Though the North and South Marketplace may boast of its plenitude, its multitude of materials and possessions for the buying and selling, the Mistress of Spices has its own boast. It is the quietest sector in all Chennai-Madras. Here, the air is fragrant. Here, the pet plants that hang in pots give the feeling of ancient jungles. And this, the temple in the heart of darkness. The point of Illumination. Of Understanding. Not only may you select incense and rubbings, oils and ointments for everything from Enlightenment and Chakras to those associated with the Kama Sutra. The Art and Practice of Love...
     Small wooden tables are gathered to the right of the entrance, and to the back of the shop. Covered in beautifully dyed silks. Small -- they are but a foot off of the floor's surface. Small platforms for holding the tea of those who might rest and linger upon cushions. There is constant activity. The bells upon the door chime to announce those coming and going. And yet there is the hush of No-Thing-Ness here. Peace. Tranquillity. And that is something North and South Marketplace can not boast off...

     In the rear of the shop, seated upon one of the cushions is a young man. Not unhandsome, he is bronzed with time in the sun and dressed Half Occident, Half Orient. His legs are folded, cross-legged. There are several others about, and two lovely women, wrapped in their saris and their traditional garb, move in and out among those gathered. Pouring new teas. Lighting new incense. Inviting new Experience.

     During one of the times that the bells of the door chimes, a young woman enters. Normally this might not attract attention, however with hair like hers, who could miss such an entrance? Standing just to one side of the door, the woman with locks the colour of new copper removes her sunglasses with her right hand and looks around with emerald-colored eyes. Her other hand reaches up to remove her wide-brimmed hat, drawing attention to the tattoo on her left arm. A large back-pack is carried over one shoulder, while a water canister hangs over the opposite hip. This one's been doing some traveling...much traveling.

     "Ah... miss..." says one of the women, her fingers and hands adorned with a reddish ink. Tattoos of the Hindi, what is called mehndi, here. "Welcome to the Mistress of Spices... may I be of assistance, my name is Tahri..." And she is lovely. Her long black hair is curly and to her waist, bound behind her only occasionally by bronze gathers. She makes a tinkling sound as she moves. Her barefeet are belled. "We have many spices we may show you... or teas if you wish to rest..." A slender hand motions to the back of the store...

     At the back of the store, as was noted, there are several individuals there. At least one of whom is sitting, cross-legged. As if in meditation. It is, in actuality, a game of solitaire. Cards are spread out upon and across the tabletop, and the young man's smile, twists as he overturns a card. It is not cheating -- it is... creative learning. Upon further study, you might notice that beneath his traditional head-covering, his hair is black and curly. His eyes are odd for this region -- they are quicksilver grey. There is an odd beauty about him. Odd because it seems to be an afterthought. Odd, because perhaps he is beautiful but no one is certain why. It is the same way when one takes a breath of a certain spice... and one is not sure whether it is liked or not. But it intrigues all the same. He lifts his eyes as the doors chime again. And then glances a moment to his side...
     Is it odd? His cup is never allowed to cool. One of the Indian women always attends him. She does not speak. She only fills his cups for him. A constant, it almost seems, devotion. How odd...

     "Oh, well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Tahri," the redhead chimes in with a warm smile. "My name is Una," she answers back. Looking about with a sweeping gaze, she nods once and then replies, "Tea would be lovely...it's been so long since I've had a really nice cup."

     "Please," Tahri says with a warm smile. "The cushions are comfortable.. please... I will pour you our special blend today. It is called the Lotus...." And after gesturing you to a seat, she disappears in the back of the shop. Bells chime again...

     Una. Well, that gets a look. And the other woman, mid-pour of fresh tea for the dark-haired young man, also looks up. She completes her task, and then rises. She too moves to the back. The young man gives a brief smile -- polite -- and then turns back to his cards. Yet another is turned over, and set upon a ten-of-hearts. "The Lotus is exceptional," he says, with a strange non-Indian lilt. It is, in fact, an Irish accent...

     The accent gets a look from Una now. Her emerald gaze flickers quickly over toward the man in the back. The eyes narrow momentarily, as though she is trying to remember something. But then that fades. "Thank you for the input. I look forward to trying it, then," Una states with a light smile, heading over to some free cushions. The back-pack is lowered to the floor, the hat placed on top of it, as are the sunglasses. Finally, she lowers herself to the cushions with a light sigh. It must feel good to sit down.

     A finger presses upon a card and sticks there. As if it were a chess-piece and he were deciding his next move. He closes his eyes. "Seven of Hearts..." he says, and then he turns it over. Nine-of-Clubs. Lips pucker into a purse of a smile and then he lifts the card and places it elsewhere. A moment later, all the cards are gathered in his hands and he begins shuffling them. Such agile hands. Slender, yet masculine. Strong, yet deft. The cards move like butterflies in and out of his fingers grasp. All without so much as a glance from him. He instead turns to look at the new arrival, tipping his head back. "Always happy to help," he murmurs. And then he grins, leaning toward her. "Kit... Kit Marlowe..." he says in introduction. Kit Marlowe. Hey, wasn't he that poet? Queen Elizabeth I? Bit of a spy, got stabbed in some drunken brawl..?

     Glancing back up again, Una smiles and nods a bit toward him, replying, "Pleased to meet you. Una O'Brien." Perhaps the name rings a bell with her...perhaps it does not. If it does, it doesn't show on her face. Her hand is then extended toward Kit in greeting.

     Bells chime and Tahri appears from the back of the shop, tray in hand. There is a ceramic kettle and a cup. There is also a small plate of tea cakes. These, traditional treats of Chennai. Honey dates and almonds cakes. "Here you are... Miss... enjoy from the Mistress of Spices..." And Tahri sets the tray upon the small table beside Kit's. Behind her, the other lovely woman. As she moves to the front, she glances toward Kit Marlowe. His cup seems full yet. He seems content -- and this seems to satisfy her. Outside, the sun is heading toward the later portions of its stations...

