An Inauspicious Arrival (Imogen)

[Aegis]

Glade 71, 122

A day after fending off the leviathan, the Salt Crest entered Ecithian controlled waters. There were ships all about, merchant vessels with their parchment colored sails and large storage decks, Ecithian military vessels with their sleek and speedy builds, colorful sails, reinforced ribs, and fishing vessels, small, darting about. It was a clear and sunny day, and the giant fang that was Drathera was visible from many hours away, despite the fact that Imogen's ship was speeding along. Everyone on the ship relaxed a bit more, likely due to the unlikelihood of running into anymore leviathans here.

And if Imogen had been delighted by the presence of dolphins the previous day, it seemed probably that she'd be in a state of wonder, for these seas were brimming with dolphins and whales and sea turtles of all types, ambling along, avoiding and being avoided by the ships. Many of these creatures were accompanied by an Ork, some swimming the traditional way, others assisted by their Animus abilities, and others via Elementalism. A horn blasted from the port side, and a huge, female Ork landed upon the deck, a bright smile being all that she wore, aside from the cutlass hanging from a belt that hung dangerously low on her hips.

Geluct approached her, and in Ecitharese, "Well hello there, Deidra. What brings the woman who makes my heart race into port so early?"

She gestured with a thumb of her shoulder, "Cleaning up your messes, as usual." Her ship, one carved from the bones of great creatures, painted in fiery reds, oranges, and yellows, was towing a huge, dead serpent behind it, "No need to go way out to sea if you're just gonna bring me easy pickins."

Geluct did not look ashamed at her having claimed his kill. If anything, there was a deeper look of love and arousal within him. She smirked, taking his hand and disappearing below deck. And much like all the Ecitharese natives had been for the entire trip, the sounds of vigorous and aggressive sex could be heard around the ship.

Soon, the Salt Crest passed through the towering gates of the sea walls and into the harbor, a bay of docks so large that they might be greater in scale than the entire city of Zaichaer. The ship docked, and the sailors and travelers began to disembark, all carrying their own gear. The docks were busy with barely clothed, and often times not at all clothed, Ecithians, working away at unloading ships, cleaning barnacles, conducting repairs and resupplies. At the bottom of the gangplank, a tall, deep red Ork, held a clipboard. Upon Imogen's descent, he smiled, "Welcome to Ecith. My name is Jarn'uv Arguva. Full name and country of citizenship."

The man had not asked it of everyone, many walked right on by after a hug, a head nod, a clasp on the shoulder or slap on the back. All of them covered in tattoos, just as the clipboard wielding man was.

[Imogen]

For all that Imogen had been cavalier about her sea travel, the sight of land was an immediate relief; a feeling of the relaxing of imperceptibly-tensed muscles, the release of an almost-held breath. The dolphins and turtles were a delight, but she had not quite expected the yearning for long walks and greenery which came only when one was deprived of them for days. Well, it was nice to know that she shouldn't seek the life of a sailor.

As the Salt Crest docked in the Ecithian harbor, Imogen took little time to gather her things; a berth on a ship like this was pricey enough without accounting for luggage. A few changes of clothes, her journal, and the bow she'd bought as a toy took up the bulk of the tiny slot beneath her bunk, with some avens in the complementary strongbox. Like her uncle always said, light travel meant fewer back pains in the future.

Imogen joined the line at the gangway near the back, more out of habit than tardiness. When going through checkpoints, one preferred to be near the back of the line, so that by the time you reached security they would be anxious to finish and leave. Now, as far as she knew, nothing about her travel was illegal in the slightest, but it paid to stay in practice so that she wouldn't find herself sweating it out in a cell in the future.

In this case, however, the practice was meaningless- the line breezed through, and Imogen quickly realized that the natives weren't being checked or questioned at all. That surprised her, but maybe it shouldn't have; it was perfectly congruent with the stories her family had told, the tales of a land which imposed as few boundaries on its people as it could. It appeared to be in the tattoos, which Imogen knew was a prevalent custom, albeit one which her family had abandoned for the sake of social camouflage in Zaichaer. And speaking of Zaichaer...

"Good day! I'm Imogen Ward." The "im" sound, disfavored in Ecitherese, was perfectly clear, both from practice (it was her own name, after all) and because Imogen's petite tusks posed little barrier to speech. "Visiting from Zaichaer. I am the janitor of the Pfenning Theater, here to visit Drathera and also to pick up a package for my family from..."

