"A Lead at Last"

Log Date:
	9/22/00

Log Cast:
	BroadShoulders, Faanshi, Silent-Eagle

Log Intro:
	Now that she has regained her strength and recovered from the
illness that had struck her, Faanshi has resumed her mission to try to find
the Sylvans who violated the ritual of Invoking the Flame. And at long
last, she has managed to get a lead on someone who might perhaps be able to
point her to the elusive city Sylvans known as the Eyotajolon -- a man who,
she has discovered to her chagrin, keeps a smithy not far at all from her own 
teacher's herb-shop.
	And who, she is about to discover, not only can provide her with
at least the beginnings of information to take back to her mistress, but
who also has information about Faanshi's own past...
	Because he'd known her father.

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================* 
             Time of day:  Afternoon 
          Date on Aether:  Sunday, February 18, 3907. 
           Year on Earth:  1507 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Crescent 
                  Season:  Waning Winter 
                 Weather:  Partly Cloudy 
             Temperature:  Bracing 
*==========================================================================*

Fox's Forge - East Bordertown - Haven
The Fox's Forge is dimly lit, with the red glow of the ever-burning fire 
  providing most of the illumination. The scent of charcoal hangs heavy here, 
  and the shafts of light which make their way through windows and door reveal 
  countless motes of soot and smoke hanging in the air. By the street-door, 
  display cases sit, carefully kept clean; their contents gleam in the light. 
  Behind the great brick-built forge, a small door sits in the darkest corner; 
  the way to the Smith's personal quarters. A set of bellows sits besides the 
  forge, and an anvil on a block of oak. Hammers, pincers and other tools are 
  neatly racked on the back wall, along with a vise and several shapes of 
  hammer-block. The floor is swept, and the windows of thick, bubbly glass are 
  as clean as can be.
Contents:
BroadShoulders(#2418PVXcefm)
Obvious exits:
Out <O>  Small Door <SD>

Winter is nearly over, and the wind is somewhat warmer than it has been - 
  though not warm, by any means. The smith and his two apprentices are hard at 
  work, he showing them the intricacies of weaving wires of gold together to 
  form pendants of trees, leaves and doves, popular symbols of the coming 
  season. This time, however, he has added a few twin-bladed axes and tiny 
  longboats to the pieces lying finished on a cloth, since he is fairly 
  certain that the Aesir will start a new fashion or three.

Faanshi is perhaps one of the only people in Haven who hasn't had time or 
  inclination to steal even a glimpse of the newcomers from the north. The 
  shudra girl has had far too much on her mind driving her these past weeks, 
  to the point of distraction from all else -- and even illness. Though she is 
  healthy again, she is still distracted, and it is with a desperate 
  conviction that she is seeking out her few remaining hopes that she's gone 
  to Delphi this morning to try to get new ways to fulfill her mission. She 
  has been given a name of a Commander of the Hounds... but on her way out, 
  she's also found a passing merchant who has _finally_, almost miraculously, 
  advised her as to where she can find the forge of the smith BroadShoulders.
And it's hardly far away at all from FallingStar's own shop. Ushas, how did 
  she manage to miss it, all these weeks? Trying to be brave, trying not to 
  hope too heavily that she might have gotten a break at last, the shudra girl 
  tentatively enters the forge, her big dog at her heels. "H-hello?" she calls 
  out.

BroadShoulders turns to look at the door, while the apprentices keep working. 
  He smiles broadly when he sees who it is, and his eyes match the warmth of 
  the forge. "Chookma, Healer. Take a seat. Would you care for some mulled 
  cider? And the dog, I have some sausages if he likes?" And indeed, there is 
  a cauldron of warm cider and spices hanging over the forge-coals, keeping 
  warm - but sausages are nowhere within sight or smell, fortunately.

