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Message: <blockquote data-quote="spyscribe" data-source="post: 1370788" data-attributes="member: 5808">Moira lies on her bunk, idly strumming her lute.  It’s good to be back in her home city.  In the year since she joined the Water-Walkers, she’s seen much of the world.  But, as much as she loves the travel, the way posts on the road never seem as comfortable as they do in Dar Pykos.There is a knock at the door.  “Mm-hmm,” Moira says, by way of invitation.The door opens.  It is Lori, the Post Mistress.  She seems flustered.  “Moira, you, ah, you have a visitor.”    “Okay,” Moira says.  Lori steps back from the door, and a woman enters.  She is middle-aged, dressed in long green robes and a tall green hat.  Moira gasps at the sight of her, and quickly jumps up from her bunk.  It is the Benedictus—the head of the Church of Alirria in Dar Pykos.“Y-your Eminence,” Moira stammers.  “I-I didn’t expect--”“It’s all right, child,” the Priestess answers serenely.  “I’d be surprised if you had.”Moira smiles, relaxing slightly.  “If I may ask, to what do I owe this honor?”The Benedictus glances around the room, taking in Moira’s well-worn pack, her lute, her travel cloak.  “I wished to meet you,” she says.  “I’ve been in a great many meetings in the past day, and your name has come to my attention on several different occasions.”Moira swallows.  Given her past, there are any number of people who could have dropped her name.  And, given her sharp tongue, there are any number of things they might have said about her.“I understand you were raised by the Givers of Life,” the Benedictus continues.“Yes, that’s true.  My parents left me with them when I was a child.  Their farm was failing, and they didn’t think I’d last the winter….  That’s what I’ve been told, anyway.  I don’t really remember.”“I see.  And then, when you came of age, you came to the city, and spent time as one of our Lady’s Handmaidens?”“I did.”“Why the Handmaidens?”“Well… I was curious.  It was better than being on my own, and the Handmaidens are less, well, stodgy than the Givers.  They were very pleasurable years.”“But you left the Handmaidens, and now you travel the Lady’s many wonders as a Water-Walker.”“I’ve never been very good at staying in one place.”“Apparently not.  You have traveled much.”“I’ve only been with the Water-walkers for a year or so--” Moira begins to explain, but the Benedictus gently interrupts her.“I do not mean physically, child.  I mean spiritually.  You have explored so many of the ways of our Lady.  You have seen her in her many faces, more than most of your sistren ever will.  Even those far older and more experienced than you.”Moira isn’t sure how to answer that.  “I suppose I have.”The Benedictus focuses her deep green eyes on Moira.  “I am curious why.  Is it because you seek to know her?  Or merely because you have a short attention span?”Moira struggles to answer.  It is a question she’s never been fully able to answer herself.  “I guess…” she begins, “I guess I’m just waiting until I find some place that I truly feel I belong.  I’ve never experienced that moment when I know that what I’m doing is what I was meant to do.  I suppose I’m still looking for that.”“Yet you have only chosen to explore the ways of our Lady,” the Benedictus responds.  “There are many other paths one might tread.  Why have you never sought them?”This question is easy.  “Your Eminence,” Moira says, “for as long as I can remember, I’ve had no mother but the Goddess.  Hers are the only footsteps I would follow in.”The Benedictus considers that for a moment, then she smiles.  “A fine answer, child.  Thank you.”The High Priestess turns to leave.  But, on the threshold of the door, she stops.  “Oh, one more question.  I understand you were at the Mages’ Academy this morning, helping with relief efforts.  Why did you go?”Moira blinks, surprised the Benedictus would even need to ask.  “They were people in need,” she says simply.The Benedictus nods.  “May our Lady’s sweet water nourish you, child,” she says.  And she leaves.Moira closes the door and sits back on her bunk.  She picks up her lute, idly strumming it.  “Now what,” she wonders, “was that about?”</blockquote>

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