Annie arrived at the Black Hand Camp a little before sundown, anticipation etched across her features. She'd been trying to think of how to subtly ask around about the camp without looking shifty when she'd accidently overheard two old women talking about the Black Hand camp. Well, if'n that ain't destiny callin', I dunno what is!, she'd thought, and made plans to visit that night.

The evening air was begining to settle cool on her skin, but not so much that it felt cold. Some of the wicks were lighting lanterns outside their kints, and the fires were being stoked high against the slight chill. The one closest to the edge of the camp was being attended by a man and a young boy. Father'n son, I'm guessin', Annie thought. Mahap they can point me in the right direction.

She approached the fire with a smile and a wave. "Erm, hesta! I was wonderin' if'n ye could help me find someone. A friend o' mine tol' me t'come an' see her father, but fergot t'tell me his name. Hers is Xanadu. Mayhaps ye'd know who I'm needin' t'see?"

Tzurik looked up from the fire, the man's dark golden eye glittering in the fire light, and his hand drifting to ruffle the boy's hair in a lazily protective gesture. The flickering flame cast shadows on his face, and half of it was shaded by his messily tied back hair. The boy stayed still, his eyes the same black-gold as his fathers and also just as tightly focused on the stranger.

"Oes... Xanadu. Ent heard tha' name in mant manna maw..." Turning to the boy, he motioned for him to stand. "Ye chen yer Da naw, run te Darvan's kint, see if'n he's too bust t'talk te a tekaa whose askin' fer 'im." The boy quickly obeyed, and with a silent nod to Annie, slipped into the shadows as though he hadnever been thee at all. The Black Hand learn their skills young.

"Haitin will only-a be a moment, chip. Best ye take a seat by th'fire 'til th'boch gets back." He shifted his weight, and it became obvious that although he had looked at ease, during the entire conversation he'd been wound to spring. Prodding the flames, Tzurik was suddenly illuminated. Where his other eye should have been what looked to be pink scar tissue, and a stitched-shut lid.

"Wat brings a chip like ye t'be askin fer me brunno Darvan?"

Annie looked after the boy with astonishment. She'd seen kids, and she'd seen kids run, but never had she seen kids run into shadows and not come out, much less not make a sound in doing so. I...would not mind learnin' t'do that m'self, she thought. I also would not mind learnin' just what the clock that fella just said.

In that moment, it occured to Annie that Tek should be moved higher on her list of 'Things to Know'.

"Aye, thankee kindly. Gettin' t'be a mite chilly out here." As Annie stepped closer to the fire to take a seat, she saw the man's face fully in the light. It took every effort not to let out a startled gasp, even though her lungs really, really wanted her to. Instead, she converted it to a strangled cough, and turned her gaze steadily towards the flames. Goosebumps covered her arms, even though she wasn't particularly cold; Tzurik would think she'd caught a slight chill winds and nothing more.

"What brings, erm, well...," Annie cleared her throat. "I was tol' he'd be the one t'talk to if'n sommat wanted infermation on where a body mighta gone. Specific'ly th' driftin' kind what ain't prone t'stayin' nowheres long. Maybe see a sketch er two, hear a story. Lookin' fer faces an' all that." The reporter flashed a smile and glanced up at the man, making every effort not to look at the non-eye. Girl, I hope ye knows what ye're gettin' ye're self into.

The wick grinned, revealing clean, straight teeth. For all his terrifying appearance, he seemed like a stright-forward, mellow fellow. He didn't respond, merely nodding in Annie's direction before stoking the flames. He revealed noting more, merely keeping his one eye roving about the camp, lanky frame lolling about.

The silence stretched on, possibly uncomfortably long for the reporter, since her companion's face was half shadowed, revealing other scars along his jaw and neck. He looked like he'd fought a hatcher... and won. Tzurik was quiet and still, until suddenly he looked up sharply with a grin. After a pregnant pause, he spoke.