     "Una... O'Brien," he says, with a lyrical touch. Perhaps it is that such a name is natural for his tongue to form. "A pleasure..." He pauses his shuffling to shake her hand. "I was sitting her pondering the universe. It is a bit of a thankless job, that... care to join me?" Kit sets the cards aside and then he lifts his cup of tea. Pondering the universe. That seems to get a look from his attending woman. A small smile. Many things pass between the two women as they congregate near the front of the shop.

     "Thank you, Tahri," Una says to the woman, eyeing the tea and tea cakes. This will hit the spot, her face seems to say. Her gaze then flickers back to Kit as her hand is shaken. "Pondering the universe?" she asks. "What does such a task entail?" Her curiosity is piqued slightly, even as her hand is withdrawn so that she may try some of the tea, though she seems unsure of all of this. This has to be one of the stranger places she's ever visited...but not strange as in weird....strange as in alien. She only just arrived and is still trying to adjust to it all.

     "It usually entails a lot of solitaire and a certain amount of whiskey." Quicksilver eyes turn from you, and his smile is directed toward the women in the shop. One by one... and seemingly just to catch the late afternoon buses to the center of Chennai... the three students who lingered and loitered have left the shop. Now, it is the two women. The young man. And you. Kit hums a song, murmuring the word "Tattva" every once in a while. Some local devotional. "But," he says, beginning to lay cards out again, "... some consider debate to be the better avenue. Here in Chennai for a vacation?" He asks suddenly. As he turns his head to you, the smile is warm. Slight, but warm. Amicable. "Going to the Temples I trust..."

     From behind a table, there's a leap your direction. A grey cat, arching its back from a nap. Whatever you're doing, it seems to care not about. After a rise, then a long stretch, it begins to pad out the front doorway.

     There is soft laughter from Una as she hears of solitaire and whiskey. Tasting some of the tea, Una's gaze flickers back up toward Kit as she hears his questions. Wincing as the tea is a bit too hot still, Una lowers the cup a bit and murmurs, "I'm just wandering for now..."

     Una puts the cup back on the small table and leans back on the cushions a bit, trying to get comfortable.

     Where one exits, another enters. That must be a saying somewhere. The cat disappears into the dimming light, and not a heartbeat later, there are heavy footsteps. Words are exchanged at the front of the shop, and soon the footsteps pick up again, heading towards the rear.

     The flash of grey fur did catch Kit's gaze. And grey eyes widened at the sudden motion. The look that transforms to a smirk as the cat stretches, unconcerned. "Cloud," he says in the language of this region. The cat's name -- presumably. He looks to you after. "Just... wandering. Chennai... is quite a maze you have entered," he murmurs absently. "I myself have not found all the ways through the city streets. It has me in its grasp, this land..." There is lightning held in the gaze. Something of humor. And ...charisma? Is that it? He looks to the cards in his hand, holding them still in one while his other reaches for his cup. He sips at his tea, and looks to you through the steam.
     "And so... Una... " he continues, arching black brows as he looks back to the cards in his hands. He shuffles again. "...you are a poet that you wander to far off places?" The grin is ribald. "A philosopher? Oh... let it be philosopher... I could use a good sparring..."

     Tahri moved to the doorway, opening it for said cat. And it is she who lingered there while the other entered. A smile for that. "Welcome again... please... I will bring you tea..." So Tahri says to the one she must have seen before. A regular customer?
     Copper eyebrows raise, one slightly higher than the other. "A poet or a philosopher? Who really knows? I'd be quicker to label myself as just another wanderer in a sea of wanderers, but perhaps I'd merely be opting out for the easiest explanation. I've been trying to answer that question for many many years, my friend," Una replies with a strange smile. The cup is once more lifted and now the tea, which has cooled, is officially tasted by her.

     "Philosophy?" blips from a basso voice. The man at the archway fills it, backlit...no frontlit?...as his well-over 6' frame enters. Not your normal tourist, the man, who has that American bent, shuffles inside and sighs. Dressed in well-loved khakis and a white canvas shirt, he must have served his time with National Geographic. Red hair is cropped in a buzzcut, as if he might be recent military. But all the motion of light comes to a momentary halt as someone else is present. Hazel eyes turn to see the woman sitting nearby, and he nods politely to her. Gentlemanly. "Ma'am," he says, betraying his very American self, "Good afternoon to you."

     Una's emerald gaze flickers up as she hears the new arrival's voice. She smiles politely and nods back, murmuring, "Hello there," even as her teacup is being lowered from her sip of the liquid within.

     The front door is closed by Tahri. And the sign is turned around. Windows are shuttered. And for the time being, the shop is host to but the three of you. "It is High Tea," she says, in casual explanation. A warm smile to you all. "I will pour tea for you and will return...." She and the other lovely young woman disappear once more in the back. And the... atmosphere changes. Slightly. Perhaps not so slightly.

     "Ah, here comes the Sun!" Laughter carries upon his voice, and a grin in the quicksilver gaze. Silver eyes... quite nearly metallic in this lighting. "Sol... I have met a wanderer. Miss Una O'Brien... She Whose Name Means One..." so Kit says. There is a certain emphasis upon the nickname. "Miss Una O'Brien, whose Name Means Once, this is Sol. He does not so much wander as he does conquer. But to each his own, yes?" He turns more toward Sol then, the taller of the two -- even though Kit is seated, that much is obvious. Cross-legged, he seems on the edge of meditation. "They are serving Lotus today...." he murmurs to Sol. In case he has not yet been told.