Imogen's happy rumble trailed off. Who was it from, again? She'd never forgotten a name, not in her entire life. She thought back to her assignment, visualizing the letter in her mind:



"...A... uh."

[Aegis]

"Ah, a janitor in a theater. A noble pursuit, maintaining the tapestry upon which the artists perform." Then a confused look on his face, "I don't think I'm familiar with anyone named Eya. I wish you the best of luck in your search."

He turned, ready to check the next people in line, when he paused. "Emmagen," he said, struggling with the M with his pronounced tusks, really having to slow it down and force it, "This is the land of your ancestors. All Orkhan were born from our fertile soil, our bountiful oceans, and endless sky. We offer all Orkhan foreignborn citizenship here, if they so wish to have it. It will require a commitment to the Tenets of Ecith, as well as a visit to the Librarians. They'd certainly love to meet you, and perhaps they can help in your goal. They know all names, perhaps they can find this Eya you seek."

He gave Imogen time to consider as he waved the rest of the natives through from the ship. "I can take you to them now, and teach you of our tenets, and our city here, if you so desire."

He required no payment, made no desire of anything in exchange for this service he offered up. He did, however, have his attention stolen by a human man down the way. The man was drunk and apparently had just grabbed the bare buttocks of an Orkhan native woman. Who was now holding him by the throat many feet off the ground.

"Do know that foreigners do not get the same protections and services of our laws as citizens do. Such as due process of law, as the northerners would call it."

As the Orkhan woman held him with one muscular arm aloft, her other began to batter him bodily with vicious punches. Loud, painful blows, breaking ribs and squelching organs. The human man was unconscious in his battering before the woman tossed him hard to the stone docks, as she continued her walk toward the city.

All the natives simply walked around or over the man, and the clipboard wielding man shrugged, turning his attention back to Imogen. "Would you like to go your own way or would you prefer some company and conversation?"

[Imogen]

Yeah, sure, he'd basically got it. In Zaichaer, her more toothsome relatives often resorted to calling her "Inny" to avoid the strain on the m, but Imogen was aware that Ecith had some odd customs involving proper names; she chose not to pursue the matter further.

Imogen watched the taller Orkhan woman proceed to murder (or nearly murder, she wasn't a doctor or a mortician) the man who accosted her. Neither the brutal beating or Jarn'uv's reference to due process gave her much pause. She'd never lived in a land where the law was designed to protect her anyway, and the law enforcement of Zaichaer was prepared to murder in the streets for less. No, her thoughts were not on matters of justice and law, but rather on... her thoughts.

No matter how she strained, she could not seem to make the name of her contact in Drathera resolve against the canvas of her mind. What in the fuck was his name? It was a he, right?

Perhaps she should have transcribed the name somewhere after she burned Master Gerhard's letter, but she had never even considered it. Why would she, when she'd never forgotten a name before? The names of clients and points-of-contact and messengers she'd interacted with for the better part of a decade floated across her easily-overtaxed brain, but the only one which mattered right now remained conspicuously blank.

OK. Fine. No cause for alarm just because she'd forgotten one name.

"Jarn'uv Arguva, yes? I would be honored to meet these Librarians..." She wasn't a particular connoisseur of libraries, but if they kept track of "all names" perhaps they could go down the list of antique store owners and save her the trouble of wandering about the capital for days. Anyway, she had plenty of time. And she was interested in learning about Ecith. Zaichaer wouldn't care if she registered as a citizen here.

(Well, they would care, actually: it was probably some species of treason. But she saw no particular reason to mention it at customs.)

"I don't suppose they'd have a directory of shop owners in Drathera, too? I can't seem to remember the guy I am supposed to be meeting. Maybe I did get seasick, and just didn't know it."

[Aegis]

Jarn'uv smiled broadly, "Wonderful. We'll head there straight away. Would you prefer to run or walk? The Archives are beneath the city proper. It's not too far, we should have time to cover the basics of the Tenets on our way there."

He was bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, possibly suggesting a desire for the run instead of the walk, "And sure, they would know of all the shop owners and merchants that have ever graced the land, no matter how brief of a stint." He pumped his eyebrows with a challenging 'shall we' vibe.

