Original Submissions
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Memoir #6 - The Warlord (Tor) by Rairen
Added on Oct 27, 2009Following on his Silver Scorpion's announcement, the Warlord of House Tor demonstrates his interpersonal "soft skills". Ish.
It is before dawn on Abid, the 3rd day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 24 years, 2 months, and 138 days old,
A Broad Barracks [ND Quit Save]
A wide staircase cuts a square well in the middle of the broad chamber, railed off by neat ranks of baobab wood topped by a pale thuja banister. Placed around the stairwell is an inner formation of slender beds, each with a chest at its foot. Spread out in a neatly ordered square facing towards the walls is another rank of beds, this one more numerous.
All told, there would be around twenty beds resting in careful precision throughout the spacious barracks. Two silvery banners, almost six cords in length, hang from the vaulted ceiling proudly displaying a brilliantly
detailed scorpion in red and black standing victoriously beneath an anakore,its barbed stinger embedded deep into the belly. Placed on the western wall are two large racks, for holding weapons and armor.
You contact the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with the Way.
You think:
"... It's him? What an unexpected pleasure."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman reclines on a plain agafari bed.
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"Pardon my intrusion on your thoughts, my Lord."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes, I do."
You feel ruefully amused.
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"There were a few minor matters I hoped to inquire with you over, but nothing of any pressing concern. I've explained them to Emissary Erzsebet, as well, should you have a moment less active than your usual."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"So many words to say something so simple. I shall come speak with you this morning."
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"A northerners curse, is it, my Lord? To enjoy the sound of our thoughts so much as to put them into as many words as possible? I look forward to your visit."
You dissolve the psychic link.
A Large Work Room [NS Save]
Tall walls of red stone rise upwards proudly, proclaiming their protection of the entrance hall to a large building. The floor is made up of tightly fitted black stone slabs, carefully hewn into square tower shields. Upon each of the shields is a finely etched scorpion, the small grooves kept free of sand by constant vigilance. A long table of baobab
runs north to south, before the western wall. Upon the table are a variety of tools for repairing armor and weapons. Before the eastern wall is a long counter, topped with grey slate acting as a work area. Positioned carefully along the east and western walls are jade sconces cupping small crystals, casting a pale green light across the chamber.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man neatly folds his pair of dark-lensed sunslits and tucks them away.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman steps inside the entryway, shifting into a respectful bow in the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's direction.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you, and studies you in thoughtful silence.
As she straightens, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"How do you do, my Lord?"
Rasping softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Not terribly unwell, Aja."
(hemote) The bitter aromas of sweat and lye linger in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
With a careful smile, hands clasping in front of her, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I see. It is always a pleasure to have you here, my Lord. Is there anything I might do for you?"
As he steps over to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate and casually looks in the large container there, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Have your squash seeds taken?"
Turning her head to glance to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate with a soft shake of her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"No, my Lord. Not these last ones, at least. I was thinking of restarting with a fresh batch."
Glancing around, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Perhaps someplace with sunlight."
Turning to face you and folding his arms over his chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What 'minor things' do you wish to speak about?"
With an inclination of her head in the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's direction, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord. I will attempt that, next. As for the minor things, I've been working with the inventories kept here, and I'm worried that if the collection of shells and armor grows..."
As she glances to a heavy agafari chest, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... that there will be no room to store them."
With a simple shake of her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"It is always possible to make do with what is currently here, but I have no desire to let your storeroom turn into a shambles, my Lord, without giving you proper warning."
Speaking in a low hoarse voice as his gaze sweeps the room, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Your worry and warning are acknowledged. What is the next 'minor thing'?"
Gesturing to a blue-striped keg with a thin, four-fingered hand, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... The Barracks once provided a cleaning liquid that helped in caring for your armor. There is no more, and I wondered if it would be possible to attain a new supply?"
Shifting his gaze to a blue-striped keg, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It would be beneficial, but I am uncertain where to obtain more. I obtained that supply by a unique circumstance."
Walking closer to the counter and leaning one hip against it, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Good that you told Erzsebet. Perhaps she can locate more. There is a third 'minor thing'?"
Inclining her head in acknowledgment as she resumes her attentive posture, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord. I will see what wonders soap and persistence can do in its stead."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man smirks faintly.
After the slightest of pauses, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I believe that is all, my Lord, at this moment. You asked that I remind you of the shortage of chairs in the other room, but that is hardly pressing. Company is rarely entertained here."
(hemote) A brief smile flickers across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips.
You think:
"... What to do about Erzsebet..."
Nodding pleasantly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You misled me, then, by saying 'a few' instead of 'a couple'."