     Una cannot help but blink, slightly sputtering on her newest mouthful of tea, as she hears the nickname. Some memory is triggered, perhaps? Her cup is hastily set down on the table next to her as she grabs for a napkin, raising it quickly to her mouth. She coughs for a moment, then wipes her face as the episode seems to pass. Whispering, she says, "Pardon me...tea...went down the wrong way..." Clearing her throat, she looks up apologetically at the newcomer and says, "Pleased to meet you, Sol," her voice gaining a bit of volume as it's been cleared.

     "Oh, really?" Sol says about the Lotus tea, moving over to join you. He smiles at Una, nodding the polite, if stiff, greetings again--blinking when she has her accident. "Oops," he smirks, extending a broad hand for a shake, "I hope I don't have that effect on everyone," he smiles brightly, certainly a mother's pride. "Una's an interesting name," he comments anyway, waiting on the shake...or not.

     As soon as she's certain that there is no tea on her hand, Una reaches up and shakes Sol's hand, saying, "Oh, no...please. I apologize. I just choked on the tea...really. It wasn't you." Her cheeks warm slightly with a light crimson blush as she tries to assure him that it wasn't due to his entrance or the introduction to him. She continues to smile politely, however, saying, "Ah, well, thank you... My mother was an interesting woman and I can only assume that's how I gained the interesting name."

     He shakes, Sol does, his grip firm and warm. Very living...exuberantly so. He pumps Una's hand and then moves to take a seat perpendicular to Una. "And a pleasure to meet you too," he says, looking to the table and then to where the tea is prepared. "I'm sorry to break up your talk," Sol murmurs good naturedly, "...you were..." he smirks at Kit, "...going on about philosophy?" To Una, he turns his broad shoulders and face, "I've known Kit for a while from crossed paths," he affirms.

     "It was me, actually. I have that effect on women... Una... a very interesting name. Gaelic..." Kit pauses, inclining his head and narrowing his gaze. Silver, glinting. "Is it not? Unless the meaning is One.. " He looks to her, the smile slanting across his mouth. Prone to smiles, he is. "You are singular in the universe..." Take that as you will. The smile is part ribald, part blithe as he turns his attention to Sol. "Captain, my Captain... we had not yet begun. I was hoping to spar. Shall we discuss the Existence or Non-Existence of God?" Smooth the smile spreads warmly, and Kit lifts his cup of tea. Finishing it.

     And almost immediately, the bells chime from the back of the chop. The quiet serving maid enters. Fresh tea for Kit. And for the others here. She brings a tray of dates-honey-and-almonds as well...

     Una smiles, withdrawing her hand after the handshake. She then finishes wiping off her top, as some of the tea spilled there. Nothing that's a problem. It will wash. Her emerald gaze flickers back to Kit for a moment, then over to Sol as she smiles, replying, "Oh, you weren't really breaking up anything. I had only been sitting here a short time...." She then falls silent as Kit begins to speak, turning to stare at him for a moment. Yet something else he says seems to throw her off. But, this time she merely nods and murmurs, "Yes....it is Gaelic."

     That gets a paling red brow to arch. "Which God?" Sol pipes up, smile at his lips. When the maid enters, Sol grins brighter, as if glad to be saved from that line. "Ah..." Sol begins, then follows in a Hindi dialect. Most likely, a thank you. He turns to see Una as service begins and he nods at her polite allowance. "Gaelic, huh?" he nods, "I thought it mighta been Latin, but I've never been known to be much of a scholar." Sol looks at Kit...the more learned one getting deference on the lesson.

     "Let's start at A and work our way to Z... It's good for symmetry..." As the woman enters and bends to pour tea for Sol and for Kit, she looks also to the young woman. Something of awe there. Something of wonder. She looks back to Kit and bows her head, turning and moving back to the rear of the shop. The removed backroom. The shop is closed but for this trio...

     Kit looks to the one called Sol, and he inclines his head. "I thought it was Spanish... But... Latin, Spanish..." he makes a wave of his hand. There is a certain... warmth? ... that has settled around him. His attention is now divided between the two. Man and woman. "She is wandering through Chennai. You have heard of the temples, yes?" he asks Una in specific. "They have an interesting history. Speaking of gods," he glances to Sol, silver eyes glinting in a wink.

     Una glances up just as the woman enters and pours tea for the two of you. The look of awe and wonder is caught, and this causes Una to blink slightly. She seems completely confused. And it even takes her a moment to realize she is being spoken to. "Hmm? Oh, sorry... The temples. I've heard of them, though I haven't been there and don't know much of them. I will have to stop by, yes," she replies, looking back toward the backroom with a raised eyebrow.

     "Um...I don't think I've heard a story about the temple and any Gods..." Sol fritzes, brows furrowing as he tries to recall. "In fact...I haven't even been in there yet." He smirks at Una, "Maybe we could go at some point...though, I'm going to guess that my Hasselblad's off-limits. I do photography," Sol explains. "Hey," he raises his chin at Kit, "...so, you gonna tell us about the temple?"

     "Oh, I should have warned you..." comes Kit's lilting voice. "...I showed them card tricks earlier... and now they think I am a messenger from Shiva..." The grin is ribald. On the edge of wicked humor. "Hmm? Oh... indeed...and I will do it without looking at my book." Kit leans in, looking back and forth between you both. "Long before the British," he pauses his story, giving a nod to Una, "you're supposed to give a hiss when I say that..." And then again divided between you, his gaze is alight with the telling of it. "...arrived in India... temples were carved in praise of Shiva, even along the coast. Murals stretching all the way to Mahabalipuram...."

