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[Alcuin is sitting at his console with a thoughtful look on his face. It's been long enough that he's settled in and now he has concerns beyond the absolutely necessary- and the money to take care of them.]

Are there any in the city who have a marquist's skill? The circumstances of my arrival left my marque in need of tending, and I now have the coin to pay for it- if none of those who have been brought here know it, I will look among the kedan, but I thought I would try my fellow exiles to begin with.

[He smiles.] If you know of anyone, pray tell me. I would be grateful indeed.

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[Alcuin answers, dressed in a loose shirt (because yeah, that will have to come off) and breeches. His eyes travel over Kyle, curious about the rest of him- and he definitely notices the ring. What an odd crest.] Please come in! I am glad to see you.

[He opens the door wider and bows politely.] Would you like some tea? Or anything else?

Oh no, I'm good. [Quickly adds:] Thank you. [He's only slightly uncomfortable as he honestly doesn't know where exactly to put Alcuin on his mental hierarchy. The man is obviously of a much higher class and yet Kyle doesn't sense any condescension, only curiosity. This is new. It's a little overwhelming, too, but he can adapt.] I'm Kyle, by the way. Kyle Rayner.

[He swallows the Green Lantern Corps that follows almost automatically, and then waits to see how Alcuin will address him, by first name or last, and he can adjust accordingly.]

[Alcuin is a difficult one to place- raised by nobility but not of it. A courtesan, in fact, or at least a former courtesan. But he has never seen a need to be a snob- everyone is fascinating, especially everyone here.]

Kyle, then. [He introduced himself as Kyle first, with the surname as an afterthought. Kyle seems to be what he is more comfortable with.] I am Alcuin nó Delaunay- I hope you will call me Alcuin. What sort of area do you require for your work?

[Some of the tension he didn't even know was there leaves him.] Nice to meet you, Alcuin. Actually, near the window, or a strong light source, would be good.

[Ah, good, Alcuin was hoping that would do.]

I will have to be lying down... would one of the windowseats provide enough room? [There is a nice big one with good morning light and enough room for Alcuin to lie down on. He enjoys reading there regularly.]

[He peers around the room, looking for something that might fit the description, and points to it.] Oh, that one?

I was thinking that would do, if you think it will be suitable. [Kyle is the artist here. Alcuin is just the canvas!]

More than suitable. [He walks over and starts setting up, obviously delighted by the idea of finally getting to do some art, even if it's simply touching up.]

[Alcuin slips his shirt off and goes over to sit on the window seat. His marque is exquisite, reaching from the nape of his neck down past the top of his breeches. The scar is quite obvious, a thick line from a healed stab wound slashing across the left side about a quarter of the way up.] Do you think you will be able to repair it?

[Oh.

Oh. That's beautiful. Excuse him, he's taking a moment to appreciate it.] Yeah, I can. [Beat.] Wow.

[He makes no comment on the scar (short sword, he thinks). He's no stranger to violence, and whatever business Alcuin had with his attacker, it's evidently concluded now.]

[Alcuin looks over his shoulder with pardonable pride and pleasure at the tone of wonder he can hear in Kyle's voice- he didn't ink it or design it, but he earned it inch by inch.] I am glad to hear it. It would be shameful to leave it imperfect.

It really would be. [And now, it's his turn to restore a work of art.

Joy colours his voice.] Just hold still, please.

Of course. [He is very good at holding still. Master Tielhard, who inked it in the first place, never had to scold him like he did his foster-sister.]

[While he's working, he decides to inquire more. Kyle is curious by nature, after all.] Who designed it? I've never seen this combination before.

[It takes Alcuin a moment to answer the question- he was somewhere else, busily ignoring the sting of the needle.] Master Robert Tielhard, the greatest of the Marquists' Guild. My guardian, Anafiel Delaunay, assisted him.

It's very beautiful. [Quiet reverence. It reminds him of a mountain, and the green is certainly putting him at more ease.]

It is. I am proud to bear it. [He likes Kyle's appreciation of its beauty- he hasn't met many non-d'Angelines here with an attitude so similar to his.] It is one of Master Tielhard's last works. The other is my foster-sister's marque.

[He falls quiet upon hearing that, a little too suddenly, and works for a few minutes before replying-] At least his work lives on.

[Alcuin hastens to correct the mistake.] Oh, no, he isn't- at least, not so far as I know. When I... left... he was alive and well. He is simply very elderly.

Oh. [He doesn't sound that assured though, simply because he's pensive now, and becoming absorbed.] Still.

Yes. I am happy to carry his legacy- and perhaps someday this design will be used for another. [Or serve as inspiration for another's marque- all designs are registered. It's all so organized.]

[That's a little weird for a tattoo. Kyle figures it's a cultural thing.] Why do you usually get one of these? Where I come from, people do it for fun, mostly.

[Or prisoners in a camp. Or a mob. But he doesn't mention those: unpleasant memories.]

They are sacred. Our goddess of pleasure, Naamah, was said to scratch the backs of her lovers so that they would bear the marks of her all their life. Her Servants- courtesans- take marques such as this in honour of her.

[Yep. It's a cultural thing.]

[That conclusion leads to... oh that explains a lot of things. He's not bothered by it except for one inquiry-] Are you... happy with your job?

[What he's really asking is: Did you choose it of your own free will?]

[There's a long pause before he answers.] I am no longer in her service. With my marque complete, I owe no debt- I entered it willingly, but I am not sorry to have left it.

[It was a complicated situation, to say the least.]

spamalot? 'tis a silly place

you are right let us not go there

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