BroadShoulders(#2418PVXcefm)
Anyone looking at BroadShoulders sees an aging Sylvan male of greather than 
  average height with rather more bulk than the usual, though it would soon be 
  obvious that the extra weight was not fat. Brilliant green eyes smile out of 
  a bearded, sooty face - after this many years of smoke and dust, the dirt is 
  ingrained in every piece of exposed skin, even to the tips of his pointed 
  ears, poking through his hair - though when he expends a great deal of 
  effort, his pale skin-tone starts to show through the soot, revealing many 
  scars from hot metal and flying sparks down his arms. Tattoos are visible, 
  three spots down each cheekbone and abstract spirals, loops and whorls down 
  his great arms. His long hair is the metallic brown of bronze though silver 
  streaks it liberally, and it is caught at the nape of his neck in a 
  well-used silver clasp shaped like a fox's head, of his own making. He has 
  very little body-hair, due to the excessive heat with which he works, and 
  his hairline too is retreating. A long leather apron is worn over trousers 
  and a sleeveless shirt, and heavy boots complete the ensemble.

Food? Faanshi blinks for a moment over her veil, almost uncomprehendingly, as 
  she realizes she hasn't had a thing to eat all day -- and the thought of 
  warm cider sounds positively heavenly. The maiden's gaze flashes to the fire 
  and lingers there with a palpable yearning for a moment or two, while Kosha 
  occupies himself with sniffing out all the strange new scents of this place 
  into which his mistress has brought him, his tail a-wag. Faanshi, though, 
  has no stomach for food at the moment, and it seems to hear that she cannot 
  allow herself to indulge in the luxury of cider even if her slender form is 
  still braced against the cold of outside, only beginning to relax now that 
  she's stepped into the warmth of this place. Awkwardly she clasps her hands 
  at her breast and bows over them to the aging Sylvan, blurting, "N-Namaste', 
  Imphadi... thank you, but I-I cannot... I do not want to interrupt your 
  duties for long... but I have come to ask if I may speak to you? For just a 
  few moments...?"

BroadShoulders nods. "Of course you may. But only if you stop for something to 
  eat, hmm? And stop calling me Imphadi? You are a Healer, you should know 
  things aren't right when you're shaking, and you are in Sylvan society, 
  close to my equal. Age alone separates us. Be at ease, you have all the time 
  you need." With a nod, the apprentices leave the room by the back door. "All 
  three of us, my apprentices and I, know that anyone might step in at any 
  time for a conversation. I'm rather used to it by now." He waves the Healer 
  to a seat. "Now, what did you wish to talk about?"

Because the smith is an elder and a man, it is easy enough for Faanshi to let 
  herself be ordered -- even if gently so -- into a seat. She gingerly lowers 
  herself into a chair, blushing behind her veil as she cannot help but 
  remember that she's driven herself into fever lately. But she hasn't exactly 
  had a choice in the matter, not with the urgency of her search and the weeks 
  it has gone unsuccessfully fulfilled. On Sylvan ways she makes no commentary 
  save for a crinkling of her brow; oh, aye, she knows these things, just by 
  observation of her teacher's family alone, but knowing the way Sylvans treat 
  one another and letting herself actually consider herself as free to follow 
  those ways herself are two different things entirely. Faanshi allows herself 
  only to nod her head once in respectful acknowledgement, drawing in a shaky 
  breath as she tries to gather the courage to tell her story for the second 
  time in one day. "It is about the Varati ritual that happened... many weeks 
  ago," she begins. "Before the winter was bad, a-and before the northern ones 
  came... the ritual was v-violated by Sylvans, Imph..." Just in time the 
  halfbreed girl catches herself, biting back the rest of that reflexively 
  uttered title. Then she swallows down the lump in her throat and continues, 
  "I am commanded to find the ones that d-did it, and I have been searching 
  for many, many weeks, but I cannot find them... I cannot think of any other 
  Sylvans to ask but you..." And for once, Faanshi lifts up her gaze, her eyes 
  full and stricken over her veil. "I beg of you... c-can you tell me who I 
  must speak with, to find the Eyotajolon?"