Regardless of which method of travel Imogen chose, she would find that Jarn'uv's definition of 'not too far' was not quite the same as people in the north would typically use. The docks alone were a couple of miles long, endless stone, fishing and trade vessels, naval soldiers and shipwrights, wagoners and teamsters, fish, barrels and crates. Then it was a few miles through Lowtown, where all of these laborers lived, so it was much of the same, but with grass and dirt instead of stone and sea. And the entire time, he spoke of the Tenets of Ecith, focusing on the ideals of balance in all things. He was very long winded but gave room for questions and discussion on Imogen's part.

Jarn'uv led the way into the first landing of the mountain, the cavernous hallways were all carved with the care and skill of master craftsmen. Artwork and stories etched along the way, lit by many a dragonshard set into wooden and bone handles to serve as torches. Downward into the earth they went. They passed several massive caverns filled with gold and treasures and priceless artworks, all of which contained at least six sleeping adult dragons.

Deeper into the world they went until they reached a large doorway. Jarn'uv pushed the stone doorway, with great effort and strain, open. It led into a room, cozy and comfortable, covered in tapestries, floor laden with rugs and cushions. In the center was a large wooden desk, with a beautiful, elven woman sitting in it, who appeared bored while reading a book titled The Corporal and the Sergeant.

There were also about a dozen cats posted up around the room.

When the woman looked up, her boredom disappeared and was replaced by ardent enthusiasm. "Welcome to the Archives!"

She wore a sheer dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Who have you brought us today, Jarny?"

The large red man smiled and bowed, "This is Imogen, of Zaichaer. She works at the Pfenning Theater. Imogen, this is Nadja, the newest, and prettiest of the Librarians."

The woman snorted loudly, "Go on, you lout. Come visit me tonight, okay? I need the crimson steed. That Zaichaeri smut I've been reading is so dull. Those poor, repressed men in that dreadful, dirty little city."

Nadja turned to Imogen, "So what can I do for you, Imogen? Most foreign born come seeking their heritage. Some come to try and steal the treasures here." She rolled her eyes at this, "Please don't though. I'm a bit hungover today and I really don't want to clean the blood out of the cats again."

The woman put on a pair of small, circular spectacles, peering closely at Imogen's face. "How long has your family been gone from the homeland? Your brow ridge is certainly familiar... though not with that nose..."

[Imogen]

Imogen had done a sprint or two in her day, but she wasn't much of a distance runner. Still, she could see in Jarn'uv's demeanor that he wanted to burn some restless energy- and truth be told, she felt a little tempted after so many days confined to a ship at sea. So she set off at a run and tried not to pant too much as the miles grew on her.

The city was quite spectacular, in its own way. The buildings had little of the smooth, aesthete beauty of Kalzasi's swooping buildings or Zaichaer's austere complexes (in the west end, anyway), but the way the streets and buildings were nestled into the sweep of the vast mountain was still visually impressive. Orkhan roamed the streets in greater numbers than she'd ever seen, wearing colorful garments and equally colorful lacks-of-garments. She hadn't been unaware of Ecith's customs surrounding nudity--it had been a favorite subject of her uncle's when he was telling his stories--but it was one thing be aware of that and another thing entirely to run through streets of it.

The 27 Tenants were, again, not unfamiliar, though Jarn'uv's explanation did little to disabuse her of the private thought that most of them could be effectively summarized as "do prosocial things to make your community better and don't be a dick". Admittedly, that would be quite an expansive definition of "don't be a dick", but Philosopher Imogen was nothing if not willing to erase critical distinctions in the pursuit of convenient summaries.