With the faintest flicker of warmth in her eyes, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"So it would seem, my Lord. I beg your pardon."
Beckoning with one spike-knuckled hand as he steps away from the counter and walks southward, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Come with me."
(While he eats, they chat about work and materials until interrupted by his aide's arrival.)The figure in a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak moves quietly into the room, pulling her hood down.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the figure in a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak, from her spot to one side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman lowers the hood of a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at the delicate, tribal-inked woman.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman walks over and bows before the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, a small smile offered as she stands upright again.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the delicate, tribal-inked woman with a polite motion.
Favoring the delicate, tribal-inked woman with a smile and nod, then addressing both her and you as he gestures vaguely, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"If either of you hunger, satisfy."
Lifting a finger as she shakes her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Thank you, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you.
Smiling and shaking her head a bit, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I do not want for food, thank you though Warlord."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I would like to find Aja a hooded cloak and a pair of gloves."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman whispers something to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
You feel overjoyed.
(hemote) A touch of interest enters the ethereal, fair-haired woman's polite, pale eyes.
After swallowing his last bite and dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That decision is yours."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man beckons for the delicate, tribal-inked woman to follow.
You think:
"... Why now? Will the expedition progress?"
You think:
"... Perhaps I'll at least look the part of a living creature..."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman falls in at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's flank.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the ceiling, one hand brushing at your scorpion-emblazoned slave's collar.
As he turns around and secure the stopper, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You wished to speak on some matter. Can it be discussed in front of Aja?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, features serene.
Chuckling slightly, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Well, I was going to ask you questions she had herself so I would not mind."
(And the trio goes off on, of all things, an expedition about the Academy looking for suitable clothing for their – in Erzsebet’s teasing words ‘unpresentable’ - northern slave.)
As he walks over to a locker near the middle of the row, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Surely we have a pair of gloves somewhere. So then... have either of you had an interesting experience lately?"
Quietly as she pulls at her cloak, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I ran down to Luirs early this week to spread the word of you looking for dwarves in preparation of your arrival. Since no one had heard of it at all."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man closes his eyes.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Of course I did not mention our trip."
Softly with his eyes still closed, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And I wish you had not mentioned it now."
To one side, the ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat softly, hands remaining folded beneath her cloak.
You think:
"... Luirs. Please, let me go home."
Opening his eyes, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I did not want you to know our destination. I did not want to tempt you so close to home. Tell me honestly now, how knowing will affect you."
Looking to him with her pale, calm eyes, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"My Lord, I've given you my word. I will not broach it, even if you took me within the Heart of the Ivory."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman swallows, looking at the floor.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands tense beneath your hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You could easily find Elithan's mind now and alert him, if you want to see my party slaughtered. We will finally see if your words match your.. inaction."
Voice remaining soft, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord."
Chewing his lip thoughtfully, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Or she could remain here and I could postpone the trip..."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman blinks rapidly, eyes darting away with shame.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with calm serenity, gaze focused on his face.
You feel saddened, immeasurably.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man purses his lips, deeply thoughtful as he considers.
You think:
"There is nothing more I can do."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Erzsebet... do calm yourself. It is that Aja inspires trust, I know."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes flicker closed and then open as she lets out an inaudible breath.
Glancing thoughtfully at you, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I was content to never put it to the test, though."
You feel helpless.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman continues to look to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, pale gaze softer, if still serene.
Looking back to him, her face splotchy, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Warlord, May I be dismissed until you are finished speaking with Aja please."
Rubbing the fingers of his left hand together pensively for a moment before he answers, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I suppose you may be. What's done is done, and probably for the best. You need not fret."
Bowing quickly, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Thank you for dismissing me Warlord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods to the delicate, tribal-inked woman.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman turns quickly as she stands, practically bolting for the door.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman walks west.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the delicate, tribal-inked woman's back in a polite motion before looking back to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It would seem I do not need to reprimand her for the slip. She will do it herself."
In a soft tone, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"She... has often treated me with great warmth in the past. This lesson will be a valuable one for her."
(They walk together through the Academy in silence for a short time, before he decides to change the subject.)
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Have you made progress with any new musical pieces?"
After a thoughtful pause, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"One or two. It doesn't often occur to me to apply myself in that area, although your piece continues to be a puzzle to me, I will confess, my Lord."
Gruffly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"How could I make it less puzzling?"
A smile crossing her lips, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"How can you make the man less puzzling? I know not, my Lord. It is no credit to my talent or training, but I hope you will not criticize my kin for my failings."
Grinning crookedly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That is an amusing concept. You souring my good opinion of Circle Bards. The reality is the complete opposite."