     Una looks back at the two of you and chuckles slightly at the 'hiss' comment. She then takes her cup and drinks more of the tea, careful not to choke this time, leaning further back into the cushions beneath her. Looking so comfortable, she seems she could possibly fall asleep here, were she in the privacy of her own home or at least a hotel room. But, she stays awake, listening to the story of the temple with honest interest, enjoying the day.

     "I doubt anyone's gonna mistake you for a servant of Shiva," Sol grumbles, rolling his eyes with much humor. "But, no one tells a story like you, so..." he waves a hand as he picks up his tea, dwarfing the cup with his hand. "We'll allow for poetic license," and he winks at Una.

     There is a moment of mock offense -- so well played, it seems in earnest. Until it breaks out in a grin. "As I was saying... Shiva..." He looks to Una then. "And there in Mahabalipuram, there are a multitude of such temples. Caverns with elaborate paintings, carvings. As if praise for God should be written on every stone. It is... a colossal devotion. A worship that eases upon nearly every surface under the sun. And despite the British..." He waits for the sound effects. "...they have withstood both Conquest and Time. As true houses of worship so often do. And why is that... is it God... or the fear of Godly Revenge..." He grins, warm and smooth. "I have often wondered this...." He looks to the front of the store and lastly to Sol. "We should be her guides," he offers. Offering and volunteering.

     "Guides?" Sol murmurs after sipping his tea. Didn't he just say he's not been inside? Licking his bottom lip, he nods anyway, glancing at Una, "We can save you from the peddlers that might try to get you to buy a colored stone from the temple," he smirks.

     "What?" quips Kit, reaching into his own vest's pocket. Colored stones tumble onto the tabletop. "You mean these?" Raven brows fly up. "You mean they don't bring good luck?"

     Una chuckles quietly and nods, "Oh, I've seen enough of those peddlers already, I'll admit." Grinning, she then adds, "Though, seeing such a sight alone might not be any fun. I would just love to have the company." Una laughs at the sight of the stones.

     Shaking his head, Sol remains quiet, using his tea as excuse. Photographer maybe, but that's perhaps his latest incarnation ... one does not develop his physique from carrying around cameras. Well, maybe -- seen the latest ones?

     Soon, such colored stones and crystals are freed from every pocket of his vest -- and there are seven -- until the tabletop is a mosaic of crystals, pebbles and small rocks. "And here I thought the gods were smiling on me. So many stones for luck, only so many pockets. Ah well..." Kit spreads them out with his hands and begins again. "There are temples, too, to Krishna. The embodiment of Wisdom. And details of how the great society rose from the flowers of his own breath... this is what you will find at Mahabalipuram..."

     "It sounds truly beautiful," Una comments before taking the last mouthful of tea from her cup.

     "It does," Sol agrees, lowering his drink. "How far is it from here now? The temple?"

     "Some...forty..." A pause. Kit tilts his head, looking heavenward a moment. "Or is it sixty? kilometers to the south. Along the Coromandel Coast. We will go," it seems decided. He looks to Una. "Have you a place to stay? If not, I know of just the room for you. Lovely. Many books. Free coffee..."

     Reaching out, Soldekai's white shirt billows as he seeks more tea. Kit will know all, that seems certain in Sol's countenance. He smiles at the mention of free coffee, and once his drink is freshened, same hand picks up one of the brighter stones to examine for a moment.

     Emerald eyes flicker from Sol to Kit as she is spoken to. Shaking her head, Una comments, "Um, no. I just arrived today and had not gotten a chance to track down a room yet.."

     Sol looks over at Una's things, hearing that she's just arrived. "You travel light," he remarks with a smile. There's an instant of the room seeming momentarily brighter when he says 'light', but, hey, it's India. Things are weird all over.

     Una blinks once as it seems to get brighter, glancing about quickly. Must have been the tea. Shaking her head, she smiles and replies, "Oh, well, yes. I try to." The back-pack itself is large, being more of the size of a hockey bag than anything. Yet, for some female stereotypes, this is light traveling. "I found that where I go, I need to bring only what I can carry on my back. That makes me leave a lot of things behind sometimes....or at least I try not to pick up a lot of extra items on the way."

     The outlaid rocks are gathered in his hands and returned to the recesses of vest pockets. It is to Sol that he turns, something of Knowing in his look. Is it familiarity? Or is it something else? "That one is for you," he says of the rock Sol has taken, lifted only to look upon. Now it is a gift. "Was that Fate or Chance?" He is in question-asking mood it seems. Offering little in the way of answers. Though by his look, he seems to know. "There is a tea room and bookstore in the south market. They have a few rooms to rent... it is family owned. Very lovely. And much more reasonable than the Mariott in the downtown Chennai-Madras. I am staying there, in fact. It has become my home away from home." He grins toward Sol. "Well, one of them. I think my next journey shall be to the volcanic formations of Iceland. I hear they're lovely this time of year..." He looks to Una, and then makes a quiet study of her few belongings. "The mark of a professional wanderer," he murmurs. "Practicality... you are no mere tourist, I would not think..." Glittering, the grey eyes lift to her lovely face. And there is the warmth of a smile. Though Luminance seems to hover around his friend. With him, it is all the innuendo of something dreamed. Thought. A play of memory -- is that any different that retrieving a dream?

     Nodding slightly, Una says, "I will seek it out, then... and hopefully I will bump into you there, Kit... And no, I would not say that I am a tourist. I do not buy the tourists' trinkets and baubles. I had enough of such things long ago." There is a long pause from her as her gaze unfocuses, as though she is remembering a time long forgotten. Blinking, she looks about at the two of you and then adds, "Well, perhaps I should go and find this bookstore now and get myself settled."

