685/Follow the Threads

Follow the Threads
Date of Scene:	08 December 2015
Location:	A bookstore
Synopsis:	Melanite's gambit at the ice cream shop pays off. In the form of a Dark General paying her a visit.
Cast of Characters:	Kunzite, Melanite

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Kunzite has posed:
    Tokyo has a district for everything. That includes books. There are almost two hundred used and rare bookstores tucked into one neighborhood. Tracking one girl in an area like that normally wouldn't be easy. But this girl stands out. Even in Tokyo, the number of fourteen-year-old Scandinavian girls is ... countable.

The number of casually-dressed university students in the area is also countable, but not as easily so. The number of casually-dressed university students reporting to tall pale figures on a rooftop, however, is one.

"That one," the student who works, sometimes, at Frozen Beach says. She nods with her head in the direction of the store that a fourteen-year-old Scandinavian girl entered a few moments ago. "She matches all the descriptions. And she should still be inside."

"And there's no sign of that one being protected," the man she's speaking to muses. "Well done. Go now. You have your instructions; contact me only if things fall apart too soon."

The student laughs. "They're just kids," she says, which is the sound of a fate being sealed. "I can take care of them." But she follows orders, retreating from their vantage point, from the street, from the neighborhood after.

* * * * *

The store that Kyra Nygaard has entered is three cramped stories of closely-placed shelves. There are only a handful of people actually investigating those shelves' contents, this evening; the Internet doesn't do wonderful things for bookstores, but it does at least gives their patrons more elbow room. It's a mixed blessing that none of them, and the one employee manning the desk-turned-counter downstairs, show signs of magical potential. On the one hand, Kyra might have no competition for any hidden arcane tomes. On the other hand, no hidden arcane tones have attracted attention. Either way, the place is still a bookstore. It smells of aged paper and ink and worn leather, a combination older than -- most people who might someday answer that sentence still find it hard to remember older than what. Memories sealed away, even if some of the seals are chipping at the edges.

It's a good evening. Even if last week's incident was a misfire, she's begun to build up her reserves, to exercise her powers.

Which means that she's all the more aware when something moves; when the lights in the bookstore dim, the shadows lengthen and darken, the temperature drops a degree or two. When the sounds of the other browsers moving or turning pages are replaced by the brief, muffled sounds of collapse, and then no movement at all. There's something familiar in the power acting around her; something not unrelated to the crystals she placed to gain herself those reserves. But more controlled. Much more controlled.

It is, after all, exempting her from its effects. Not making an attempt on her energies at all.

Melanite has posed:
Kyra has to admit, she's glad she was able to recover the trap crystals after her little mishap. It would've been beyond embarassing to waste that much energy only to have them end up in, say, the police evidence lockup, or thrown out with the ice-cream shop's trash. Or worst of all, discovered by one of the rumored costumed heroines that frequent the region. Yes, that might have been highly annoying.

Fortunately none of that happened, and she was able to recover from her mishap. Still, it means she's learned a lesson about caution and taking proper care of her resources.

The bookstore, now. That's a private sort of treasure, the sort of thing to be experienced by one's self, not in company with others. She's just finished a practice session with Ami-chan and the Light Music Club, and she had an instrument bag slung over one shoulder when she came in. Fortunately the shopkeeper is quite understanding of such things - especially with a brief touch of her own power - and is holding it behind the counter for her to finish.

She takes a deep breath, savoring the scent of the place, the aura of it. Age and deep knowledge and appreciation for the passing on of an age's wisdom, that's what this place means to her. Even if she failed to find any volumes of arcane secrets, simply being in such a place is its own reward. It's the closest she can manage to come to... something. Something she can barely remember, just the vaguest hints in the back of her mind. Something... something she treasured, long ago and far away.

So when she feels that tingle of power moving through the air about her, she takes note. When an older man slumps against a shelf within her view, she dismisses the problems of age without a thought. That deep, buried part of her recognizes the energy flow, and is trying to tell her something... if only she'd listen.

She turns, nose twitching, testing the nature of the flow, pacing in its direction... time to see what's going on. And to prepare a shield, just in case. Fortunately she has some energy to spare from the ice cream shop traps....

Kunzite has posed:
She has time to prepare that shield, time to familiarize herself with the patterns. The shadows continue to leave her be, even as they leech energy from the ambient light and from every other living person in the store. Every one but her, and the man that that flow traces back to.