"Seems like a tall order," Imogen remarked, only somewhat breathless, as Jarn'uv finished describing the Tenant of War, "Never been to the Imperium myself, but I've heard enough Zaichaeri officers talk about how huge their air forces are. Hard for a navy to compete with that, unless you've got a whole mess of dragons hidden up your sleeve."

~~~

"Ah, yeah. No, that makes sense, now."

The Archives were a mind-boggling sight. More wealth and history than Imogen had ever seen, to be sure, but avarice had never been one of her vices. No, what was crazy were all of the dragons.

Dragons.

Six months ago, Imogen would have said that she'd never seen a dragon, though obviously she couldn't be certain of that. There had been a few people in Kalzasi whom she suspected of secret draconic identity, but she'd promised Carina not to do anything stupid to blow their cover, and Imogen almost always usually mostly kept her promises. Nevertheless, she could say with certainty that she'd never seen any in their natural forms, curled up like titanic cats who happened to be lizards. Every Ork child liked to think about dragons as they played, twisting hands into claws and pretending to be a great tyrant wyrm, or perhaps a hunting drake. To see so many, so close, was certainly something of a childhood dream, satisfied at last.

It was enough wonder to satisfy her all the way to their destination, which was inexplicably filled with cats. Well, not inexplicably. They called Imogen unobservant, but she had taken note of how many dragons were down here. Dragons, who were known as shapeshifters. Dragons, who loved to collect things. This "elven" woman, so out of place in a city with so many Orkhan. This huge collection of cats. Add it up, and even Imogen could see that:

"Wow. You must be a cat-lover."

But no time to dwell on that.

"Finding saucy literature in Zaichaer isn't easy. The whole city's got a very constrained ethic of propriety. As the comic opera goes..." Imogen held out a hand and declaimed: "The Zaichaeri, their native stage have purged beyond a question/of risqué situation and indelicate suggestion/no piece is tolerated if it's costumed indiscreetly."

Imogen let her hand drop. "But the repression does help drive audiences to the Pfenning: it's okay to have nudity if it's for art."

Actually, the rumors were that some among the new coterie of smooth-faced apparatchiks and grumpy military officers on Kelgarde's staff were quite unhappy with the Theater for its degradation of Zaichaer's vaunted moral and cultural purity. But who cared about politics? Now was the time to talk about family histories.

"My paternal grandfather crossed the sea sixty years ago... maybe a few more or less, my uncle was never that clear on dates. I believe his name was Sal'whua, though he was made to change it and took the name Sal Ward." This much was easy to verify from city census records, but the rest of her family history was more than a little apocryphal. "My uncle says that he crossed the sea following my grandmother, but she was a very private woman and I never met her. Sal was a warrior, but he took up farming in the last years of his life, to raise his family outside of the city."

"My mother's family had been in Karnor for several generations; I think she said that her great-grandfather was a soldier who stayed in Karnor in the wake of the routing of the Menders.
I don't know what their Ecithian names would have been."

[Aegis]

She smiled brightly, "I've been known to befriend a cat or two."

Moving over close to Imogen, a hand on her shoulder, "I've always had this theory that the northerners are more repressed due to it being so cold there. They cover up to stay warm, then that covering becomes the normal acceptance, thus it creates a taboo of the hidden body, further creating a taboo of the things that can be done with that body. Do you think that might be the case?"

A soft chuckle, "At least it's good for your business."

Soft stepping around Imogen, fingers trailing around her shoulders, "So are you a performer? Singer? Costume artist? Makeup artist? Writer? I don't recognize your name or face from our records, but I've only recently begun dabbling in the artworks of modern Zaichaer. I finished with Kalzasi last week. Their theatre pieces are something special. Do you know of Arvalyn? I think he's going places, a copy of his performance is playing at the Smiling Clam tonight. Hopefully he'll come perform in person here one day."

While she was talking, she was busy scrutinizing Imogen's facial structures and body build. Like a sculptor would an untouched piece of stone, but Nadja was working in reverse. "Sal'whua, I suspect that was a continental name, an early attempt at creating a name prior to Sal Ward. You won't find the S or W used often here. Could be a bastardized translation of his name though, Commonizing it. It's a shame other cultures feel the need to pressure that onto foreigners. Oarv'hua perhaps. That's certainly ringing some bells..."

Tapping Imogen on the shoulder, "Come come, let's meet the others."

Nadja turned back toward her desk, which previously had an ornately adorned wall behind it, now opened up into a grand cavern, so massive the opposite side of it couldn't be seen. It was filled with stone shelves of varying sizes, bulging with scrolls, books. In the center was a massive desk, far larger than would be needed even for the biggest of Moratallen. And in the middle of it was a red dragon, far larger than the other half dozen dragons in the cavern, sitting on her haunches, staring down at a tiny scroll on her desk, peering through a pair of tiny glasses upon her snout.

She looked up to see Nadja and Imogen, in a booming voice, "A wayward daughter returns home, I see."

Nadja giggled, "Come on, I don't want to yell."

As they walked, "This is the Hall of Names, the first of the Archives. The ones you saw earlier are the unimportant overflow. We let the younger dragons add them to their hoards. Helps with their anxiety until they can mature and figure out what they truly wish to do with their lives."

She grasped a scroll from the shelf. She touched a bit of aether into the seal, and it opened up before them, and had a name upon it. "Jarn'uv Arguva."

Another touch of aether, and a vast web of aetheric strings branched out from the floating scroll, reaching to all corners of the archive, connecting the scroll to many others. The connections were in varying colors, some more intense than others. "We can trace the lineages here. Jarn'uv is of the Red Flight of dragons, though not exclusively. No Orkhan is pure in their draconic lineage these days." She flicked at a string, "Children." Another, "Parents." Another, "Cousins."

A touch of aether and the scroll rolled back up and the connections disappeared. She led the way over to the massive Red Dragon. "This is Miss Vojiha, she's the eldest of us Librarians, having been helping to maintain the archives since their founding. Miss Vojiha, this is Imogen of Zaichaer."

Miss Vojiha peered down close, "Yes... I know your face, each piece a different ancestor, building your beautiful tapestry..."

Mod Note

► Show Spoiler

Feel free to utilize Miss Vojiha to theorize and/or prove Imogen's lineage, if so desired.

[Imogen]

Was the cold responsible for all of the social ills of Karnor? The theory seemed plausible, in that she hated being cold. Maybe that was enough to drive people with less self-control into overweening oppression and wars of extermination? The issue bore investigation, to be sure.

"Arvalyn? I've heard good things, but I missed his performances in Kalzasi. We had actually just reached a deal to have him come perform at the Pfenning this season, but I'm afraid that's on indefinite hold, what with the way that their prince was just..." She reached for a word which would properly capture the depth of sorrow, the vast misfortune, the absolute emotional nadir of the tragedy of the Wedding. "Hornswoggled."

Yes, that felt right.

"But no, I'm not a performer. I'm the janitor, keep the theater clean. Daily sweeping and mopping, twice-weekly surface scrubs, monthly deep-cleaning and regular rota for washing and drying all the bits that go along with a theater. Now, I am also the theater's guardian, and if there's a police crackdown, invading army or Warren incursion I'm supposed to keep the invaders occupied long enough to safely evacuate the theater, but this hasn't come up so far. Finally, I do make a bit of money on the side providing security for hire." She blew air out through her cheeks. "That's the easiest job. The Order of Reconciliation is appallingly unprofessional."

As they moved into the Hall of Names, Imogen was confronted all over again with the scale of the archives, not to mention the scales of the archives, which was to say, the dragons. Miss Vojiha was the biggest yet; how old did that make her? Hundreds of years? Thousands of years?

