Museums... what a curious thing. To keep one's history locked away where it had to be visited was such a strange concept to the Atlantean woman, when her own was written across every stone that built the city. She supposed, in a way, that this city was much the same in its own right : while New York was hardly old enough to truly have any history by her own measure, there was a melding of old stone and the new steel throughout Manhattan. Fighting to survive against a new world.

She could relate to those old stones.

But the items on display in their glass cases were not of New York. Rather, they seemed to have been gathered from every corner of history, carefully curated and collected. A transformation mask of the Haida peoples, depicting Raven. Mixtec goldsmithing pieces for the Aztecs, depicting guardians and gods. Incan stonework. And... the piece that stopped Kida in her tracks was a simpler display, an old and weathered piece of parchment encased behind glass.

The writing was familiar, not only in its language but its script : she'd spent many hours pouring over the same penmanship, and knew it well. Aziz. The parchment was old, no doubt lost before the scrolls ever made it to Lindisfarne, before the journal was bound... She would have thought any piece such as this would have been in Whitmore's own collection. Thoughtfully, reverently, her hand settles over the glass ( she is cautious now, more than she once would have been : a few too many mishaps in the past have made her wiser. )

She does not read as well as Milo, even now, but it takes only a minute for her to make sense of the text. Under her breath, aloud, she mutters along with the words — far too used to being perceived as strangely foreign to worry much. "Yobmok behr-NOT-esh-ib-mik..."

@stardustedstories for DAVID XANATOS || semi-plotted