He's waiting for her, leaned casually against the wall by the stairs, arms folded. The uniform he's wearing is -- not-familiar, almost-familiar. So is the casual way he's wearing it, collar opened. So is the steady, focused calm of his expression. That deep, buried part of her thinks of a half-dozen things: enemy, ally, knight, pawn, guard, monster. Maybe, given who she knew, pawn might have an edge. But that was elsewhen.

In this age, he dispenses with greeting or introduction, moving directly to: "So. You wanted attention." Continuing with 'you have it' would be redundant; he leaves the sentence there.

Melanite has posed:
There's something about that look. That uniform. That face. She's never seen it before. But she'd swear she recognizes it. She holds back on casting the shield, or the energy-bolt spell that jumps to her lips. Something tells her that it wouldn't help. No, this requires ... other measures.

After all, she 'has his attention'.

"So it would seem," she answers, her Nordic accent lending her voice a pleasant almost-purr. "And so I wonder just whose attention I may have gathered." She smiles, warm and pleasant and charming, the sort of smile one offers to a new friend. If she had such things as friends.

Kunzite has posed:
The tilt of his head toward her, just a fraction of an inch, says that he's willing to grant her that one. Also that there's a limited number of times he'll be willing to do that, at present. Most people would have added a smile to match hers, mirroring her expression, relaxing into it; but somewhere between her action and the potential for his reaction the warmth vanishes, drained away with everything else ambient.

"Kunzite," he says. Crystalline as her magic. Familiar as the uniform. "General in service of the Dark Kingdom and its Queen. You have an interesting choice of foci for your experiments."

Melanite has posed:
Kunzite. Now there's a name to conjure with. To echo in memory and resonate with the paths of magic as it flows through her. Yes, that buried part of her remembers that name very well. And so her conscious self takes note of it.

"The ... Dark Kingdom. Such an interesting bit of nomenclature," she muses. "Its queen must be a mighty one indeed, to call such as you to her service."

She sets aside the book she'd been perusing, having almost forgotten she was still carrying it. "As for foci... I use what works. Should that surprise anyone?"

Kunzite has posed:
"Not so many people remember what works," the self-described General answers her. There's the slightest change in his manner - not in the way he stands, not in his expression, but in his tone of voice alone. A little less edged, a little more conversational. As if she'd made her way past the first stage of some test. "This is a decadent age in that respect. A thousand toys invented, a thousand truths forgotten. To remember is interesting. To develop the skills to practice, without direct training, still more so. Or did you have a teacher? Interrupted, perhaps?"

Melanite has posed:
Kyra relaxes, ever so slightly, at the change in tone. Still ready to jump to defend herself... but perhaps a little more open, and not immediately ready to leap to the attack. "Scraps," she answers, patting the book she'd just set down. "Every generation, every culture, stumbles upon a tiny fraction of the truth... builds on it with their own inventions, until it's buried under a mass of overwrought mystic twaddle."

She picks up another book, ruffles through the pages as if looking for something to show you... then shrugs and puts it back on the shelf. "Follow the threads... and you will find the truth." She doesn't mention the memories, the dreams of lessons, of a beautiful teacher... a golden hall... too private, too personal, to speak of, just yet.

Kunzite has posed:
The man she's talking to is certainly not about to disagree; these days, the self-proclaimed mystics think the stone whose name he bears is for healing. But that goes without saying, too, unnecessary and likely obvious. "A pity. It's always the practical details that go missing first, as you seem to have found. Still. A mind capable of putting together a vortex like that one, unassisted, with only scraps to work with -- it's a shame to risk that mind on the vagaries of what information survives."

Melanite has posed:
Kyra would, if asked, admit that she's never found any supposed healing properties in that particular stone. She could even name a couple that actually are useful for it. But that's not exactly relevant, right now.

"It was an interesting puzzle," she admits, "And a useful one." Incredibly useful, as a matter of fact. "There are some things I'm still working out, but I know what to look for, now." In the books, at least, if not in the people.

Kunzite has posed:
He makes an amused sound, not bothering with words or with actual laughter, though none of the amusement makes it through to his expression. "Still a pity. So many books tell you how to call things up; so few of them tell you how to make those things obey you, afterward. The gaps are what you need a teacher for. But you sound determined to work them out for yourself. Is that a matter of principle for you, or a lack of opportunity?"

Melanite has posed:
If it were anyone else asking, she wouldn't answer. Anyone she didn't feel this forgotten connection to. It wouldn't be any of their business, even if they knew she was a witch. "And to whom in this fallen world shall I declare my apprenticeship? Some stage star with more sleight of hand and clever tricks than true insight? Or perhaps the kind of 'guru' who advertises their services on late-night television?"