     Long ago? Sol smiles anyway, still admiring his stone. "Thanks," he murmurs at Kit, then looks to Una as she speaks of departing. No, she is no mere tourist...but Kit has such a way of expressing things. "If you left it," Sol ruminates upon Una's light traveling, "...it's said that you didn't need it. And when you're in Motion," he taps his temple, stone curled between two fingers, "...you only take what's necessary. Little, I've found, is Necessary." He grins after that, not one to give anyone pause they are so moved to action. "See you in pictures," Sol offers winningly.

     "From here...head south, to South Market. It is there... the only bookstore on the street..." Kit rises, and his clothing falls about him. His clothing a motley assemblage of Indian and Western apparel. He makes a bow of his head. "I will see you there... we will make plans for Mahabalipuram..." Half-turning, Kit's attention turns to Sol. "You are staying after a moment?" And by his eyes, he seems to wish it so. His voice a hush. He begins to sit upon his cushion again. Another look to Una. A smile. A warm regard. "When Need is absent, Nirvana is found. I believe that is the saying. You seem... well on your way, Una O'Brien..."

     Una rises from the cushions, reaching for her sunglasses, hat and pack. "There is truth in your words, Sol," she admits with a nod and a smile. Looking then to Kit, she nods toward him, smiling still. "Thank you, I shall see you both soon, if fate smiles upon me..." she finally says, placing her hat upon her head, to block the sun from her pale skin. The pack is slung over a shoulder and she begins to withdraw, giving a final hand-wave to you both as she replaces her sunglasses over her eyes and heads out of the shop...

     "Whose Name Means One?" Kit lifts his cup, his gaze to you. Unison beyond human. "She is the one who cannot die. The only human I have met... that the Lord has either blessed or cursed with such a long life. I have been following her... for seven hundred years. I am the dream that shakes her from her sleep..." He sighs, and fragrant steam is his breath. "She is... on a journey. But it is longer than most...yes..." The smile quirks at the corners of his mouth. "I first saw her... when I was in Ireland. My first... incarnation on earth..."

     Now he's surprised. Soldekai looks darkly impressed. "An interesting story...I guess I should know better than to be surprised at things, but you constantly do so...surprise me that is." He smiles warmly, "She can't die, huh? I'd...heard of such, seen, of course, such former beings on the Marches...but a True Mortal?" He shakes his head. Therein lies the darkness. "It must...be quite sad for her? Lonely, maybe?"

     "Lonely." A soft confirmation. "She is neither One Thing... nor Another. She is... between the world, even as she lives among us..." It is more Galadriel who addresses you. And this is an old Charge of his, perhaps. Both a success for him, and a failure. At least by the Reckoning of some. A raven brow lifts in a slight arch and he looks to you. The direct, keen gaze of the Herald. There is warmth there. But there is also Mystery. By now, surely, you must be getting used to it by now, yes? The smile pulls slowly. "She has flowered though, since first I saw her. She is no longer huddled and scared, sitting at a riverbank by a raven..." Brows waggle at that. "I too... was surprised to find her out. It is like looking at the last unicorn, is it not. I should try to keep it from Uriel's lieutenant..." Meaning Urfiel, that Almost Archangel. The two do not get along.

     "I doubt Urfiel will have much to say on this subject," Sol half-admonishes. A true threat-dismissal is often unneeded. "But, still, it's...a project," he sighs. "It's at least good that she has you," he smiles your direction, leaning your way a little.

     "Do you think so," comes the mull of his voice. There is always a certain darkness to his voice when it is lowered thus. Sometimes, it is the voice of Sensuality. Sometimes, it is the voice of Night. Deep. Dark. Edged with Unknown. But he smiles, warmly. And he bows his head. Thank you. Honor given to honor received. "I am harder on her than most others, present company included. Her life has a challenge like no other. Aspirations. Hopes. Dreams. These must be woven, cast, sustained... through a multitude of incarnations within one skin..." He exhales and the expression that crosses his beautiful features is like to weariness. It is, of course, in jest. "She thinks the test is between her and the Almighty? I think it is more between the Almighty and Me!" Galadriel laughs then and finishes his tea. "I should have paid more attention in class. These pop quizzes of His are going to be the end of me..."

     "More than likely," Sol grins, knowing better. At least he thinks. A pause, then he looks at the stones once more. "Do I get a tour of the temples first...I really haven't seen them yet. Some photographer I am." There's a pull of his lips, and he sighs, stopping all pretenses. "Well, not a photographer," he smiles. "Did you....hear?" he wonders softly, not wanting to jinx things by speaking too loudly. "Knowing you, you knew before I did..."

     "Hear?" He is poised for Surprise. Cross-legged, as if seated upon one of Heaven's nebula. But his expression is placid. Wonder. And he is staring at you. Studying you. Memorizing you. Remembering you. You are held before, within, against and upon. Through the seven layers of Being, to levels mortals cannot even imagine. Galadriel lifts his cup and he shakes his head slightly. Can you see past the vessel to the dusky skinned, constellation-garbed cherub? The grey eyes -- behind them is molten silver. Bleeding in slowly until stars fill them. This much shown to you. He would unveil this earthly garb in a moment. But he remembers where he is. "I am afraid I am going to have to disappoint you, My Chamberlain. I have not heard... You have news..."

     "Maybe I shouldn't tell you," Sol grins, the smile almost lost against the hazel glow of his eyes. "Maybe...I should let you pry it out of me..." he looks around, "...where is your room these days?" Laugher follows, but there's a hint of seriousness in the smoldering gold around his irises. "I wish I had some clever way to show you, but I guess not." A smile, words spoken in conspiracy, "You are...brilliant..." he smirks. Strange change of topical direction...until it seems as if the room faintly pulsed bright.

