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A. It's too cold to be outside, or she would most certainly be out. It's snowing outside the library, the flakes drifting down beyond the pane, and the woman perched in the windowsill doesn't seem to be anywhere near dressed for the weather. Her robes are light, more ornamental than practical -- some relics of a bygone era. Dark hair is impossibly long, spilling down the sill and nearly to the floor, left loose and undecorated. In her lap is a pad, and she appears to be attempting to draw . . . though it's hard to say, watching her, that she even knows how to hold a pencil. She keeps shifting her fingers, trying to find something that looks comfortable, and the scrawl that she's producing doesn't look much like anything at all.

You'll either find her trying at this or casting down her pencil in disgust, staring out at the falling snow. For anyone spiritually-inclined, she's exuding an enormous amount of spiritual presence; for anyone else, she's merely a woman -- though one who looks very out of place.

B. Sounds like the triads are at it again. They seem to have cornered a tall, pale woman in the nearby alley. Her dark eyes spear them, her voice raised in demand. Whatever she says, however, is lost on the triad members, who smirk. One sparks fire into his hands, ready to move.

The woman answers with no bending. Perhaps she doesn't have any at all.

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Yuri is passing by said alley when he manages to catch a glimpse of some triad members ganging up on some poor woman. Repede, who is walking besides him, pricks his ears and growls lowly. The man heaves a sigh, bends down to pick up a pebble and promptly chucks it at the head of the triad member with the fire.

"C'mon guys, can't you give it a rest for once?"

With everything that's happening, it seems like there's always trouble around every corner. And of course these guys have to start even more, especially with poor innocent people.

The man holding the fire whirls, the spark of it winking out from his palm. His glare could incinerate Yuri where he stands if he'd had any combustion abilities. "Not your business! We've got business with the lady!"

The lady in question flicks her gaze to Yuri in turn. She seems neither grateful nor annoyed by his presence; her eyes are cool, black -- eyes that she flicks back to the triad members within a moment, as though Yuri is merely a distraction from a larger cause.

"I have told you I carry no money. I suggest that you move for me to pass."

"Not until you pay for what you took!" one of the men bites back. "One way or another, I get what's owed me first!"

"Yeah well, I just made it my business," Yuri replied.

He then looked between the lady and the thugs and heaved a heavy sigh.

"So what does she owe you, exactly?"

He knows how these guys work. Scamming people and then not leaving them alone until they paid them back. Even if he beat the crap out of them, they'd still find her and give her trouble. Probably even more so.

Despite Mia's familiarity and proximity to the two great Water Tribe spirits, she's not as intimately aware of the spiritual energy exuded by the woman at the window. Yet something is drawing her to the other woman all the same. Perhaps she is somehow unconsciously aware that there's something about her; perhaps there's also a conscious aspect that notices that she's fairly out of place and has this je ne sais quoi element to her clothing. But nonetheless, Mia was doing some of her own research since she has the time in the Republic City... and also access to many tomes and books that aren't at the Northern Water Tribe's own library. And so, whilst reading, the woman catches her eye, and despite her attempts to ignore the Mother of Faces, Mia just can't.

She does a terrible thing and dogears a page so that she can go back to it at a later time before walking over to the rather oddly-dressed woman and looks at her notepad with a bit of curiosity. "Having some trouble?" she asks innocently.

She recognizes this girl -- the girl who approached her pool, who purports to have a duty to guard the spirits Tui and La.

The one who offers herself to be known.

All of this flicks through the mind of the Mother of Faces, though as ever, her thoughts and that recognition do not show in her features. And though the face she herself wears is different than the one Mia knows; it does not immediately occur to her that she will not be recognized.

Her chin lifts somewhat, the pencil tossed to the sill. "I have seen a man try this skill. By all measures, it should be more simple than my own work . . . yet it eludes me."

Yet she does not even know how to hold the pencil, and that is annoying. A human -- and not even a particularly bright one! -- mastered something than she has not.

Mia hadn't noticed the pencil at first but more the artwork, and only now that she's been invited to the conversation does she realise precisely what's wrong. The connections between the Mother of Faces she met in the Wilds and this woman are still completely non-existent, but that doesn't mean that Mia isn't going to try to help.