"Heh heh. Yer gonna need t'be a'lil more stealthy, Haitin. A good boch is a quiet boch." From out of the darkness at Annie's left, came a sweet, laughing voice.

"Ah, Da! Ye ruin'd it!" Haitin spun out of the darkness, leaping over the flames and into his father's outstretched arms. Tzuik caught the boy with ease, a laugh creasing his serious and scarred features. The boy giggled michievously, and crawling out of his father's arms, he turned to Annie.

"Ye kin follow me naow, beata! Darvan'll meet wit ye!" Haitin bowed impishly, and darted off into the inky night. The remaining male at the fireside guffawed loudly, and brushing hair out of his face, winked at Annie.

"Ye betta run after 'im, chip! He ent gonna wait fer no 'un."

This time Annie did gasp--when the boy jumped out of the night, over the fire and on to his father. Deservedly so, too; it was highly unexpected. The combination of the dark night, bright fire and interesting company was more than enough to put Annie's nerves on end.

The girl laughed nervously. "Haheh, yeah, I, erm, I can see that. Heh." Nodding her head in thanks towards Tzuik, Annie followed quickly after Haitin into the night of the camp. What little light came from the lanterns and windows did nothing to help Annie's eyes adjust to the sudden darkness she found herself in. After sitting at the fire for as long as she had, all she could see were dancing orbs of light and the occasional dark shaddow.

"Oiy! Slow down, ye buggar! I can't see where ye're at what with all this dark in m'way!" Oh gods, don' let me bump inter nothin' pointy...

Darvan had his own fire going, though it was by far brighter than Tzuik's. The older man was lounging comfortably in front of it, a pad of sketch paper against his knees, charcoal moving effortlessly over the page in the other. He looked up and smiled warmly as the speedy boy led Annie into the blaze's glow. The wick was perhaps well into middle age, yet he still appeared to have maintained an appearance of athletic youth. His long hair fell past his shoulders in a few braids and he sported a well-trimmed beard, a collection of earrings, and dark eyes. He wore a simple, open vest and loose pants, and though he was currently barefoot, it was obvious that he was hardly unarmed.

"Junta." He said simply, waving his charcoal dusted hand toward the fire, inviting Annie to sit, "Haitin here says you're lookin' for me, chip?"

"Aye," Annie replied, a tad haltingly. "Aye, that I am." She stood just barely inside the glow of the fire, reluctant to sit in case it meant offending anybody. She was still getting used to the whole 'traveling wick' society, and despite the casual ease of the older man by the fire, she knew better than to assume he couldn't cause massive bodily harm if she put a toe wrong.

Annie coughed lightly into her fist to clear her throat and noticed her hand was shaking slightly. Calm yeself, girlie. Ain't no reason t'be gettin' yer nerves up just yet. "I, erm, I was tol' by yer dau--erm, boch that ye'd be one t'see if'n a body's lookin fer infermation on folks. Somethin' about sketches an' story collectin'?" The reporter's nervousness was apparant on her face.

"See, I ain't ne'er met me family afore, but bein' that I'm at a festival o' wicks, I figger'd maybe there's a chance somebody might be able t'point me in the right direction. I guess Xanadu thought I'd recognise a sketch if'n I saw some...erm, heh."

The older wick listened quietly, almost expectantly. He put his sketching things down next to him and sat up to pay more polite attention to Annie, drawing his legs up and resting his arms over his knees.

"Oes," he nodded, "I do enjoy collectin' stories and drawin' the faces of those I see. Capturin' the real essence of places like this is somethin' I'll admit to enjoyin'." Darvan smiled warmly, waving one hand toward the fire, "You're safe to sit, you know. We're all friends here."

He chuckled, understanding the caution that usually surrounded his tribe.

"I have ... well ... quite a few drawings. It'd take days if not weeks for a chip like you to sort through them yourself ..."

The wick let his voice trail off thoughtfully, studying the witch before him carefully.