BroadShoulders hrrms softly, thoughtfully, as he fetches a pair of mugs and 
  fills them with cider. "Eyotajolon, you say? I have heard of them, it is 
  true. Whether they are a myth or not is another matter." The door opens 
  again, and the apprentices enter, bringing food for dog and halfbreed both. 
  As soon as the platters are taken from them, the young men vanish back the 
  way they came. BroadShoulders rests one mug on the hearth-wall near Faanshi, 
  keeping the other for himself. "But I have not heard of the interruption of 
  a Varati ritual. Please, speak on - and if you need a title to call me by, 
  call me 'Elder'; most people do, whether I deserve it or not."

FOOD! Kosha, unlike his mistress, has no scruples about happily gobbling up 
  the sausage that one of those apprentices sets before him; Faanshi, however, 
  is much slower to let herself pick up a mug of cider. And she holds it for 
  several seconds without daring to drink it, just allowing the heat of the 
  liquid within to soak through her sungolden hands. "Y-yes, Elder," she 
  whispers, her gaze resting dolefully upon that cup. "The ritual, you see... 
  was Invoking the Flame, for the Holy Father of the Amir-al... it was held 
  upon the beach. But w-while it was held... there were Sylvans that came, and 
  blew dust on people... it caused visions... made p-people act strangely...!" 
  Telling this story a second time today proves no easier than telling it the 
  first time, and Faanshi blinks back the tears threatening at the edges of 
  her vision. "Someone e-even blew dust on the Maharani... and then the next 
  day..." Her voice grows even softer, rougher if so gentle a voice can be 
  said to grow rough. "The M-Maharani commanded me to find the ones who 
  v-violated the ritual...!"

BroadShoulders sighs. "I do not know who violated a ritual sacred to the 
  Varati. Any more than I know who has cut trees and slaughtered wild 
  creatures. But do you remember that your festival was held at the same time 
  as Ferrin's? The ones who puffed dust at you may well have been under its 
  influence themselves."

"Ferrin...?" Startled into looking up, Faanshi blinks tearily at the smith now 
  over her veil. She knows of a few Sylvan gods -- but this is not one of 
  them. "I... I-I do not know that god, Elder... I only know of Tupuran, and 
  the Grandmother, because my teacher follows them...."

BroadShoulders nods, taking a sip of cider and sitting down himself. "The 
  Grandmother and Tupuran are two of the greatest, yes, but there are many 
  more. Tirawa, the sky-father, the Grandmother's mate - he is the third of 
  the greatest Sylvan gods. Beneath them there are many more - Sedna and 
  Onatha, who with the Grandmother, are the Three who the Empyreans now know 
  as the Graiae. Tohil the artist, Liu the bard, and Ferrin the trickster are 
  the other well-known Gods. Ferrin is the trickster, God of jests and japes 
  as well as thievery - legend has it he stole fire from the Varati for the 
  Sylvans to use. He is also the protector of wild beasts and the defender of 
  the Forest, but here in the City he is most revered as the trickster. Can 
  you see why Sylvans would think it a fine thing to disrupt a Varati ritual 
  on his holy day?"

Faanshi listens to all of this, one corner of her mind genuinely interested 
  and hungry for anything that might once have meant something to the father 
  she never knew. But most of her attention rests upon that final question, 
  and she goes very still at the import of what has been suggested to her. Shy 
  she may be, chronically bashful, but nevertheless Faanshi is not without 
  wits. "You are saying," she croaks, "that they might have done it... because 
  they thought it was a holy thing?"

BroadShoulders nods slowly. "Yes, they might. As I have said, they were 
  probably a little drugged themselves at that point. It is hard to use that 
  stuff without getting a little of it yourself." That last sentence rings 
  with a certain confidence born of experience. He changes the subject, or 
  attempts to. "So, did you seek Eyotajolon just to tell them off, or was 
  there more to it than that?"

Silent-Eagle enters the smithy from the street.
Silent-Eagle has arrived.
Silent-Eagle slips through the door, his woolen cloak pulled tightly around 
  his thin frame, glancing about, a mixture of hesistantancy and determination 
  on his features.
Silent-Eagle looks at you for a moment.