"I've never really mastered the art of drawing either," she says with a soft voice. "I've always been too busy with other matters. But... may I?" Mia asks politely if she can take the pencil from the woman.

A brow shifts upward. Reaching for the fallen pencil, the woman holds it out.

Apparently this constitutes agreement.

Mia deliberately takes the offered pencil and picks it up between her forefinger and thumb. "It's probably going to be easier to sketch if you hold it this way," she offers. She shows the pencil held between her two fingers to the woman before sliding her middle finger just below the pencil. Then then waggles the pencil up and down using the muscles in her two extended fingers with her thumb as the fulcrum. "This makes it a little bit easier to make careful strokes and smoother curves."

She takes a very brief moment to eye the woman next to her and demonstrates a very quick sketch of the woman next to her. She's not trying to do anything amazing, but she takes up a small corner of the piece of paper to draw a basic stick figure with long flowing hair that obviously represents the Mother of Faces' personification.

She offers the pencil back to the lady with a smile.

Well, the work is hardly impressive. It is, after all, a stick figure with hair -- no details, no beauty. The Mother's features are impassive, studying the drawing with clinical detachment. Yes, it is lacking.

But the holding of the pencil . . . this is useful. Reaching to take the returned pencil, she strives to copy the position, twisting her wrist for Mia's view. Her skin is lily-pale, untouched by callus or freckle, the trailing veins blue just beneath the surface.

It's a credible effort, though not quite right.

Well, what did the Mother of Faces expect? She spent all of about ten seconds making it. It's not like she spent long arduous hours at plying a picture. Besides, even if she did, it probably wouldn't look fantastic either. Mia is really not the artist.

The woman, now making a newfound effort at holding the pencil, continues to perplex Mia given just how... perfect she seems... or at least how ethereal of a quality she has. It's kind of amazing.

"That's better, but I hear it takes long... long hours to really master the art. They have schools entirely dedicated to the study and creation of art, but I've never really had the opportunity to go much beyond simple doodling."

"I have never paid attention to it." The Mother is studying the stick figure again, working to copy it. Her grip on the pencil is obviously awkward and far too hard. The pencil moves . . . the circle that it produces is wobbly -- the work of someone who has not ever developed the hand-eye coordination to write.

The corners of the Mother's mouth are tight with dissatisfaction.

"But it seems, perhaps, one of the better creations of humanity."

You know, if she can actually manage to do it herself. Otherwise she may yet change her mind.

Well, whoever this woman is is one of the stranger people Mia has ever met. Mia's still trying to swallow the last of her lines. Either it's a rather hyperbolic statement—to say that it's one of humanity's best achievements—or there's something more behind it.

Regardless, Mia doesn't comment on it. She's been raised better than that.

"There are some amazing pieces of artwork in the city that I could show you. There are a few museums in town that have some fairly decent collections," she offers helpfully. "Unfortunately, if you're looking for lessons, you'd have to find those on your own. I wouldn't know where to start looking."

Surprisingly, there's a half-smile -- amusement as the truth of the situation finally occurs to the Mother, though she still concentrates on the lines of her pencil.

"You do not recognize me."

"Though I may still take your offer."

Mia blinks for a moment, and suddenly her mind is strolling backwards through time. Should she be recognising her? Is this someone she ought to know? But try as she might, the face just can't be placed, nor can the exotic clothes. Nothing matches.

Unless...

Unless she's met this woman before in another context. But then...

A spirit? 'Tis possible.

A similar half-smile echoes Mia, though her eyes still don't light up entirely with recognition, even if they light up with understanding. "We've met before then?" There's uncertainty in her voice, but she's sure she's at least right about that. "If that's your wish, then... okay." She broadens the smile just a dash, becoming more friendly.

"I am the Mother of Faces." The Mother's voice is quiet, but she also does not seem to be overly concerned with anyone overhearing. Instead she focuses on echoing the legs of Mia's stick figure drawing. "In this time and place, however, you may refer to me as Uma."

And only then does it all hit Mia at once. Of course. Of course.