"This may seem like an odd request, but if I can draw you, perhaps I can find something similar in my mind. Surely, some part of you resembles the family you've never met, ye chen?"

"Erm, thankee, sir," Annie said as she took a seat by the fire, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her left ear. She flicked her eyes up at Darvan once or twice, but mostly she looked around the camp. Her knees were close together with her hands planted squarely on top; even with Darvan's ease, Annie was still a little nervous, although she wasn't entirely sure as to why. Must just be the cold...

With those words, Annie's nerves dissipated with an audible sigh of semi-resignation. Weeks?! "Well, that ain't quite what I was hopin' t'hear, that's fer sure. Corks, ye've been sketchin' that much, aye? You must have quite the hand fer a drawin'." We ain't got weeks. Days maybe, but not weeks. Nobody said anythin' about weeks!

Annie's eyes fluttered with surprise. "Nobody's e're asked t'draw me afore. That's a new one, no doubt! I, um...well, hells. Weeks we ain't got fer siftin' through years o' drawin's, so anythin' t'help jog a memory is fine by me." The reporter shook her hair back, and straightened up her back. "Sketch away, friend!"

Darvan picked back up his pad of sketch paper and charcoal and stared at Annie from over the blaze of the fire for quite some time. He smiled a little, but mostly his expression had a far-away look of someone looking through something to see what was past or inside of it, "I remember things best after I draw them or write them down. The stories of peoples' lives can often be found in their features over time. I don't just mean scars, of course,"

His hands had begun to move across the paper, and his gaze shifted between the witch and his lines in charcoal, "But I do think that there is a history that can be seen when one takes the time to study the surfaces of things."

The older wick fell quiet after a moment, trying not to make Annie uncomfortable with his studious methods, trying not to stare too much as he traced her features onto the page.

Time passed and the man made a thoughtful noise through his nose.

"Well, then." He turned the pad towards the witch in front of him as if to get her assessment of his work, holding back whatever insight this exercise had brought forth in his mind for after entertaining Annie's reactions.

Darvan smiled and in the firelight the charcoal on paper could be seen. It was, surprisingly, a very delicate piece of work, just a portrait of her face. He'd managed to capture a very obvious resemblance, but there was a subtle air of wistful curiosity that permeated the drawing as if the older wick had bothered to pour his observations of her personality right onto the page.

"Does it look enough like ye?"

Annie sat still, watching the older man as he worked. He moved the charcoal across the page with the ease of a practiced hand; the quiet scratching noises he made on the paper soothed Annie's nerves and she began to relax. Reminds me o' me typewriter, the one I used at the office. I miss that ol' thing.

It was calming watching him work. In all her time in Vienda, not once had she stopped to watch any of the street artists ply their trade. With paper and pen, or paint, or charcoal, they managed to turn something that initially seemed disjointed and illogical into some of the most detailed works of art. It's like tellin' a story wit' pictures instead o' words, she mused. They're reporters in their own right, 'cept the news they're tellin' ain't the same as what gets tol' in the papers. Annie smiled a little at that; the thought of a city full of journalists telling their own stories intrigued her.

Annie took the drawing from the old man, her eyes widening with amazed wonder. That's me! she thought. That's me right down to it. And it was indeed, only a bit more. Where other artists might only have captured the face of the girl, Darvan had managed to capture the girl herself. It's the look I get when I've nailed a perfect story, Annie realized with a jolt. It startled her, and scared her just a little. She looked up at the man across the fire, open mouthed and speechless.

"Ah-aye. Aye, that's...that's me..." her words trailed off as she looked back down at the page. "How...I mean, how...where did ye learn t'draw like that? Ye ain't just sketchin', mate. Ye're dowright recreatin'." Annie's shoulders shook with a quiet chuckle as she handed the drawing back to its creator. "Too bad I'm missin' me hat. Then it'd really be perfect. I've had that ol' fedora longer'n I can remember. My head feels half naked wit'ou it on top."

