Gifts and Confessions

Temple District, Midday

The overcast skies of the past few days have finally broken, fair skies scattering the sun across the Temple square. Though, the biting wind continues its gale in bursts, fall in full swing as clergymen and citizens are wrapped up in full to ward against it.

A scarred mul'neissa woman in a green buckle jacket scratches her head at the central fountain, a new sign having been erected nearby denoting 'Do not climb the fountain. Fine: 2sp.' She shrugs, hefting a brown sack over her shoulder as she makes a wide berth around it to lazily amble in the direction of the Dreamer's temple.

Not everyone seems concerned about the gusty fall breeze or the crisp chill in the air. Yes, Seldan wears a cloak over his shoulders over the usual shirt and trousers, and open-front robe, but the lightweight linen of shirt and trousers and the open front of the cloak says that the chill does not, in particular, worry him. Reunion is strapped at his hip, but there's no sign of kit nor armor.

He does not seem to be in any particular hurry, either, trotting smoothly past the guards at the doors and down the temple's marble front stairs, enacting a similar mosey in the general direction of the fountain and plaza proper. The sign at the fountain gets a steady look and a raised eyebrow, and he's just about to start towards it.

Aryia's lazy gait continues before it shifts to a proper heading, her attention having swept from the sign to a person of interest. She approaches from an angle, giving a two-toned whistle of greeting and announcement.

She shifts the bag to the other shoulder to free up a hand and wave hello. "Good morning-" she looks up, shakes her head, "-day. How are you feeling? I'm surprised you're not cold dressed like that," she inquires with a tilt of the head.

A member of the Watch strolls out with another sign and a mallet nearby, setting up another sign across from the fountain. <Handspeech/Tongues>

The whistle most certainly gets Seldan's attention, and his lips curve into a very small smile when he realizes, first who it is, and second, that the whistle was intended for him, for he doesn't appear to have noticed her at first. With a last glance at the sign, he changes his course to approach, and bow politely in the Myrrish style. "Her light upon your path, Mistress Aryia," he greets once he is within range to be a touch quieter. "The cold does not trouble me, and has not for some time," he explains obliquely. "I am quite improved, and have learned enough of late to have a thought that I would wish to share with you, and with others, but perhaps it is that here is not the place. How may I be of service to you?"

Aryia drops the bag on the ground in front of her after untying it to free both her hands up. She inclines her head, perhaps a ghost of a bow in return, but such customs tend to fly over her head. "And Hers upon yours, Seldan," she motions back. "You and Telamon both, it's getting freezing and you both just carry on." It's supplied in jest with a snort.

A brow raises. "I am curious of what you've learned, but we can table it for another time." A beat. "The only service I need is to make sure this fits you."

She kneels to rummage around in the bag. "How's the hand?" she inquires, glancing up as little flashes of black cloth appear from the bag as she's pulling it free. <Handspeech>

Surprise sends both of Seldan's ginger eyebrows heading for his hairline, and the signs are - for the moment - wholly forgotten. He will have to ask some questions later on that topic, but for the moment, whatever Aryia has has quite plainly caught him off guard.

"Soon, I think, should we speak, all of us who ventured to the castle. I shall send word soon." The question about the hand, though, distracts him. "It is well," he answers, unconsciously and experimentally flexing the fingers of his right hand. "I-" He looks down at it, and pushes up the sleeve to show what appears to be a white, long-healed scar that wraps all the way around his forearm, just above where the end of a gauntlet would sit. It's quite visible, but he stares at it a moment, pushes the sleeve down, and returns his interest to the bag at Aryia's feet. "You have aught that you would ensure fits me?"

Said sign gets hammered into place. The Watchman wiping sweat from their face. "... this job just keeps getting weirder..." they mutter, walking back to their post.

Aryia bobs her head once, eyeing the encircling scar with a curiosity. Subconsciously running a thumb over her own long healed scar that runs jagged across her throat. "Good. Weird as fuck, but good."

She makes a quiet whistle that equates to 'mhmm' as she pulls out several things from the bag. All of it is made in a pitch black cloth, though the threading has flicks of silver, cobalt, and gold. Akin to staring up at the cloudless night sky and seeing speckles smattered across it.

The seamstress holds out a robe, a pair of gloves, and several of what appears to be rags. "I have no fucking clue what's going on with you bleeding sparkly black shit, but I figured you'd need something that could at least match it so it won't be stained to shit," she gestures with a free hand.

This is Aryia's weird way of caring. <Handspeech/Speech>

The sight of it, and the explanation, sends all other thoughts from Seldan's mind, and he closes his eyes, lowering his head in what could almost be shame. Certainly embarrassment. A deep, slow breath or two, and he pushes it aside, resuming the usual steady gaze. "Then truly do I owe you an explanation, for the thought is most kind, and indeed shall I make good use of such a gift. It does not, if such concerned you, appear to be inimical in its nature," he offers carefully, reaching to take the offerings, examining the cloth thoughtfully. "Well-selected, and well-made."