"Out and about exploring the world, hm?" Mia's voice is soft, just above a whisper, but her smile broadens. It gladdens her heart to hear her name and to know that she had taken the advice she'd given. "So, Uma... I admittedly can draw a little better than that; I was trying to do something... very quickly. And not to mar your sketchbook too much. But you might find real art much more amazing than what little I can offer you."

Her eyebrows rise at the first comment, though her reply is less offended and more a matter of pride. "Unlike some, I am not confined to my pools. And if I am to be forced to be here, I may as well understand my cell."

Yes, Mia, you and Aang both suggested it. And she knows it, privately, even she does not give the credit openly.

"As for my . . . sketchbook, there is nothing to mar." Her hand moves for the girl to see the finished product; the result is . . . well . . . pretty bad, like a two year old with their first crayon -- a fact that she's fully aware of, pressing her lips together briefly. "Apparently I cannot begin to reproduce what little human art I have seen."

So irritating, to have a human make something she actually admires -- and then be unable to echo it.

Knowing who she is, and with an implicit invitation to sit down next to her, Mia does so, scooting the chair closer to the table as she looks over at the rather uncertain lines and curves that make up the Mother's attempts. She smiles sympathetically but allows her eyes to drift up to her. "I knew you weren't confined to it, Uma," she says softly. "On the contrary, I'm glad to see you've come to visit, as it were.

"But that said, though you may not be able to reproduce our semblance of art, you have something far greater," Mia continues as she gently takes the pencil out of the Mother's hand and flips the page to find a blank page to begin a sketch of her own. "You have your own art—the art of creating faces... identities. You are the artist and sculpture behind this." She pauses from writing to wave her left hand over her face. "And... indirectly, you are the artist that created the capacity for us to create this more simple art. That, in an of itself, is perhaps the greater achievement." Perhaps the words might sound like embellishment, but they're quite serious. After all, Mia is amazed at the spirit's responsibility and her work.

That said, she begins a rather crude—but certainly better than stick-figure quality—outline of the Mother, occasionally glancing up at her for reference.

Oh no, why did he have to be the one to stumble across this? And there was at least one bender among the group. Great, just great. As much as he really, really wanted to avoid trouble he couldn't bring himself to leave the woman there alone at the mercy of those men.

Stepping into the alley, he puffed up his chest and tried to look as intimidating as he could manage.

"Leave that lady alone!"

Some people just seem to attract trouble -- or just have the knack for appearing in the middle of it from the day that they're born.

The group is primed, interested in a fight, probably bored. It was likely more from boredom than anything else that they cornered the woman, who they'd demanded a "sidewalk tax" from.

So it's with full-out grins that they turn on Jackie, teeth gleaming. "You going to pay instead?"

"Pay? I..um...uh...well...." He pats his sides and pockets down several moments before looking back up at them.

"It looks like I left them in my other pants. Maybe I can pay you later?"

The Triad members glance at one another as though to say 'is this guy real?' and 'was that supposed to be funny?'

Because they aren't laughing. And surely this guy, wandering in and demanding from them, can't be that inept.

Like them, the woman is watching him, faintly bemused, as though curious where he will take this all next -- as though he is more a curiosity than a savior.

"Look." Water flows from the flask of one, curling around his form. "You don't look worth much to begin with. I suggest you just get out of here. Before we change our minds."

Well, this wasn't going the way he'd hoped. Swallowing nervously, Jackie shifted from one foot to the other but managed to stand his ground.

"N-no. Leave the lady alone....oh-oh....or else."

Spirits, why did he just say that?

One could only hope he knew what he was doing . . . because it was too late if he didn't. With a snort, the water bender sent the water whip slashing through the air, aiming for Jackie's legs.

The call, for her, can almost be felt rather than heard. It rings through her body, high and thin like the wail of a child, and punctures into her being. It's a cry she can't ignore; immediately she is moving, across the cobblestones and through the snow, fast and pushing faster. Her human form feels heavy, ungainly, but she can't take the time to cast it off. She slips in the slush once, falls, winces at the impact on human bones. Pushes herself up. Runs on.

In an alleyway half-consumed by vines, she finds what she's looking for: Two teenage boys bent over the top of a garbage can, focused on the space between them.

She knows what is inside.