There is a girl visiting BroadShoulders today, a maiden in Varati garb with a 
  big dog happily eating sausage at her feet. But the mood of the hound is in 
  direct contrast to the mood of the maiden; Faanshi looks as though she has 
  just taken a blow to the gut, if what little of her visage can be seen is 
  any indication. She has not yet touched the food the apprentices have 
  brought her -- and although she had been about to let herself sip at the 
  cider, she stops in mid-motion instead, a sudden dreadful feeling of 
  sickness spreading through her heart. She has wits. And her wits are telling 
  her now that if the Sylvans who violated the ritual in honor of Ashur Masad 
  did so out of reasons _they_ called holy, and if she tries to go back to 
  Atesh-Gah and tell this to those she serves, then those she serves will 
  unleash the kind of wrath that the Children of Fire can produce when they 
  feel their God has been dishonored. After all, were not the rebellious Clans 
  of the Varati themselves just recently smitten by the righteous fury of the 
  Amir-al and the mighty hosts who follow Him? Her eyes go nearly black with 
  fright, and in a hollow, horrified voice she breathes, "The Maharani... 
  commanded me to find the violators... and said if I did not... then th-the 
  other half of my kin would be bathed in blood, Elder...!" 'Tell them off'? 
  Understatement of the year, my good smith.

Silent-Eagle blinks, at the sight and the sound of the girl...he stops, 
  staring, for a long moment, then suddenly, he hurries to her side, hands 
  reaching out, evidently seeking to place one on each of her shoulders, 
  assuming he's not interfered with.

BroadShoulders shrugs. "I would expect nothing less from the kinsmen of your 
  other soul, Healer. But your Maharani herself has followed two religions now 
  - both Empyrean and Varati. She, to my mind, betrays her Gods. Or does she 
  still go the Empyrean temple on occasion, and revere Khalid Atar as nothing 
  more than husband and ruler?" He snorts. "You see, you are not going to be 
  able to reconcile the two sides of this debate. It is true I had no idea 
  that Sylvans were going to disrupt the ritual - but it is also true that I 
  do not know which ones, and unlike your other kin I am not going to 
  sacrifice many innocents in order to ensure the guilty are dead. I think 
  Delphi may have something to say if the entire Sylvan population of Haven is 
  under threat." He may not like the Tower, but they have their uses.

Silent-Eagle
        Standing a bit over five and a half feet in height, this lithe young 
  Sylvan would pose no threat to anyone who looked at his body alone. His 
  dusky brown skin shows almost no musculature, almost waifishly thin. 
  However, those who look onward to his face might gather a different 
  impression.
        His eyes, a pale shade of green, look out on the world with a wary, 
  yet withdrawn expression. Little emotion shows on his thin lips, however, 
  his characteristically pointed ears seem to twitch at the slightest motion. 
  A poorly healed scar runs down the side of his bony cheek to his neck, the 
  dark red line a contrast to the clear complexion of his face. His dark brown 
  hair barely touches the top of his head, it looks like he's just regrowing 
  it after having been completely shaven.
        His clothing is quite simple, a plain brown leather vest that looks 
  like it's seen better days, perhaps a few decades ago, and dark brown 
  leather pants, purely functional in nature. A rope belt, with several 
  pouches hanging from it. lies loose on his hips. Over all this, he wears a 
  plain off-white woolen cloak.

Kosha sees Silent-Eagle coming before Faanshi does, and the dog snaps up an 
  inquiring gaze as the young man reaches for his mistress' shoulders. Faanshi 
  herself starts violently at the touch of fingers upon her, almost spilling 
  her cider in the process. Eyes greener than Silent-Eagle's own flash up for 
  a moment in reflexive timid reaction, before the words of BroadShoulders 
  snatch back her attention with what to her feels like brutal finality. 
  "It..." Her veil hides her mouth and the way it opens and closes a few times 
  as she struggles to speak, but it does not hide the tears now falling freely 
  from her eyes. "It is not my place... to resolve it," she stammers. "I have 
  been commanded... I must obey...!" It seems to her, too, that she is not 
  going to find help here, and she surges to her dainty feet with an 
  uncharacteristic vigor, her hands still shaking as they grip the cup of 
  cider. "I-I-I beg you, Elder... if you can speak to anyone in the 
  Eyotajolon... find out who did it or at least c-c-convince them to make 
  reparations... perhaps no one will die..." And she trails off in despair, 
  growing more and more certain that someone _is_ going to die and it will be 
  on _her_ head.

