Tea was having a busy century. It had been a whirlwind of trade for some time now, being pulled unceremoniously from one nation to another along thousand-mile trade routes. Crossing the world was still new and exciting for her; she barely had time to get her bearings in one port city and culture before feeling the siren call of still more westward push.
So far, Istanbul was treating her well. Until recently the place wasn't exactly a sparking center of her worship, but then a fortuitous hookah fire had led to the Sultan banning coffee shops, and now the impossibly old goddess found herself nearly wallowing in new-sparked, fiery power wherever she walked. If this "coffee" drink had a god, she would love to meet him some day and laugh in his face. As much as she missed her old homes, Asia and India were fading rapidly into the deepest recesses of her mind, for what could be better than this place of political fire and an ever-shifting mosaic of foreign trade? Surely she had never known a better pleasure than reclining into silk pillows, breathing scented air heady with hookah smoke, running feather-light fingers over the cultural currents around her.
One thoroughly normal day found her in just that position, sitting around a table with men who never quite knew why they spoke to this tea shop woman as an equal, laughing and discussing the Sultan's latest court scandal, when she felt it. Little more than a breath that stood out as a cold breeze in a sauna, it spoke distinctly of immortal presence, and not one she had ever encountered before. It was small but bright, flaring with youth, arrogance, and- Christian.
She excused herself from her group and picked her way through the shop, scanning the many-colored faces of merchants and people rich and poor, seeking that spark of unique life. A pale, wan man caught her eye, and Tea wove through the crowd to him, setting her cup and plate on the table without asking.
"Hello," she said with a frozen smile. "May I sit?"