[/html]Rachias had mentioned her, of course, but even then, he had not known what to say, what to write in response. She had already become little more than a memory, and now -- and now, it had been more than a few lifetimes, surely. Was she immortal? The old woman's silhouette on the shadowy horizon was telling, but Kharma realized he did not know how many years she had lived. In fact, the things he did not know about her far outnumbered the things he did. He had wondered about them in his youth, in the quiet days he'd spent in the library. But he had not wondered in a long time, and he didn't really want to go back to it. He didn't want to go back to any of this.
"Hello," he said, lowering his eyes and bowing slightly, one arm sweeping forward as he dipped his head in greeting. The cloaked traveler knew she had already recognized him, but he could not bring himself to acknowledge it, to acknowledge her, and the fact that he knew who she was as well. Kharma had never known himself to be bitter towards his mother for what she had done, or what she had not done. Maybe it was the long journey and the dryness of the summer, maybe it was just the oddity of being back in this place, but he felt some of it then, and it made him uneasy. He looked up again and stared straight into her one golden eye. "I'm looking for someone," he said quietly. "Or a few someones, perhaps. Has Rachias Tears been here at all in recent months?"
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