Silent-Eagle winces, suddenly, from the reactions and the words, perhaps, for 
  he draws back, away from the people, into a corner, pulling himself out of 
  sight, where promptly, he collapses to the ground, curled up into a ball, 
  trembling.

BroadShoulders throws up his hands, looking slightly annoyed. "And what, pray 
  tell, do city-Sylvans have that Varati want? I have no idea. You tell me, is 
  it *possible* for Sylvans to make reparations without giving over our kin to 
  become slaves and sacrifices?" He looks over to Silent-Eagle in the corner, 
  faintly puzzled and more than a little worried. The Elder stands, taking up 
  his nearly-full mug of warm, spiced cider. He walks towards Silent-Eagle, 
  one hand outstretched, hoping to get the man upright and doing something 
  other than shaking. Surely the Healer will help...

Silent-Eagle winces, looking up, taking a deep breath, then another, still 
  trembling faintly. He slips up to his feet, without the help of his hand, 
  using the wall, and stammers out, eyes wide. "N..no..n.no death?!?" Ok, he's 
  in a bit of shock.

Faanshi has to admit, she can't exactly say what would satisfy the Maharani -- 
  and to be honest, she isn't entirely certain that the entire matter is still 
  a priority, what with the far more serious distractions lately of a 
  rebellion against Khalid Atar and that august personage's apparent death... 
  and resurrection. But she has not been called off the search, and she has no 
  choice but to pursue it as far as she can. Still weeping, flinching against 
  the smith's aggravated tone, the halfbreed maiden whispers, "It... is a-also 
  not my place to guess what my mistress w-would want. I can return to 
  Atesh-Gah and ask, if there is anyone... a-a Sachem, someone... who could 
  negotiate--" She cuts herself off, however, as BroadShoulders turns his 
  attention to the young man cowering in the corner, and as Faanshi looks 
  Silent-Eagle's way as well, some of the tears she's shedding come forth for 
  him and the obvious distress she's caused him. "I am so sorry," she 
  breathes, aghast, now even more heartsick than she was when she set foot in 
  here. She sets down her cider in the first place she can, not trusting her 
  hands to hold the cup. But she does not have the luxury of backing away and 
  leaving the Sylvans to their business, not yet. One final plaintive question 
  escapes her, for BroadShoulders: "I-is there anyone... who would accept such 
  word, if I brought it...?"

For the moment, the smith is rather intent on Silent-Eagle, rather than 
  Faanshi. Being so distracted, he lets slip something he probably hadn't 
  meant to. "You can leave word with me. We have no Sachem. Now will you help 
  me, Healer, or will you flee your responsibilities to the sick as well as 
  your own people?" Reaching Silent-Eagle, that hand is outstretched to grasp 
  the lad's, open it and put the mug within. "Listen, lad. Nobody here is 
  about to die. Calm yourself. Drink some of this, it'll steady you."

Silent-Eagle winces, but, taking a gulp of air, he then takes a gulp of the 
  liquid, then nods, forcing himself to stand up, stammering out, 
  determination fighting with other parts of him. "Wha...what c..can..can I 
  d..do?"

Again Faanshi winces, the rebuke from the smith dealing another blow to a 
  psyche already under serious strain from the task that has been placed upon 
  her. "The young Imphadi i-is not ill," she whispers, head hanging, shoulders 
  drooped as though a great weight bows them down. There is no swirl of 
  discontent from her magic, and so she can say this with as much authority as 
  she is able to muster about anything -- which, at the moment, is not 
  admittedly very much. She says nothing about her people, however, even 
  though a great tightness constricts her throat and her chest as she tells 
  herself that she has no people. Rather, she is caught between two entirely 
  disparate peoples, belonging to neither of them. And now BroadShoulders 
  seems to her no different from a Warlord, commanding her, rebuking her, and 
  to whom she has no choice but to be obedient lest she invoke his ire. In a 
  voice that goes absolutely dull and toneless, with her gaze solidly riveted 
  upon the floor, she asks, "Does the Elder w-wish me to fetch him food or a 
  blanket?"