     "Maybe I already know, and I am bluffing," he murmurs, holding up a finger. He smiles. Perhaps he does. But it seems that he does not. His eyes are searching to know. To understand. His expression is open, warm. As you mention prying, he can't help the chuckle. A quiet ease of sound, it rumbles low in his chest. "Prying...sounds painful. I prefer the term winkle..." He sees that seriousness, and he rises. "Come... we should go where we may speak of it... freely. To my tower in the Marches..." Yes, he does have his own abode. The Abodes Of The Night, it is called. So few have ever seen it. But one or two other than you. In all of Heaven. One, of course being his Master-Mistress of Dreams and Night Visions. "Come," he whispers, and why does it sound like a plea. He holds out his hand to you. As for brilliant? You can see the sparkle held in his eyes. He leaves brilliance to you. It...seems to suit you....particularly now. "You are glowing with this news... I ...cannot wait to hear it."

     The Abodes of the Night is something of angelic legend. One of those things... like Unicorns... that is talked of, but only ever rarely witnessed...
     The beginning that Is and Is Not. The Ending that Never Comes. Past the Citadel That Exists In This Space and Beyond It, it stretches on nebulae of gaseous Infinity. Dreams spring from the ground like forests. And along the gaining ground of The Ethereal Conflict, the towers of Sentinels stand. It is between those last outposts of Dreams and Hope that the Abode of the Night exists. Or, is proported to exist. For who has truly seen it? So few. So few indeed. The Egyptians hailed it in prayers to Thoth. But who ever truly saw it?
     As Galadriel dips in flight from starry height of the Ethereal Universe around him, it shimmers into existence. A rise of nebula, violet and indigo that shudders into a shape. Crossed by silver lightning. It is a singular tower that stands stalwart. How like a piece upon a chessboard. The proper home for a Rook.
     The building forms around you both. Formed of nothing but his Will and constellation colors, it Becomes by virtue of your Existence. It is as much a dream as he is. Galadriel folds his wings, and his armor of mirrors and stars sparkles. Dreamscapes rolling across them...

     He joined you in the flight, Ofanim's skill not lost to him...apparently. And where is his faithful driver, Karinda? When the building forms, he comes to a halt. Was it possible for him to be more radiant? In celestial form, perhaps it is. That is the version of himself he chooses for your tower, a dark shape of a mortal, with winged extensions. Malakim cannot appear no less than what they are. The walking shadow gleams illuminate, as if he just Is. Shadow with Light. There comes a smile upon his sooted 'face', mostly shown in the brilliance that emanates from the area of his eyes and lips. All of it, new.
     What do you think? comes his thoughts, a kindness of spark given by Gabriel herself. The ability to touch the Soul and inflame it. He turns and models, but then is taken by the 'walls' of the tower. "I...will confess...I have not spent much time in the company of Blandine's choir...but maybe now..." and he trails off, twisting to see what you have wrought.

     The walls both Are and Are Not. They are opaque and yet were you to touch them, they would be solid. Violet and indigo gaseous formations, lit by starlight. Even as he is, clothed in stars. He is the Face of Night. As he turns, he stops in staring. Luminance. You can see it move against him. His dusky features, beautiful. More so, because you look at him. More so, because he becomes a reflection of your own brilliance. New. This. His mouth parts, but nothing comes from them. His mind and Being opens, but Thought and Song are halted. Inflame the heart? You know you do. And here, you can see it. Molten silver eyes glisten. Hotly. Novae erupting in his eyes. ...My Chamberlain, You Are ... And then the walls echo it in music, his voice in sounding. The angelic tongue like Song. ... Beautiful....
     As he takes a step toward you, his armor chimes. And the three spheres that hang almost sensually, pendulous near his hips, resound with it. Beautiful -- the word and the feeling travels against the walls, like fingers trailing the skin. The ribald smile begins to claim him. A twist, a curve of his dark mouth. His violet-blue curls fall about his shoulders. You have... changed something. Something has changed...

     Ah, yes Soldekai thinks, turning back to meet you. He can see the walls later. His grin is resplendent as he extends his arms. They will announce it soon, but...I can tell you. The...council, Seraphim, of course, has seen fit to...give me my own Word.... For an instant, the tor gleams. At his level, there is only one direction. He cocks his head, though, the word apparently fraught with something else. Brilliance he thinks, grinning darkly from ear to ear.
     Soldekai's eyes drop down your form. He was about to think...say...more, but you are standing in front of him, in your milieu. Almost instantly, it comes from him, unexpected: More time...with you.

     The room itself begins to slowly Become Itself. It is furnished with a large hematite chair, upon which rest two ravens. Both seemingly Living. Cushions lie scattered upon the floor. The tower is rounded, but the room is shaped hexagonal. Sharply defined walls. Smooth, as if of marble. A tall staff of seeming diamond rests propped in one of the six corners. Some blue and violet gems at head and foot of it. It stands almost as tall as he, and he in his form here is both tall and broad. Far more warrior-seeming here, than in any other vessel. As you 'speak', the pair of ravens resting upon the hematite throne cock their eye toward you. And the room is cluttered with the bric-a-brac of dreams and ravens' treasures. Gems. Rocks. Stones. Stars. And the ceiling? Galaxies and comets...
     Silver eyes widen, even though his outer look is placid. Almost as if he knew. But by his eyes you know you have surprised him. Finally. Your ... own ... Word. You have Become It... Brilliance. Galadriel sits upon the Master's chair and his midnight wings cascade around it. Not weary. But his knees did buckle a little. But it was all in grace. What shall he do? Shall he bow his head? Should he call you Sir? These whirl around him. You can see them. Like leaves caught in wind. Galadriel rises, a smile beginning in his gaze and he does.. indeed... bow his head. "No better One could they have named. For in Brilliance and Luminance, you have served your Mistress well." He lifts his head, silver gleaming behind violet-black curls. There, at last, the usual grin. "How shall I address you, Sir?"

