Sister Carpenter // Mallory Glass

@solused

Mallory - no, she reminded herself firmly, it was Carpenter now - had been trawling the town for days in search of someone she might lure in, and was just about ready to throw in the towel. Everyone was either traveling in too large a group, making it suspicious for her to approach them and try to get them alone, or clearly uninterested in being approached at all.

If she were to be completely honest with herself, Carpenter might admit that part of her failure was the result of reluctance to succeed. Nana Glass’ sacrifices had always been her least favorite part of the faith, growing up. But she wasn’t a child now, and she had a task to complete. She could only imagine Mason’s disappointment if she returned empty-handed.

The heavy, bitter feeling of failure was just beginning to settle in her stomach when, as if by miracle, her gaze landed on a young man tucked away in the corner of the coffeehouse. Well, thank the Trawlerman. He couldn’t be much older than her, with the look of a tourist about him - probably the kind of backpacker who could easily get lost in these parts, and no one would think twice of it - and, most blessedly, traveling alone. If she didn’t take this shot, she’d never find another as good.

Now resolved, Carpenter slid into a seat across from the man. “Mind if I join you?” She prayed he couldn’t sense her discomfort; Carpenter didn’t particularly enjoy having to approach strangers, and her intentions for him certainly didn’t ease the awkwardness. “I’ve heard great things about their cappuccinos here.”

“I do, actually, but far be it from me to stop you!” Peter smiled brightly over the table, pale eyes awash in something like relief. “I can’t say that I know anything about this place, I’ll have to take your word for it.”

There was something in his voice that suggests that maybe he would prefer to keep on knowing nothing. It’s in the way that he glances at the early morning mist though the window and rolls his ring, a heavy, cloudy white thing engraved with dozens of minuscule prayer marks, back and forth on his finger.

It’s a rich man’s ring, although he was not dressed as a rich man, his coat is travel-worn, lacking adornment save for the dampness left by the aforementioned mist. It’s only half disguise, Peter’s never had a desire to stand out in a crowd, perfecting the layered, plain dress of a sailor. Not, of course, that he ever laid his hands on rope or wheel.

"You could see for yourself, since we're sitting here," Carpenter suggested. "I'm going to."

Her gaze drifted to the ring the man was fiddling with. She didn't recognise those prayer marks. For half a moment, she thought to wonder if he might have more in common with her than she'd first estimated - but the thought was quickly dismissed. No follower of an unsanctioned god would dare display its marks so openly, down here in the city. More likely it was just some minor corporate god from further north than she'd know of. A sailor's talisman, maybe, going by the rest of his appearance. They sold a lot of those - though most not quite as ornate or expensive looking as this one.

Carpenter nursed the spark of resentment that she felt thinking of some corporate god claiming it could grant safe passage on her river. This was why she was doing this, she reminded herself. To claim back her river from those who sought ownership over it without ever truly understanding it. Her own talisman bearing the mark of the Trawlerman hung on a cord around her neck, tucked safely beneath her coat and out of view. The reminder eased her guilt a little, settling her nerves. If Nana Glass could see me now...