~~~

To the ancient dragon's eye, the story of Imogen Ward's creation was as plain as the words written on a letter. Imogen's most unusual feature was certainly the opal-tinged scales which were visible around the base of her neck and arms; they were small, more like fish scales than a dragon's, and glossy, their dark off-white base almost obscured by the multicolored sheen produced every time Imogen moved. Her light green skin and dark base of the scales was telling; Imogen's bloodline was half or more from Green flight Orkhan. Doubtless other members of her close family had green scales, but how glossy and vibrant those greens must be!

Oarv'hua, one of the children of the fire-forest, he had green scales and the same brow. He had left his village for love of one of the Dawnmartyrs, back before Ailos fell, and followed her across the wide sea. That one had opal scales, from a line of Orkhan famed for their delicate features and glimmering skin. An easy match, though it was somewhat surprising that Oarv'hua had managed to woo someone so devoted to her gods and tired of frequent suitors.

For clues about the other ancestor, Miss Vojiha sought answers in Imogen's face. Hair wasn't so constrained by relationship to the Dragonflights, of course, but the consistency, quality, and color were grouped across mortal populations. In this case, Imogen's hair was nothing like the population from which one grandmother and grandfather arose, but it wasn't uncommon enough to identify anything by itself. Her eyes, however...

Imogen's eyes were a very light lavender, an unusual color which was really nothing other than peculiar shade of blue. That shade had once been the hallmark of a prominent family in Kythera, but the bearers had either bred with other Orkhan of more dominant shades or died out prior to the Age of Steel. There were no records of any members of that particular family surviving past the Age of Steel, but if some members had left Ecith generations ago, they could well have escaped complete extinction in another land. And, in fact, here was evidence of it.

Remarkable ancestors, but only in the same way that any family was remarkable if one could see how certain members distinguished themselves over centuries. Truly, to fully appreciate genealogy, one had to be a dragon.

[Aegis]

Miss Vojiha nodded, smiling as much as a large, crimson dragon can smile, "You've allowed us to increase our archives and our Names. We thank you for this, Imogen Ward. Now that this is complete, you may seek to receive citizenship at your convenience. We will be sure to make the scribes aware. Welcome home, Imogen."

