Serah de Vadarta?"

[highborn]

Preferable. Right. He's picked the wrong words. Well, so it goes. "A hundred and twenty five," he says, and quirks a wry smile. "Twenty six soon."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos groans, massages the bridge of his nose with the hand not on a fork. "Your people are immortal as well?"

[highborn]

"No, of course not. We age and die — more slowly, is all." He shrugs faintly. This talk, at least, he's already had with Byerly, and he's ready for the discrepancies. "I've always thought of humans and other suchlike as living life at a blinding pace, and I was a bit jealous of that."

[murderbaby]

"More slowly. Of course." Barely a difference. Mhavos shakes his head. "Well, I won't trade it. Living a hundred years sounds interminable."

[highborn]

"There was a bit of tedium," he admits, and makes a face for effect, but against his will his tone goes a little bitter. "But I don't believe that was a common complaint. Years and years of slow-moving interhouse politics and trade suited my family just fine."

[murderbaby]

"The only person I think it would suit is a historian," Mhavos says in a pale attempt to brighten the mood, "and forgive me, but you don't strike me as the type."

[highborn]

"A historian, or an Aluthsan elf," he says, but the wry smile is back and the bitter tone is gone. "But thank you, I take it for a compliment. Of all the unsavory jobs I've taken since leaving home, I've at least never been forced to chronicle."

[murderbaby]

"Althusian?" Mhavos eats his food with an almost ironic daintiness, "which ethnic group are we disparaging?"

[highborn]

"Just — " He waves a dismissive hand. "Me. That was the name of the city, is all. The point is they're all just where they belong."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos smiles, enjoying self-depreciating humor most of all. "So you left, longing for adventure..."

[highborn]

"Ah, no."

Vanadi lies so smoothly when he needs to, it's a talent of his, but he doesn't particularly want to lie to Mhavos. He glances away as a nervous energy animates his free hand into fiddling with a napkin, and settles for a half truth.

"Kicked out of the nest, as it were."

[murderbaby]

Again, Mhavos suspects the true conversation has a shape he can only guess at. This time, however, he begins to realize that may be purposeful. Mhavos certainly has his own secrets; far be it from him to expect exact truth from acquaintances.

"It seems as though you learned to fly before you hit the ground."

[highborn]

He laughs faintly, humorlessly, and shakes his head.

"I should say it was more that I learned to live on the ground." He spears a piece of crab meat on his fork and gestures with it, moving quickly into a question, "This is meat, yes? Is it fish?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos has the good sense to follow a change in subject when it's offered him. He nods. "Shellfish. Crab, with egg and breadcrumbs."

[highborn]

He's grateful Mhavos is willing to take the requested out, though his attention stays focused on the bit of food in question. He's eaten around what he's fairly sure was meat so far, time to finally sample it. He does, and considers it thoughtfully.

"Quite good," he says, more in reference to the way it's prepared than the base tastes, which will never quite agree with him. "Where does this fall in your rankings of favorite meals?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos frowns, thinking on how to respond, and settling on cultural stereotypes. The lazy man's stall. "I'm Orlesian. We're typified by cultural elitism." He takes another bite. "I think it's wonderful."

[highborn]

“It is,” he agrees readily. “This means, I hope you recognize, that I’ll be looking to you for further recommendations in the future. You’ve revealed your tastes can be trusted.”

[murderbaby]

(How charming. Mhavos wants in that moment to die on the spot.)

"Well," he says with a shrug, "I am apparently the only person in Kirkwall who likes this city."

[highborn]

“All the more reason for my confidence,” he says brightly. “Though you may have competition for your title soon, it’s growing on me.”