Subject: Mestea and Shan
Misty looks around at the Kav's in the bar, noticing their green swords.
Although the elves play cards, throw darts, and drink heavily in the manner
they did earlier that day, this evening the glow from Holdfast bracers
and swords is green, not red. Braith, Ironjade, Shanagate, Taal, and
Glowstone: all wear iron-and-fire with green glowstones. 
Mestea turns to Shan, who is staring at the kavs with a look of defeat,
but strangely without surprise.
At 06:49 AM 9/22/99 -0700, Mestea wrote:
>"I suppose if the Crossing-in-the-Mist goes to where by definition
> nothing ever happens, then by definition something _has_ to
> happen where the Crossing-in-the-Mist is not.
>"Shan,  I do want to share with you, sometime, what happened 
> to Jil, because you have asked.  
>"But for me, I would like to show you the writing in my spell book 
> that I do not recall penning.  I would tell you of a time when I
> slept but my brothers said I did not.  There should be nothing 
> left from that time except the writings in my book, the 
> enchantments.  But, every time I see you, I,  I want..."  
 
>Mestea pauses, blushing. 
>"I want a lot of things.  Not the least of which is ... to throw 
> myself at your feet and beg your forgiveness.  Not as Jil, 
> not for the war.  Shan, I want your forgiveness for ... my 
> leaving you, ... for running from you ... for dying."
>She bends down and grabs his hand.  She presses the back of it
>to her forehead for a moment then turns and flees the Happy 
>Toad.
The founder of Shanagate Holdfast stands looking after Mestea, all else
forgotten. His face is bloodless, stunned. Shan closes his eyes and
reaches out. 
>She has left tears on the back of his hand.
Etienne high-Shanagate Villiers guides his teyn's arm to the bar, and
turns Shan so he can lift the elf onto a barstool. Shan is as a doll,
sitting where his teyn positions him, and holding still otherwise.
His eyes remain closed, the flesh of his face white. Villiers crouches
by the stool, busying himself by arranging Shan's gear and tidying his
teyn's perfect attire, talking all the while, 
"It is not so unexpected, my friend? After seeking _her_ for so long,
 to finally find her searching for us? It was hinted before this day
 that she might wear an enemy's face, and we have spoken
 of this moment. You are not so unfamiliar with the gift of irony. 
"Perhaps it is time to speak her name out loud again.
 You must be strong or our green kethi shall use this as excuse
 to challenge your weakness.  If you don't let us speak freely, 
 people will think you afraid of Dark Agnes. Tonight I have 
 no desire to duel--"
A sob escapes Shan Shanagate, and he covers his face with his hands,
turning to place both elbows on the bar. Villiers stands abruptly,
scarily fast, and twirls his fur-trimmed cloak from his own shoulders
to Shan's with one graceful pirouette, as if dancing momentarily with
the wrap.
"Friends and acquaintances, please leave us to our personal troubles. 
 Shan and I have helped you this day write your histories well. Please
 give us privacy to write this page of our own. Once it is written, we
 shall surely read the tale to you later, in words that do not trouble
 us when we hear them. 
"We shall join you at your convenience when you summon
 us to the estate of Salt Peter's daughter. The talk of the town
 informs me that the Dean has retained the son of Huery 
 Que-Que as her personal chef. On any evening when 
 the menu includes more than steak Tartare, we would 
 enjoy partaking of the renown Wallachian culinary genius."
Villiers moves his arms wide and turns his palms outward. He begins to
shoo the party from the Happy Toad. Shan Shanagate remains hunched low
at the bar. Beneath the thick cloak, his shoulders tremble and heave.