She smiled at the man, this time extending her hand. "The name's Annie November. Pleased t'meet an artist such as yerself."

The older man smiled, shaking Annie's hand warmly, despite his being a little dirty with charcoal, "Darvan Aurelia, and it's my pleasure. I always enjoy drawing new faces." Taking a moment to write Annie's full name in the corner of his sketch, he glanced at it thoughtfully again for several moments.

Then, he made a motion to stand, "I think I remember a few similar faces. Let me go pull a few drawings out of my kint."

Darvan wandered out of the glow of the fire and into his kint, lighting a candle or two and digging around unseen. After some time, the man returned with a leather-bound folder of more sketches. This time, he came and sat closer to Annie, handing her the folder,

"Why don't ye flip through here first and see if anyone stands out to ye?" He grinned at that, almost as if he already knew something but wanted to encourage the mystery.

The folder was hardened leather and about twenty sheets of paper were carefully sewn in the spine, some of various sizes. Most of the drawings inside were sketches in the same black charcoal, and they were mostly faces, with a few portraits of what looked like families. On the cover, stitched in the lower corner, was the word "Crow Camp, Surwood, 2685."

((Just to note, this isn't going exactly where we discussed. I had some inspiration after we talked, though. Still a Crow, just not who you think.))

"Well, it's nice t'be drawn," Annie replied with a smile, returning Darvan's handshake with a firm one of her own. The true mark of a man, how firm his handshake is. I like 'im.

"Aye, sure," Annie said. The nerves were starting to build again, only this time they were at the bottom of her stomach. They weren't the fearful kind, either; more an anticipatory nervousness, like before getting your first goodnight kiss. When Darvan returned with the folder in hand, Annie was almost afraid to take it from him, her hands were begining to shake. This was the closest she'd ever come to finding her family, and the voices in the back of her head were begining to worry. What if they're dead? What if they're criminals? What if they don't want you? With a gentle shake of her head to quell the worries, Annie opened the folder across her lap and started looking.

Darvan's drawings were beautiful, to say the least. Each rendering was detailed, even in their simplicity. Facial expressions and emotions were captured brilliantly by his expert hand. It was almost as if Annie were looking through the history of the Crows, one portrait at a time. She was begining to get lost in all of the faces when suddenly she gasped, her free hand coming to cover her mouth. It's the eyes, she thought. I see 'em everyday, starin' back at me from the lookin' glass.

"This. This one. Yes. It's...I see...that's my..." The wick could hardly get the words to form, let alone come out of her mouth in a coherant sentence.

"I think this is him," she whispered, staring at the drawing laying open in her lap.



*(Ooooh! Excitement! Now you've got me all curious and wondering and stuff!)*

((I try. ))

"Ye think?" Darvan leaned forward to get a better look at the particular drawing Annie had stopped on, laughing quietly, "Oes. If there ent a name down there, which I don't see, then I probably didn't bother askin' for one when I did the drawing."

The older man rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully, obviously not caring about the smear of charcoal his fingertips left behind across his skin, "I do see the resemblance, however, and I'd venture to guess that you're on the right track." He offered an encouraging smile, "It's the eyes and cheekbones. You see it too, eh?"

"Perhaps it'd be best if you kept that drawing and went to see some of the older Crows. I don't mind lettin' you keep it."

Annie nodded, replying with a small voice, "Aye. I see it."

Annie looked at Darvan with a jolt. "Are...are ye sure? It's yer own art. I'd feel like I were takin' one o' yer memories from ye." She was protective enough of her first-draft articles; they felt like they were part of her, and if they got taken or destroyed, well...let's just say it wouldn' be good fer the person what messed with 'em. Annie looked back down at the drawing in her hands. They were starting to shake again.

"Thankee kindly, Darvan. Ye don' know what this means t'me, ye really don'." One step closer. "I'll take good care of it, I promise. I'll go tomorrow, if I can. This...this is..." she looked at the older man with slightly watery eyes. "You've been such a help, ye really have."