     He grins, the light flushing from the darkness. "The same," Soldekai says, stepping forward and slowly offering an embrace. His arms lower to circle...but slow enough for you to object. He knows it is different now, perhaps, for you. The words are spoken, making them manifest. Thoughts to concrete utterances. "It is the same...for us. Call me...what you will." He smiles and looks up at the universe spread bare to his eyes. Galaxies and comets. And now, he can call upon their light as his own. "I think about the Lightbringer," he murmurs, not explaining it much. "I am...very proud, Galadriel," hazel orbs flashing as he meets your dimness. You could understand why. Restoration for everyone.

     "Do mind yourself," he murmurs as you open your arms and he moves forward. "The seat, I hear, is hot...and does, from what my mind will allow me to recall, have a tendency to lead one into hyperbole and circular arguments." He chuckles quietly, his own gaze serious despite his smile and wit. "I will keep my eye on you, Lord of Luminance. At the first sign of exaggeration, you are going on vacation..."
     His Being swells, his wings outstretched as he is now within your Light. A Master of Night and the Archangel of Brilliance and Lumination? "I am.. very proud," he says, angelic tongue as Song. "Of you... and of the Healing of Our Father's Heart that he should set you thus. I am proud of This Heaven..." Molten eyes of stellar matter look to you and the Herald nods. "This Heaven pleases me...." There is a pause. And oh you knew there would be. You can see it dancing in those eyes -- the fire of galaxies -- as Galadriel leans in and murmurs, "You are not going to make me salute in mixed company are you...?"

     "No, no," Soldekai smiles, darkness brilliant emanating from him, "...well, no more than usual," he changes. "And it was not just His Heart," Soldekai smiles, "...the Council..." an explanation, face turning more sober, "...things...are improving, Galadriel. In no small part due to your Kind. It is in the face of Dominic...and even Michael and Laurence, those the last two are just glad that things Are as they Are Becoming. Their feelings aside, it is a good time." But there comes a sigh as he cocks his head, "My ... elevation ... servitude," for are not archangels the lowest rank as well, "...is certainly a result of what we are marching forward to...and at the same time...I know my ... position...with some has not changed much." Hands that were reaching for you lower to something more professional. He watches you a long moment, "I make no pretense, Galadriel, They Know," about the two of you. "And you are rightly due your hand in what has happened to me..." then he smiles faintly, "...One Who Teaches Others to Aspire." The grin is followed with hands at his back. "And I am sure that your Mistress is quite aware, as well." Though she comes not to Council.

     A hand lifts and dreams sparkle against the armor of the Herald -- armor, such as it is, of mirrors. Heaven's glass -- the hopes of all created beings. A small wave that becomes a touch. Those who are beyond the forms of the living yet need definition. And though you and he are of the Celestial, still fingers move with slow wonder -- and something else -- against the cheeks of Brilliance. "No, no hand of mine," he murmurs. He takes no credit. It is selfless. It is love. The humor leaves him. No more madcap. Though the ribald glitter to his eyes can never be wholly removed. Only three Beings -- just a Triplicity -- have ever known him thus: The Creator, Blandine and You. The smile pulls at him -- but it is not merely an expression but a state of Existence that smile. "The Malakim... has found his aspiration. And it seems... Hope is catching on. This pleases me." Silver shifts in the wink that follows. "My fat is out of the fryer for another day..." And then the laugh. His hand pinches your cheek a moment and then lowers to your shoulder. "We will not speak of Dominic," he says, raising both hands then, "...suffer me not to speak on politics! I never can make a rhyme with Dominic that would not land me in That Malakim's Forge, working off the Sudden Lack of Sweet Harmony..." Galadriel grins, and behind it warmth. And pride. "My charge and ward," he says, "...is he not amazing..." That is You, you know...

     He blushes, if such can be seen glimmering upon cheeks of soot. Soldekai shakes his head, and then looks around the fantastical tower. "Mind...if we go some place a bit more...away from the limelight?" Joke meant. Dark brows lift as he confesses, "I have never liked the halls of the voyeurs." Even his own home at the Citadel. "I think I have enjoyed spending my time mostly hiding in the conflicts of mortals." Iceland, the Philippines...he can be found anywhere but Here. Even the old grotto. "Anywhere you want," he smirks, "...I...have a bit of time to myself these days. That's what I found you in...that valley." Boyne. And then India. Goodness, are you being followed, Herald?

     Black-violet brows lift and the grin that follows is broad. Ribald. The very edge of Good and ... the not so good. Surprised that he was followed? Perhaps. A little. Delighted by it? In no small way. "You know... we could save them the trouble and dally in the Council Chamber...but," hands lift and he turns, "...cooler heads prevail, My Luminance...Ah... such a wealth of new titles I shall be able to give you..." The ravens on the Herald's chair lift as he turns, squawking and then turning their eyes to him. One at a time. "You and You...fly to my mistress... give her these..." Held in his gloved hands, glittering stones wrapped in some sort of gauze. "They are my reports from my first year on Earth." A rock collection. Will she not be pleased? "Now... close your eyes," comes the deep and sing-song voice of the Herald. "And think....." A grin. "....green...."

     The ravens lift with a push from his chair. The material scratched by the talons of his 'sentinels'. The rocks upon his palm are taken. They chime when lifted and with a swirl of wind and the whisper of feathers....they are gone...

