Story loved Hoja Mesto so, yet he didn't often have any reasons to hang about. He was an unknown on the whole in most locales. There were a few fleeting times that a history buff or two would have a glimmer of recognition. Rarer still were the times he would encounter a being old enough to realize his identity. These short acquaintances caused him no small amount of anxiety. Being one of the last of a sort that was hated and feared tends to do that to a…person.
Hoja Mesto was a place that almost anyone could blend into the woodwork, and to be a wallflower in the tapestry of life. The golem itself, and the original districts of the city were quite antediluvian. Much of it was fairly recent additions, in the grand scheme of time (for those that had an awful lot of it). The tasteful alchemy of things new and old, and constant changing of residents and visitors ensured the certainty of his anonymity.
Night life, social acquaintances, and even cuisine were of no interest to Story in any place he visited. Though he did find his curiosity of others getting the best of him from time to time, solitude and knowledge were what he treasured most. These things the city had in abundance if one stuck to the many old libraries scattered throughout. He tended to start with the newer libraries first. Their catalogs surprisingly had just as much relevant material for those delving into antiquated information as any other. It made Story imagine that there must be warehouses somewhere that the city owned, just stockpiled with books that they never initially had room for.
Hopes of a relatively uneventful evening were crushed when the tell-tale metallic odor of blood hit Story as he entered his first reading stop. Lowering the hood of his cloak to grant better peripheral vision, he paced carefully through the newly-crafted pine-floored establishment, causing not a single plank to creak, despite the weight of his boots. He saw the body first, in a drained and mangled state that would have been familiar to him many, many years ago. The flower in the hair was an odd touch. An eccentric, perhaps? Or…
"Now, now," Story lamented aloud, choosing to give himself away before seeing the victim's assailant. "Was this really necessary?"
He clicked his tongue as he rounded the corner, avoiding stacks of books littering the floor. His crimson-brown eyes lingered on the corpse a moment longer, before sizing the young woman up that was perched upon one of the many mountains of tomes. He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard thoughtfully. "Mm. C'est la vie."
The phrase Story used was a commonly borrowed one, but the entirety of his spoken words carried the tinge of the culture of its origin, among other, indistinguishable notes.
As fate would have it, the young lady currently held the one book of his interest, and was turned to a page with the object of interest that he sought. He was patient, however, and would make no demands. "Elven in design, but never intended for elven use," he said of the sword in the book as he paced around her. "One could argue it was never intended for use at all, save to punish the wicked or the masochistic, due to certain properties it was imbued with. The craftsman was quite mad, you see. I should hope it is not that thing you are after, or we shall find ourselves at a rather unpleasant impasse."
Story reclined in a sofa across from her, and crossed one leg over the other, arms splaying lazily across the furniture's back. "I suspect not, though. You are moon-scented, in more than once sense. You would have no use of something that would burn to the touch."
He chuckled lightly. "How rude of me. I have been called many things…but you may call me Story. A handle I have acquired in recent years from an unquenchable curiosity to know other's tales. I would very much like to hear yours."