Miss Vojiha looked over at Nadja, who approached Imogen, who immediately began talking Imogen's ear off excitedly as she showed Imogen out. "You've brought your family back from obscurity! We thought your family lost, but here you are! It's a shame that Kythera has fallen now, especially with that grumpy orchid taking it over." She continued to fawn over Imogen until they exited the Hall of Names, the wall forming once more seamlessly behind them.

Back in the office, she looked at one of the cats, a long, sleek, heavily spotted feline. The cat looked annoyed and wandered off. "Do you need any more help before you get to your business in the city?"
Nadja had the more truncated and concise lists of names, such as those of antiquities shops and merchants, of which there were... many. So many. The list would be happily provided and she would help Imogen in any further way within her abilities and role.

The annoyed cat returned, a small pouch in its mouth. It growled a bit from the base of its throat, before climbing its way, not gently, up Imogen to perch on her shoulder and dropping the pouch for her to catch. Or not. Inside a small pile of gold coins and a ring with a large opal gemstone set into it. "Payment for your additions to the archives, and an heirloom given to Ecith by an ancestor of yours. You may be the guardian of it, if you'd like. We do ask that you return it if you do not wish to have it, or if you happen to die."

She made sure to inform Imogen of how to acquire citizenship, if she so desired. Imogen would learn that she could receive citizenship at any of the Three Temples, Raxen, Syren, and Galetira, if she wished to do so under their gaze. She could also acquire it at the Senate as well. With her name in the archives, citizenship would simply require her to agree to follow the Tenets of Ecith to the best of her ability, to strive toward achieving balance through the Tenets. Once approved through a temple or the Senate, she would meet with one of the Seerscribes. They would speak with Imogen, interview her about her life, and together, they would come up with Imogen's first tattoo marking her as a member of Ecithian society.

[Imogen]

Being paid for yakking about her family? By every Dragon God, it seemed that Ecith truly was a paradise on earth.

"An heirloom? Ah..."

Imogen reached into the little pouch the cat had deposited and removed the ring. It was a curious little thing; in Zaichaer, the fashion for jewelry was to set slim, faceted jewels into large bands. In a lot of ways, she suspected that the band itself was thought to be a greater symbol than the jewel it ostensibly supported. This ring, however, featured an enormous opal, a white oval which shone with rainbow bolts as she turned it slightly.

Usually, the only reason Imogen took jewelry was to sell it; her upbringing among the Sunsingers had given her unusual opinions on accessories, and she had little interest in flashy metal and stones if they didn't say anything about the wearer. But she was not a thief--her many crimes were born of a rational disagreement vis a vis the state's authority to regulate honest mages, not larceny--and she would respect the Archives' conditions. Anyway, if it was an heirloom, a connection to family she'd never really known, it was worth something apart from whatever a jeweler might pay in avens.

"I will, of course, accept. I will make whatever arrangements I can to have it returned when I die." Perhaps one of the Railrunners could spell it to return through Slipspace on her demise? An intriguing idea.

The Orkhan woman slipped the ring onto the ring finger of her right hand, pushing it lightly into place. A handful of tiny scales sprouted around it in response to the pressure, glinting like reflections of the opal, and Imogen grinned.

"Well... thank you, Nadja. For the coin and the ring, but especially for the names. I believe that my family, back in Zaichaer, will be very interested to hear what I have learned." She hadn't told anyone here any funny lies about her family, per her usual practice. That seemed... unusually malicious, in the Archives. After all, they were clearly earnest about their mission, and she had no desire to screw up the ledgers. If they would even have believed her.

"Now, there was only one other question I had. It's about a certain type of merchant, here in the city..."

~~~

Imogen Ward left the archives with quite a bit more than she'd entered with- money, an heirloom, information about ancestors she'd never even heard of (which one was Kythera, anyway? She couldn't for the life of her remember what was supposed to have happened to that city) and, most importantly, names.

Nadja had allowed her to peruse the listing of the proprietors and locations of all the businesses in the city which matched the one she had been sent to find. Disappointingly, none of the names sufficed to jog her memory, but there were only about a half-dozen locations where her contact could possibly be, and Imogen had the better part of a month to find him before the contract ran out. Now full of optimism, Imogen made her way out into Ecith, ready for a short and easy visit.