Aryia tilts her head to the side at the embarrassment. Confusion easily readable on her visage. But! Compliments rendered easily stroke the seamstress's ego, her puffing up with pride. She grins. "Glad you like it."

She rolls up the empty bag, stuffing it into her belt haphazardly. "That answers one question, if I have to be worried about it or not. But explain if you so wish. I probably owe you one too." She rubs her forearms, imagining the massive blade being locked chained to them once more. <Handspeech>

"Nay. It shows no reaction to anyone save me." Seldan continues to make a close study of the clothing, but at length looks up, following the flashing hand-signals only with the aid of magic's augmentation. "It has begun but of late only. How this came to be, I fear is a tale long in the telling, but if its origins are as I believe them to be, the original magical effect was created for a wizard's tower, and was intended to clean and repair that tower. The effect was - subverted - and turned against the people of Alexandria, causing a magical illness."

Suddenly, the clothing in his hand is very interesting. "Those who suffered the worst of it - those who were hit with strong magical effects while ill - some suffered permanent effects. These effects, mostly, were negated and cleansed by the one who subverted the effect, when she was awoken." An odd word choice, that, but he does not elaborate.

"I have not the proof, to know for certain its origin, but this do I know - that the effect seems to heal me. Repair me, even going so far as to mend this." His eyes go to the forearm he'd bared, then down.

Aryia tilts her head the other way, long ears giving the occasional flick from a heady wind as she listens. The gloves are long, to the forearm, perhaps to cover up anything remiss. The robe moderately thick to stave off chill, and the cleaning cloths, well. Simple and singular in purpose. At least they can stand up to being shorn a few times and repaired magically if need be.

Her brows furrow. "Is... this that magic plague that you're talking about? Because I heard that messed a lot of things up," she inquires. A singular brow quirks at the word choice, but she doesn't yank that thread just yet.

Except for that last bit. "That sounds really fucking useful," she signs with a light smile, approval in a way that only Aryia bluntly could. Speaking of blunt, "Are you ashamed of it?" <Handspeech/Tongues>

"Even so." Seldan's admission is very, very careful, and he lays each item out, to study them, then lays the gloves and cloths over one cloaked shoulder to fold the robe as best he can. "Your gift is most kind, Mistress Aryia, and well done of you. You have my thanks for the unexpected generosity." Once the robe is folded, he lays the cloths, and then the gloves, atop them, for one neat stack.

He does not answer the final question, though, leaving it to hang. Only a slump of shoulders acknowledges it at all. Instead, he goes on, "I would ask the same question of you, though. Are you well? I would not excessively pry, but the sword-" He trails off. "I expect you are unused to weapons, and have no need for such."

Aryia's visage relaxes as she watches the care being taken with the clothes she's sewn. She inclines her head. "You're welcome. I... admit I am shit at being personable." Clearly. "But I figured you needed a pick-me-up." She smiles.

Which turns into a squint at the lack of an answer. Which speaks for itself. "Speak with someone about it, at the very least. I know silent suffering." She shifts a bit. Her throat bobs.

"I'm okay." The pugilist peels back her sleeves, faint scarred imprints of those chains having made a home with all the others. "Most of my scars came not from adventuring. But of from underground fighting rings. I... really don't like holding sharp things. Or things to kill at all, for that matter. When that being locked that sword- shit. Felt like I was in a pit all over again."

Her gaze drifted off some time during her recounting. But she shakes her head, present once more. "Didn't get in the way of freeing the little golden wonder, and that's what I can be glad for." <Handspeech/Tongues>

This time, Seldan's gaze as he listens is intent, sober, and thoughtful, giving the words all of the consideration he would give to anything. Slowly, he inclines his head in what is akin to a nod. "No, and indeed it did not. She is well, and I have spoken to her since. Glad I am that you are the same, and I would have you fear not for me. Those there are who know the whole of it." The very smallest of smile appears, small, but appreciative nonetheless. "A difficult experience for us all, it seems, you no less than anyone. We should speak more on this, and soon, but I fear I am tasked with an errand, and must depart. Where shall I find you?"

Aryia lets out a sigh of relief that Tanith is well and hale. "Thank fuck, I was worried." She just shakes her head and silently chuckles, reaching forth and up to clap his shoulder. "Good. And it was rough for all. I still need to check on the Cor'lana and Telamon. Regardless- I agree. We should speak more.."

She takes a half step back. "Go to the Colosseum and ask for the new coach during the day. A smirk. "See you then." <Handspeech/Tongues>