She shakes her head. "If I cared a mite for their insights, I would have already acquired them."

Kunzite has posed:
For the first time, Kunzite moves. It's a small thing: he tips his head back, for an instant watching her less than he watches the air above her, and exhales quietly. And then a second small thing: he unfolds his arms and lifts one gloved hand.

Power moves, and for a split second, the air between them is filled with a crackling lightning, a cold violet color that just to look upon whispers of unholiness and pain. It does not come near her. It is not permitted a victim. And when that energy is dismissed, the blackened afterimages of it in her vision seem to be cries of discontent for that lack.

"I might," he says, "know someone."

Melanite has posed:
Kyra can see that energy. Her eyes focus on it, narrowing slightly, her lips pursed ever so slightly. There's a renewed tension in her stance, as she prepares herself to see what that lightning will do. She sees, also, the tethers laid upon it, and while her fingers may begin to shape the form of her own spell, they do not complete it.

"You might... know 'someone'." She shakes her head. She knows the kind of control, of power, that his actions reflect. She recognizes it. This is something much greater than her studies have allowed thus far. Much more than someone who has put together a few more scraps of lost wisdom than she has.

"No. You know Someone." The emphasis almost makes it a different word. Something of an entirely different magnitude.

Kunzite has posed:
It's only there for a moment. Only permitted to be there for a moment. A moment is enough; he has power in abundance, but that power is still conserved. Besides. There's one ambient threat already, even if it remains a polite one, and a practical element, keeping their conversation from interruption while hinting at shared interests. A second would be ... excessive. Impolite, even as these things go. He keeps it to a demonstration, and puts it aside.

And when she voices that correction, he almost - visibly almost - smiles.

"Yes," he says. "Would you like to meet Her? I think it might be arranged." And the Her, too, is familiar. A reverence beyond any honorific the language they're speaking has to offer, and a hint of a healthy fear.

Melanite has posed:
She's dreamed of this. Not of finding a teacher with more than scraps. Not of some too-handsome male inviting her to share 'something special'. No, she's dreamed of Her. Of the teacher in her dreams, the one who Named her. There's a rightness to it, of a choice made so long ago it is no longer choice, but simply fact.

"Yes," she answers, lingering over the word, savoring it. There's not even a thought of denying it, of turning down the offer. She could no more say 'no' than she could breathe lava, or eat vacuum.

Kunzite has posed:
That yes is answered by his coming away from the wall, straightening, inclining his head toward her another fractional measurement more deeply. Another test passed, not so much in the answer itself as in the way that answer was given. Anyone can say yes. Almost none of them so clearly understand what that means. And that, in itself, earns her another measure of respect.

"I'll make arrangements," he replies. No questions, no insinuations, no hinting at some hidden price. Well. One question. "What would you prefer I call you, when I speak of you?" To Her. Of course. But even with the pronoun to serve as a veil, even with the power he's shown, he's still not so strong that he's comfortable naming Her too often.

Melanite has posed:
There's a name. It's on the tip of her tongue. She can almost remember it. Almmost reach out to it.

Not quite, though. She hasn't reached that point yet. She's so very close a nudge might be all she needs... but she is yet to receive that nudge. "You may call me Kyra," she informs Kunzite. She may call her whatever she wants, of course.

Kunzite has posed:
Soon. Very soon. When they come for her --

Kunzite doesn't discuss where that might happen, or when, or how. They have traces of her magic, and the magic she used before had so many overtones of their own, his dread Queen shouldn't need more than that to find her. He says aloud, "Soon, then. Kyra-san."

Darkness clusters more thickly around him, and in another flicker of that cold lightning, he's gone. The spell on the bookstore goes with him: the lights come back to full, the temperature begins to climb back to normal, the shadows are only shadows again. None of the unconscious people are stirring, not yet. She has a little time to decide whether she wants to make an exit before they wake, instrument case and all, or whether she'd prefer to be found back among the books. After all. She's fourteen. Youma aren't the only creatures to underestimate people her age. No-one would associate her with whatever happened.

Melanite has posed:
"Soon, then, Kunzite-san," she answers, and watches him vanish.... no, she watches the pattern of his magic, the path it takes as he displaces himself from her presence. Trying to work out the spell for herself, already. She lingers only for a moment like that: it would not do to be found standing whilst everyone around her is not. She gathers up her instrument and hurries out, not lingering, despite her desire to do so.

She has much to think about.