Silent-Eagle blinks, glancing back and forth between the other two, wide eyed, 
  confused, gulping for air, as he stammers out. "Who..who's hurt? Who..who 
  n.n.needs help?", his hand gripping the mug tightly.

To Silent-Eagle first, "Sit down, drink this. Steady yourself. No-one's hurt, 
  since the Healer says you are well." The cup is handed over, and a pat on 
  the shoulder follows it. Then to Faanshi. "I apologise, Healer. I have no 
  such power myself, and when a young man falls over in a corner I start to 
  worry. And when I start to worry, I get a little short. I am also worried 
  over what you have told me, but in truth there is little I can do. I *will 
  not* give my people to the Varati, but I do not know what else may be done. 
  If the Shaman permits it, I will come and speak with your Maharani - but if 
  she forbids it, I will not." He stares at Faanshi's face above the veil for 
  a moment, a slight frown on his face, quickly dismissed. There's something 
  familiar about the girl, though he can't say what it is, and a slight air of 
  puzzlement radiates from him. "Again, I apologise. Most women I know would 
  have swift words for me in return, rather than sit and shake. If I've hurt 
  your feelings, I'm sorry."

Silent-Eagle blinks, gulping, as he finds a seat, shaking, taking a gulp of 
  air, then looking up at the girl, swallowing, as he stammers out, 
  hesitantly, almost to himself. "th..the Healer?"

A few things begin to seep through Faanshi's consciousness now, not exactly 
  offsetting her misery, but at least beginning to make it past the utter 
  desolation that has swamped her. BroadShoulders _himself_ can speak to her 
  mistress, and for the Eyotajolon? He is the one she should have been 
  seeking, all along? What overwhelms both of these, however, is the simple 
  fact that the smith has just _apologized_ to her. Her gaze comes up, greatly 
  hesitant, but as wide and surprised as if the Sylvan with gray in his hair 
  had just turned into a donkey right before her very eyes. How often, 
  exactly, does this maiden receive an apology from a man? Such a thing cannot 
  be guessed by the two Sylvans -- but her shock is easily palpable, as well 
  as the apparent utter lack of a sharp-natured bone anywhere in her slender 
  body. "I will report to the Kaimakam," she breathes then, "to say what you 
  have said... and I-I thank you, for your assistance... from the bottom of my 
  heart...!" Impulsively, fervently, she gives a deep little bow. Not one word 
  does she utter, however, about what damage might have been done to her 
  feelings.
And in the meantime, his sausage now nothing more than a memory, Kosha yurfs 
  uncertainly at his young mistress. He too has gotten up, doggish concern 
  visible in his liquid dark eyes as he stares up at Faanshi. Once or twice 
  his tail wags, as if he hopes to give her comfort by his very presence.

Silent-Eagle blinks, falling silent, glancing back and forth quickly between 
  the smith and the girl, evidently completely lost, eyes wide, bemused.

BroadShoulders raises a finger to stop Faanshi before she can go, and speaks 
  in urgent, cautious tones. "No names, Healer. Say nothing that will identify 
  me, just that you have found someone with whom to speak. Or your other kin 
  may well descend in fury before we can repair the damage that has been done. 
  You should not know what I have let slip, and for the sake of us all, keep 
  it close." And to Silent-Eagle; "And that goes for you, too, young man."

Silent-Eagle blinks again, and taking a few, slow breaths, nods briefly, 
  blinking, glancing back and forth, still trying to get a handle on the 
  situation.