Returning his smile with a touch of warmth mixed with embarrassment, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... My Lord is too generous and must have had a low opinion of my kin, indeed."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"As the only other two I met wished me dead, my opinion has been colored."
Clearing her throat softly, behind one hand, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I... see, my Lord. My pardon for not realizing."
(Gossiping a bit of mutual acquaintances, Aja gives her millionth slip up of the day and mentions their difference in ages.)
Grinning faintly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"During your childhood. You do make me feel old. How many years have you seen now, Aja?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks up.
Her smile growing thoughtful as she glances to the ceiling, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I... must be nearly twenty-five, my Lord."
Gesturing to a chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Take what you wish to bring with you, and guess my age. I just celebrated another year."
A motor tic briefly contorts the left side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's face.
Casting him a smile over her shoulder as she moves to her cot, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Given your experience and comfort in leadership, I would guess you to have lived some... thirty-five years?"
With an unusually tender hand, you get your dark-stained baobab lute from a scorpion emblazoned chest.
As he reaches up to massage at his spasming cheek, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Thirty three."
Her smile remaining gentle as she toys with her bag, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... There, not too much of an overestimate on my part. My congratulations, as well, on having seen another year. Did you celebrate it?"
Adjusting your sizeable leather backpack on her shoulder, the ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses the floor back to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's side.
With a smile of thanks, you look up at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
This man has his tidy black hair tied with worn leather and braided
into a style worn for battle. Tightly plaited, his warbraid is centered and hangs between his neat tapered shoulders. His build is trim and sinewy, and what he lacks in imposing size he makes up for with volatile, jumpy reflexes. The sun's glare has touched his skin, leaving his complexion a mild bronze tan. Strong features are cleanly shaven, centered by a slightly oversized aquiline nose. The swirling essence of smoke is captured in the grey-blue irises of his eyes.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man is in excellent condition.
Shaking his head, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I did not. When I said I did, it was only a colloquialism."
Inclining her head up to him, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord. It is a pity, given how many men of your profession have not had your skill."
Arching a brow, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Men of my profession? Against whom are you judging me? Lyksaes?"
With a creased brow, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"No, my Lord. Those who take a soldier's life, waging wars and learning the arts of combat. Nobility or common, it is not an easy life."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head back, craning it to look up to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's eyes.
Shaking his head softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I lead soldiers, but have never claimed to be one myself. I am a strategist... a tactician."
Walking to the northern door again, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You never met my cousin Lord Palimus. Now that was a noble soldier."
Fondness warming her crystal-like tone, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"As you wish, my Lord. How you spend your moments of celebration should always be in the manner you most desire, even if it is in quiet."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man smiles softly over at you.
Falling a step behind him, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I did not have the pleasure, it is true. A noble soldier?"
Gesturing to a tun of water, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Top off the skin I provided for you. Yes, Lord Palimus could not be defeated in single combat. He would personally slay many men on the battlefield. In truth, I am an exception to the rule in my family, leading from the back as I do."
As she dips the waterskin into the barrel of water, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... You have alluded to your family's military prowess - both in combat and tactically - in the past. It is a pleasure to hear of the stories that prove it."
Leveling a finger, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"But my victories are the cleanest. I lost not a single man in the eradication of the renegade mul outpost."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman presses a finger to her lips, drying the loose droplet of water there.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods at you.
Glancing to his finger, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Exceptional, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods at you.
Voice softening, after a pause, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Is there anything you would like me to know, during this journey, my Lord? Appropriate behavior, duties..."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Well... I had done well to keep you unaware of our destination. I shall have to reconsider some things now that you are."
Gesturing to the rotund, cheery-eyed cook, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Gather some rations for yourself. There is food and water on the wagon, but if you can sustain yourself without breaking open those supplies, all the better."
Inclining her head up to him, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord, and I understand your caution."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the rotund, cheery-eyed cook a polite smile as she crosses over to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The lizards are quite hardy, and keep well."
With a polite smile, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord. Thank you for the recommendation."
With a glance back to him, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... May I ask the anticipated length of this excursion?"
You put your small, roasted barakhan lizard into your sizeable leather backpack.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands at the agafari counter.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It is open-ended. The duration will be dictated by the completion of my objectives, and not by time spent away from Allanak."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman nods, closing her bag as she returns to her place at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's side.
Pausing thoughtfully, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I shall have someone feed your birds. Syure will be along, and probably best they not be."
With a soft murmur of agreement, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I would appreciate that, my Lord, deeply."
(And, again, they are off... but this time not back to the barracks as Aja expected. He takes her outside the Academy gates and, presumably, toward the wagonyard.)