She doesn't think. Doesn't consider. Too strong for a human, one hand snatches a boy at the nape of his neck and clothing, flattens him against frozen brick. The other shrieks in surprise, the sparks dying at his fingertips, yanking away.

Her eyes are frozen, icy black.

Wan had heard the call for help, too - not from the spirit in trouble but from a smaller spirit that had been with it and managed to make it to the vines that were so close. He followed the spirit through the streets to the alleyway and made it there just as the woman slammed one of the human boys against the wall. The small spirit that had been leading Wan gave a surprised squeak and darted away, hiding itself so it didn't draw her ire.

Wan could tell the woman wasn't an ordinary human, if she was human at all. Was she the spirit that had been in trouble? He couldn't see anyone else there and if she had been the one the spirit said was attacked, she definitely had a right to defend herself.

"What's going on here?" He called out in a demanding tone, trying to grab the attention of everyone in the alley.

Her eyes dart to the new intruder, jab through him -- then releases the boy, who slides down the wall with somewhere between a sob and a gasp. Stepping towards the can, she reaches in, drawing out a tiny spirit, limp and singed and shaking with terror, cradling it in her arms like a child, close to her chest.

"We wer--" The unaffected boy's lips are quivering so hard, he has to start again. "We weren't-- We were just . . ."

He's silenced as the woman's eyes narrow at him again. The rise in spiritual energy is sudden and strong.

"Your reincarnation decided that humans and spirits would live together." The woman does not look immediately, but her words are for Wan. "I think even you know, Avatar, how history went on that front before."

Wan's eyes widened at the sight of the tiny spirit and he didn't even care that the woman was naming him for what he was. The two boy's looked just as shocked as Wan did, their eyes darting between him and the woman only looked human. One of them even looked like they wanted to say something to express their disbelief, but the other grabbed at him to get him to shut up.

Wan glared at the two and with a quick movement they were both suddenly pinned to the nearby brick wall with cuffs of earth around their wrists. But he didn't otherwise address them, his attention going to the small spirit.

He approached the the woman, stopping when he was within arms reach of her, eyes locked on the spirit she held so dearly, "And if you remember that, then you know the spirits did the same to humans long before I closed the portals. Neither side is wholly innocent of doing terrible things to the other. I'm still doing all I can to teach humans to respect the spirits and each other."

"It's taking longer than I'd like," he glanced at the two now very terrified boys before reaching out to touch the injured spirit very gently. "But it's still worth trying. I have water and I've been taking lessons in using it to heal. I can help it a little."

She does not release the spirit to him just yet, though she does allow his fingers to graze the dazed and anxious spirit in her arms. It murmurs and peeps at Wan's touch, querying and confused, though it seems soothed by the Mother's proximity.

The Mother does not answer his comment about history immediately, though she may return to it. It is not a conversation she feels that the boys deserve. She does, however, brush against it, eyes flicking in their direction. "And what will you do with them?"

The question is a matter of trust.

He sighed and put his hand on his other hand on his hip. He didn't try to take the spirit from the woman, just tried to soothe it a little with his touch while gave some thought to the fate of the two human boys. He could feel their panicked eyes on him as he went quiet and one of them even started whimpering a little.

"I'm going to teach them what they did wrong and why," he finally said. "Doing violence to them will only teach them that violence is the way to continue dealing with their problems."

He heard a relieved sigh and snapped his head to the side to glare at the one that released it, making the kid stiffen in renewed fear immediately. "That doesn't mean I'm going to be nice about it. You hurt an innocent for nothing more than the name of 'fun', you will be making up for that."

The Mother's eyebrows arch, watching him, unwillingly intrigued. A soft light surrounds the spirit in her arms -- not a light of healing, but at least one that soothes, causes the trembling to fade entirely, and the small one breathes out note that sounds like a sigh, falling asleep.

The boy who tried to speak before wriggles against his rock bonds. "L-Look. We didn't do it. It was just in there, and we found it, and it was like that, and we were gonna let it go."

Wan was in the kid's face in two strides, his eyes lighting up with the fury both he and Raava shared. His voice echoed hers as he snapped, "Stop lying!"

