20 Cylus 717
Temples were a hotbed of information. That was a lesson Moiran had learned as a girl at the elbow of a favored of Aeva. Like many of the far flung who found themselves within the auspices of Dhruv Ej'ryn, Cressa took Moiran as a temporary pupil and suffered the child's endless questions with admirable patience. It was she who introduced Moiran to her first temple following a stretch of deprivation in the fleet. They had recently fled the blasphemous Nashaki, a city whose political machinations regarding the dispersal of water left the faithful biqaj shaken. Others, such as Moiran's father, rocked with fury and his quartermaster's wisdom alone spared all of them further battle. Cressa all but booted Moiran off boat in Ivorian and hauled her along for an expedition to the temples of Yithiral.
Cressa was a woman of varied interests and religion and theology were not her primary lesson that day or those following. Instead the ambitious jeweler showed Moiran how to douse for the deep wells of secrets. The accumulation of knowledge and sound information on current affairs was necessary for business. Any business.
It was those hot, distant days ripening in Moiran's memory that brought her to the door of Inali, a pitcher of fresh water in hand.
Moonlight illuminated the priestess as she waited for her knock to be answered, responding to the thick silver blood in her veins. It slunk her shadow out through the street and deepened that darkness of her hair, left loose to ruffle over the collar of her weathered coat. That coat hung open despite the cold, old brass buttons a dull glimmer. She was unaffected by the chill, neither stamping nor shivering though her breath fogged like anyone's in the interminable night. Tall boots, low slung trousers, and a slight frame in need of good feeding made her up as an average stranger. Moiran would be surprised if anyone found her striking anymore.
A ready smile appeared at the opening of the door. It crinkled the corners of her eyes, their color drifting from frigid blue toward warmer hues of amethyst and pink. Shockingly genuine.
"Hello. I'm sorry to disturb you. Are you Inali? I'm Moiran." The white-eyed woman was studied with an unfaded curiosity. Rakahi came out of her mouth, fluent as her heartbeat. Perhaps a linguistics scholar could hear that this was one biqaj who was not from Ne'haer. Moiran's language had no mooring, and it never had. She was from nowhere, the product of the world's ports. "I heard you might be willing to help me learn to speak better Common."