You raise the hood of a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
From beneath the relative protection of her hood, the figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak tilts her head to glance through loose grains of sand to the sky.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"There are a number of newly transferred Templars, each trying to make a larger name for himself than his fellows."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Best, I think, if you are unobtrusive as we walk."
After a pause, her voice soft, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man glances over at the blockish, olive-drab dwarf, giving him a wordless signal with his eyes.
Your mood is now uneasy.
The blockish, olive-drab dwarf nods silently and takes a step back to walk near you.
(hemote) Tension lingers in the figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak's shoulders beneath your hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
You think:
"... Why did I wish for this?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks critically up and down the road, then sets off to the west.
You think:
"... Why am I doing this?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you.
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak watches the passing stones below her feet from beneath the shadows of her hood.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks along quietly beside the keg-bellied female dwarf.
You think:
"... I hate... this..."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man steps out onto the plaza and cuts a path across it.
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak walks in silence amidst the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's guards.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods over to the silver-haired, narrow-eyed man in passing.
The keg-bellied female dwarf uses her shield to clear a loitering group of peasants near the intersection of roads.
Jerking his chin at a mid-sized, dark-wood argosy, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Salarr."
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak glances to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man from beneath her hood and nods.
You think:
"... Please, let me go..."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks to the back of a small, black-hide and mekillot-rib wagon.
On a Boarding Plank [U Leave Quit Save]
This large semicircular deck allows for the boarding of this caravan wagon, and is equipped with a guardrail and a small alcove for a guard. A round trapdoor leads upward into the wagon, and a small extendable ramp eases the way off of the wagon. Tangles of casting lines and giant hair
ropes provide a netting for climbing upwards and also for securing the wagon against the vicious sandstorms which whip across the deserts.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak lets out an inaudible breath.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods firmly to the wiry, scar-laden man as he crosses the deck and approaches the portal.
Stopping at the back of the cargo hold and looking out over it, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Alright then..."
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak turns, craning her head back to look up to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man - her hood sliding back from her face in the process.
You lower the hood of a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
Your mood is now anxious.
Pointing to a padded cloth hammock, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That hammock and the chest beneath it comprise my personal space."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to a padded cloth hammock with a nod of acknowledgement.
You feel as though it would be easier to look at the Warlord without a slave's collar on.
Pointing to the chest by the table, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Food stuffs are stored there"
Following his hand, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Will a cook be responsible for preparing meals?"
Shaking his head, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"No. There is a grill there we can pull out onto the deck, but most of the food is already cooked and will keep a while."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman makes a soft murmur of agreement as she resumes her 'inspection' of the Cargo Hold.
Walking over to the chest near the back of the hold, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And here is the general supply chest."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman joins the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, keeping to his side as she looks through the contents of a bone sided chest.
Nodding to the chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You may use one of the bedrolls within"
With a flickering smile, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Thank you, my Lord."
Gesturing around, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Find a place to settle down for the night, and store it neatly during the day."
Again glancing over the room, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I'll keep out from underfoot, my Lord."
Nodding to the hulking, white-maned man, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Silver Scorpion Kabbot is in charge here. If you have a problem, ask him. And do not be shy to alert him when you need to pour out the chamber pot."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman greets the hulking, white-maned man with a respectful nod.
Looking back to him, her features untroubled, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a thumb along the hem of her cloak.
(He gives her lengthy instructions on caring for the supplies, materials, food, and various other stuffs left laying around.)
Offering you a smile as he walks to a padded cloth hammock, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Now then... I find I sleep better here than most places. You may get aquainted with your surroundings, quietly, while I rest."
You say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... If I may, I don't know how many will be accompanying you on this trip. Are there restrictions to my interactions with them? I have no desire to overstep my bounds, but I do not wish to leave a responsibility unfulfilled."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Only Erzsebet and one Cadet are expected."
A faint smile on her lips as she glides into an eloquent bow, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Thank you, my Lord. I bid you a pleasant rest."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The Cadet will have more restrictions than you, and should not even be in here without accompaniment."
Lifting a finger, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I will warn you."
As she straightens, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord?"
Rasping softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Luirs is not my only stop. If you have any ideas of leaping off the wagon when it stops, and making a dash, you may well find yourself in gith territory, or some other unknown and outlandish wasteland."
Her tone patient, calm, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I wouldn't dream of it, my Lord."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with thoughtful, pale eyes.
Removing his scabbards and pulling himself up into the hammock, speaking behind the wall created by the keg-bellied female dwarf and the blockish, olive-drab dwarf standing shoulder to shoulder in front of him, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I shall speak with you soon, dear Aja."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
You think:
"... Was this a mistake?"
It is before dawn on Abid, the 3rd day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 24 years, 2 months, and 138 days old,
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