The light faded and though he didn't lash out physically, his hands were balled into fists at his sides, "I already know it was you. That spirit wasn't alone and it's friend came and got me to stop you."

The boy cowered as the spirit's friend finally came back, first peaking around the corner and then floating over to Wan. It landed on his shoulder before hopping over to the boy and jumping up and down on his head in anger, telling the kid off. Wan didn't try to stop it.

He took a stop back, gave a challenging glare to the other kid to make sure he didn't have any lies he wanted to attempt, and moved back to the woman. His posture relaxed, worry for the small spirit still on his face.

"Please, allow me to try and heal it."

Again, he made no attempt to take the spirit from the woman. He wanted her permission.

The light suddenly in his eyes comes like a stab -- as though someone has suddenly driven a blade between her ribs. Twisted. Her breath shivers in her lungs as a murmur, small and involuntary, comes to her lips.

And then it's gone. Her arms curl around the little spirit. Holds it closer, her face temporarily obscured by a dark curtain of hair.

Until Wan's voice interrupts her, asking again. Her muscles tighten; she almost turns away. Instead she stands without breath, held taut between two choices.

"What will you do?"

She isn't asking about healing. It's a repetition of the same question as before.

"I'm going to show them what they did was wrong and why," he said a little more gently. Hoping to calm the woman. She was a spirit, that much was obvious now. But he was having trouble recognizing her for who she was. "They'll be made to make up for their actions. I'm not going to let them get away with doing this. I promise."

"The spirits attacked the humans who were not content with what was theirs." Her voice is still a murmur, but it has a tighter undercurrent, answering the comment from long before. "Because they took from and defiled what was not theirs. They do not understand, and they have no respect. They understand only fear."

"They can learn," he replied, voice still gentle. "They just need to be taught."

Whomever this spirit was, she'd been hurt by humans. She didn't see any good in them. Much like Raava hadn't. And he knew that was a hard image to break.

"Teaching takes time and now that the spirit portals are open and Vaatu's influence is not a danger to the world, they have the best opportunity to learn it than they've had in ten thousand years. Please, I know these two aren't good examples... I know a lot of humans aren't good examples, but humans can be just as amazing as spirits if they're shown how to respect and care for nature as the spirits do. Keeping them afraid will only lead to anger and hate and the problem will never be fixed."

She raises her head and looks back at him . . . and for long moments her eyes search his face -- looking as though she wants to find something, see something.

"I've already waited more than ten thousand years," she replies quietly, and passes him the sleeping spirit in her arms. "How many of my kind need to be healed by you before they understand? How many lifetimes will you live? And how many faces will I make you?"

Her fingers lift, hesitate . . . and lightly touch the hair near his temple before they fall away and she turns as though to go.

How many faces...?

His eyes widened and as she turned away he murmured, "Mother-"

And then a little louder, "Mother of Faces! Wait. Just a moment."

She looks back over her shoulder at him, querying. She waits.

He took a deep breath and, holding the spirit carefully, gave her a very respectful bow, "Thank you for your help."

She studies him for long moments, her eyes dark and expressionless.

"I will never not help my kind." Her gaze flicks briefly toward the boys. "I suggest that you teach them well. I am not inclined to be so lenient."

"Being expected, doesn't mean it shouldn't be acknowledged," he answered politely, maintaining the bow. "I don't thank you because I think it's out of the ordinary, I thank you because you did a good thing for an innocent person. That should always be recognized. And I'll do my best."

Her eyes narrow at the response. It irritates her, though she could not easily explain why.

"While in this case you are correct, Avatar, I suggest that you not take too many of your preconceptions for granted. The world of the spirits is as varied as that of the humans, and a span of mere years does not equal lifetimes."

"You are still a child with the spirits, and you do not know me."

Wan held his bow, though her words obviously hurt him. He was human, yes, but he wasn't an ordinary one and he held Raava within his soul. He knew more about the spirits than she wished to give him credit for. But he'd also somehow offended her and now wasn't the time or place to ask about it. He had a sleeping spirit to heal and two humans to start giving lessons to. He could search for the Mother of faces at another time.

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Open!

B

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A!

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B.

Sorry for the wait!

No worries!

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C - Closed to Wan

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