Her eyes are still wet; embarrassed to discover them so, the halfbreed girl 
  rubs a dainty hand across them, trying to clear away her tears. She can 
  control her voice and keep from giving words to her personal inner pains, 
  but she cannot stop herself from crying and it shames her to realize this 
  each time it happens. But she does peek up again, the smith's words going 
  home within her. Why the Eyotajolon choose to remain so secret is beyond her 
  ken -- but she will respect that desire. Once more deeply inclining her 
  sari-covered head, Faanshi whispers, "As you wish, so shall it be, Elder." 
  Even if only by a fraction, her soft little voice lightens, relief and 
  gratitude providing at least the beginnings of a counterbalance to the 
  terrified worry she has been undergoing for weeks now. That relief and 
  gratitude register far more palpably in her eyes, veil or no veil.

BroadShoulders chuckles. "You're mystified, aren't you? Why we stay hidden? 
  Well, tell me, Healer, why do Sylvans form Tribes?"

Silent-Eagle seems content to silently watch the exchange, as he tries to put 
  2 and 2 together and not receive 7.

It would be very easy to claim she doesn't know the answer to BroadShoulders' 
  question. Faanshi has had only minimal exposure to Sylvan tribes, after all, 
  and her own teacher has no direct connection to any of the local tribal 
  groups. But the girl _does_ have wits, and she has at least a small glimmer 
  of imagination carefully hidden away and protected beneath the protective 
  shell of a servant's stoicism she has had to develop. The question is, is it 
  proper for her to express such things here? Not at all sure of that, Faanshi 
  timidly replies, "For companionship... family? Protection?" Varati Clans do 
  that, she knows. As she speaks her hand seeks out the head of her dog, an 
  entirely instinctive motion. Girl and hound seem to easily find one another 
  that way, the healer's slender fingers unthinkingly scritching at Kosha's 
  ears, Kosha's tail picking up speed in its wagging as a result.

Silent-Eagle swallows, gaze dropping back down to his mug, from which he takes 
  a quiet sip.

BroadShoulders smiles. "For all those reasons, and more. Ten Sylvans together 
  can accomplish more than ten individuals. Most of us can never go into the 
  Forest - we were born here, as were our parents. All those generations ago, 
  when Sylvans first came to Delphi and found themselves unfit for Forest 
  life, they banded together. To worship the Gods as they should be 
  worshipped, to survive against the ravages of the other races, to live. In 
  time, there were graisha, who could never be a part of either city or forest 
  - but they were a part of the Tribe. There has been a Tribe in Haven as long 
  as there have been Sylvans, and always we have kept quiet. We do not want 
  the wars other groups bring upon themselves, we do not want the notice given 
  to such as the Clans of the Varati or the Houses, although our pedigree is 
  as good as theirs. We can never be accepted by any of the other peoples in 
  Haven save perhaps the Atlanteans, and so we find it easier to remain in the 
  shadows."

Never accepted by any of the other peoples of Haven. That is assuredly a 
  situation that resonates right through to Faanshi's core, and even if the 
  maiden weren't already sympathetic to the Children of Earth living within 
  the city, that concept alone would assure her a connection to them. Humbled 
  that BroadShoulders has chosen to share this with her, the girl stands 
  quietly and listens as he speaks his words, her eyes very full. And at last 
  she draws in a breath, something like composure returning and bringing with 
  it a measure of sorely needed conviction that even if the efforts of a 
  shudra make little impression upon the powers that be among the Varati, that 
  she makes her efforts at all is right, is just, and in keeping with her 
  humble understanding of the holy surahs with which she has been raised. "I 
  will not give your name to the Imphadi Kaimakam," she promises in utmost 
  earnestness. "I swear it -- by the everlasting Flame of the Hawk of 
  Heaven... and the mercy of His Holy Mother...!"

Silent-Eagle blinks, looking up, squinting, studying Faanshi now, an 
  expression of clear confusedness on his features.

BroadShoulders grins, holding up his hands almost in defense. "I believe you, 
  Healer. My thanks. Oh yes, thinking of the Hawk of Heaven - do you think 
  pilgrims might be interested in buying tokens of the firebird and the tale 
  of his return from one who saw it?" He winks as he changes the subject, now 
  the business man talking to a friend, always ready to improve the Forge's 
  prospects. Needless to say, he's told the tale a few times, mentioning with 
  a grin all those Varati backsides he saw waving in the breeze. But if Varati 
  are going to be listening, he'll leave out the comedy part that's appealed 
  so much to all his other listeners...