     "Green?" Soldekai smirks, closing his eyes. The light from those darkened orbs cease, but there remains an aura of golden warmth. "Green...valley? Garden?" his lips slant upwards, "Grotto, Emerald..." and arms reach out for you then. "Ah...the warm, lush isles of Pele herself," his former ... always ... mistress, "....or something of Bali? The Philippines? The valleys of Nippon?" So many places has he sequestered himself. Soldekai does not change his thinking, even while the sentinels take their leave. His Time...is His. Well, as much as any Archangel's. "Tell me where, Herald of my...Heart...." words coming from him nervously. Is that what you are now? What if someone hears? A faithful soldier is he, but magical words as yours will never fall from his lips.

     Magical words -- these are his armament. Magical words -- these, his tools. No less than you and your Once Fire and now Brilliance. Magic is the stuff of dreams. So intertwined, they are inseparable. His hand passes over your eyes -- though he is a bit shorter than you, tis true. There is warmth that passes in the touch. And you can feel it -- you have felt it often. The loosening of his form. That first... shimmer of ...blending. Flirt, is he not? And all around you that feeling increases. The tower is ...collapsing?... around you. Returning to its normal unseen state. "... A temple... in a jungle... Spices held on the upturning of smoke...." comes the sing-song voice of the Herald. Galadriel's voice is deep and resonates. "... green foliage... who lives by the light of the sun... create heavens in shade... Secluded but for the gods..." A pause. "...that's you and me, May the Creator forgive the... inference..." Galadriel leans in to you. The feeling of him all around... the invitation you know so well. "... The villagers will leave us date cakes and honey..."

     "Date cakes and honey are good," Soldekai grins, eyes slowly opening as the world shifts once more. Surroundings more to his liking. First instinct -- where are we? Familiarity is sought after as hazel eyes shift left and right. He is once more in comfortable clothing: white canvas shirt and khaki shorts. "I hope we are forgiven," Sol winks, reaching to squeeze your hand and then some. "I should hate to...cause a scene in the temple," he wonders out loud, less hesitant now to wrap strong arms around your waist, "...what mythology is best here?" Always the protocol-officer.

     "Are you going to call out the names of gods?" comes the coil of a resonant voice near your own mouth. Your arms wind around his waist and he is there. It is Galadriel, and yet... not. It is Kit, yet in more fitting attire to this environ than in his typical Dublin gear. Black curls are caught and held, tamed for once, by a head wrapping of red. His skin seems far more bronze than usual -- a Kit who has seen sunlight! He is clothed, in fact, as he was the evening you saw him in the Mistress of Spices. Half Hindu. Half Irish. A poetic haphazard blending of styles that only he could pull off. "The overriding mythology is Hindu... but Allah has found his footing here as well," he whispers. The smile twists, slanting across his lips. Beautiful Oddly, he inclines his head. "Shall you be Shiva... it is more fitting... and I... perhaps I would make a very nice Krishna indeed... particularly with my usual dusky complexion..." Black brows lift and lower and the grin broadens. "Come...follow me..." And Kit turns to leave your embrace. Temporarily...

     Around you... the lush growth of India. It is both forest and jungle, in truth. And you are standing in something of a clearing. Before you, reaching upward, one of the many temples of this region. Vines and growth trail against and over it. It would seem that humans had not passed this way in a while. But, you know they have been here. There is some pulse of life that humans leave behind. There is, indeed, a shelter near the temple. A thicket. So like the Eden we all know so well...

     Hindi and Irish. He is familiar with the many shades of The Creator's hand, but this...your look is a new one. Sol watches for a moment, fascinated. Only when you move does he snap from his bedazzlement, taking your hand to walk the trail. Often, he is the one leading. You afford him the rare occasion to be an entertained and wide-eyed follower.

     "Do you come here much, love?" Sol softly asks, hand reaching up to push at branches on the path. He weaves and bobs adroitly -- too much time spent in such small locales. And still, the word love tumbles from his lips like oversized clothing. He looks for a word of endearment, but is still not there yet. Maybe in time, he will know what to call a lover, and in particular what fits you best. For now, he tries. Surprise is in his voice, to know you walk such crawly spaces, but Sol smiles anyway, learning something else new.

     There is Reverence here. And an old holiness. A sanctity. It is a sanctuary, where villagers come to pay daily respects to gods who watch over their children. Particularly, the gods of sleep and dreams. Who bless the children and babes with good fortune by rubbing scented oil on their feet. Eating the cakes and drinking the tea left in offering. And here, at their home, there are fresh cakes made by hand. Every day. But though this temple is in some way his -- your midnight lover who bears the face of the night sky in his Celestial realm -- he does not enter it. Rather, he leads you to a bower in the growth. Soft vines. How many lovers have nestled here over all the Ages of Man?
     "I come here more and more," whispers Galadriel from the mouth of a bronzed Kit. Though there is no real need to whisper. Who shall hear? "On earth, I dwell where I am most needed. Where dreams are... harder to hold when darkness goes gold with the Day." He looks to you. His grey eyes -- toned down from their usual molten silver, for what mortal eyes could hold such metallic sheen? -- lift to you. He squeezes his hand, and he smiles. As he lowers, you can see in the parting of his shirt in the motion -- he wears the basalt token you gave him. And another of hematite. "I should like to one day... bring Beleth here... have tea with her... and remind her of Old Promises..." There is a momentary wan look, but he does not allow it to remain. For a time he looks at you as he settles comfortably on the ivy, vines and soft growth. Robes are removed. They shall serve as extra padding. Should it be needed. Or desired. The smile... spreads slowly as he looks to you. "You would be surprised where some dreams take me... I think..." A chuckle rises in his throat and lingers there. And then that is all he says of dreams. He looks to you. "My Luminent Lord...your love." Galadriel pauses here, his mortal tongue tangling a moment. "How shall I convey what it has meant to me...? Should this language even suit it..." And he means that.

Posted by rowan at May 12, 2003 09:24 PM