Apologies are foreign to Faanshi -- and truth be told, so is humor. Hearing it 
  now catches her a little off guard, though it eases her mind just a bit to 
  see the grin on the face of the smith now. "I-I-I do not know," she blurts, 
  her timid little smile hidden behind her veil, though her voice seems to 
  ease a bit as she answers him. "I... did not see it, I only discovered the 
  Amir-al had returned days after..." Er. She doesn't exactly want to admit 
  that she was ill for two and a half days with a fever before her magic 
  regained enough strength to burn it out of her, and so she falters and says 
  itself, "After I was gone. I would not know who to ask, I am afraid...!"

Silent-Eagle's head glances back and forth, still the silent, bemused observer.

BroadShoulders smiles. "I'll have to find out elsewhere, then. Perhaps, if I 
  see the Maharani, she would appreciate a rendition of the tale?"

Faanshi crinkles her brow, not at all certain of what Thalia would or would 
  not appreciate, these days. "I do not know," she has to confess, abashed. 
  "I-I have not spoken with the Imphada Maharani as of late... perhaps the 
  Kaimakam would know. I will ask him." And she draws in another breath, 
  steadying herself as much as she can, squaring her dainty shoulders. "I 
  should return to Atesh-Gah, Elder... Imphadi." This last is to the watchful 
  Silent-Eagle, whom Faanshi has not forgotten. "I must let the Kaimakam know 
  I-I have made... at least a little progress...!"

BroadShoulders smiles and nods, not at all bothered by Faanshi's lack of 
  knowledge, though he is rather annoyed at what Varati culture has done to a 
  woman who should be free to think her own thoughts and say her own words. 
  "Before you go, Healer, tell me - who was your father?" Every time the 
  Healer has moved, the feeling of resemblance and recognition has grown 
  stronger and stronger. Silent-Eagle's mug is absently retrieved, refilled in 
  a few paces and the returned to his grasp.

Silent-Eagle blinks, as he's noticed, glancing down at the table, with a deep 
  breath.

Even as she prepares herself to move towards the door, Faanshi stops dead 
  still in her tracks at BroadShoulders' question. He could not have stopped 
  her more effectively with a crossbow bolt between her shoulderblades, and 
  now the gaze she turns back to him is full of an entirely new and different 
  kind of shock. "His... name was... Lonewalker, Elder," she rasps out tinily. 
  "Jord Lonewalker."

BroadShoulders grins, delightedly. "So *you're* Lonewalker's daughter, eh? 
  Stop by sometime, when you have no important mission, and I'll tell you what 
  I know of him, if you like. You can't have been very old when he felt 
  Tuparan's embrace. I think we have a lot to talk about, my dear."

"You... knew..." Faanshi had been shocked before. Now she is positively 
  thunderstruck, eyes going round above her veil. Those two choked little 
  syllables are all that she's able to get out as her amazement almost makes 
  her faint right then and there. A second person in Haven who knew her sire. 
  Is this a gift from Ushas, for having found someone who can talk to the 
  Kaimakam about the violated ritual? With great effort she shakes herself, 
  trying to retake control of her voice. "I... would be honored, Elder..."

Silent-Eagle looks back up, squinting, taking slow, careful breaths.

BroadShoulders chuckles. "Go on now, before your Kaimakam tears down my door 
  in search of you. Lonewalker's spirit can wait a while yet. It's been what, 
  nineteen, twenty years? Another few days won't harm anything."

"Twenty..." Faanshi blurts, and again that is all she can manage to say, 
  before she manages to resume full control of her feet. Hastily, shaken to 
  her very core, the maiden sketches an unsteady bow to the smith as well as 
  the young Sylvan who's been listening to all of this. "Namaste', Elder, 
  Imphadi... a-again, I thank you...! Kosha, come..." And with that she backs 
  away to the door, bumping into the jamb as she does, before whirling and 
  stumbling out into the cold.

[End log.]