Original Submissions
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Memoir #8 - The Siblings (Ilune and Chaska) by Rairen
Added on Oct 27, 2009In the midst of the vibrant, crowded King's Age Celebration for Elithan Winrothol, two tribal guests pull the templar's partisan aside for a quieter performance.
You are Aja, of many people.
Objective: To find a purpose.
You are 33 years, 0 months, and 89 days old.
It is late morning on Dzeda, the 185th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Jihae's Vengeance, year 45 of the 21st Age.
A Large, Airy Gallery [S]
This portion of the huge tent is draped in swags of colorful silk and strung with flickering glass-sided lanterns. The entire northern wall's white canvas has been painted into a striking mural depicting a tablelands scene: towering red spires and cliffs overlook regions shaded in hues of yellow, grey, and orange. To the south can be seen a stage with seating arranged around it.
A low circular sparring platform decked out with red and white silk is here.
The stocky, burgundy haired man is standing here.
The strapping, burnished-haired man is standing here.
The curvy, baobab-haired woman is standing here.
The willowy, krath-kissed woman is standing here.
The sinewy, onyx-haired woman is standing here.
The bulging, grey-skinned dwarf is standing here.
The scarred, dark-skinned half-elf is standing here.
The tall, spare, dark woman is standing here.
The thick, curly-haired half-giant stands here.
A squat, tattooed guard stands here.
The delicate, soot-braided man is standing here.
The husky, onyx-haired man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is standing here.
The delicate, lofty woman is standing here.
The athletic, olive-skinned man is standing here.
The young, slender half-elf woman is standing here.
The slender, lavender-eyed man is standing here.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman is standing here.
The slim, copper-haired young man stands in the crowd, watching the spectacle.
The mustard dwarf is standing here.
The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.
The tawny, braid-crowned half-giant is standing here.
The braid-tressed young woman is standing here.
The lofty, deeply-bronzed woman is standing here.
The tow-headed, one eyed half-elf is standing here.
The pepper-stubbled, olive-skinned man is standing here with arms folded.
The small, dark-skinned young man is standing here, looking tired.
The short, dusky woman loiters near the back of the room, observing.
The lean, wild-looking man is standing here.
The limber, krath-ruptured man is standing here, looking a bit winded.
The supple, jasper-curled young man is standing here.
The gurth-bellied half-giant soldier looms here, gazing intently about.
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar is standing here.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier is standing here.
A half-giant Tuluki soldier looms here in staunch silence.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar is standing here.
Looking inside a low circular sparring platform, you see:
Within a Sparring Platform [Leave]
Roughly twenty-five cords across and raised a cord or two from the ground, this platform is crafted in sections of wood that can be broken apart and pieced together. The combat boundaries are denoted in red and white intertwined lines dyed into the leather mats atop the platform. The platform itself appears to be quite springy despite its mostly wooden structure.
A light wooden sparring axe lies here.
The tow-headed, one eyed half-elf is standing here.
The bulging, grey-skinned dwarf is standing here.
The stout, crook-nosed man is standing here.
You feel a headache coming on.
The delicate, lofty woman has arrived from the south.
The delicate, lofty woman strolls in casually, a hand on her hip with her other playing with her hair.
Shaking her head, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:
"Apparently I'm not good at this betting thing."
On a platform, the stout, crook-nosed man says, in sirihish:
"Nex' up... Dargan an' Rannick."
Glancing wanly into her bracelet of twisted red and white feathers, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Two on Dargan."
The delicate, lofty woman approaches you, tapping your shoulder.
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:
"It may not be immediate, but I can see for a pulse of it within the Circle. A good bard is..."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns her head, looking to the delicate, lofty woman with a curious smile.
Tilting her head a little, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"... What can I do for you, my dear?"
Leaning in, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wondering if you is wanting to play music for brother of mine and I so we can dance, friend Seeker."
With a slight crease to her forehead, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"Inside? If you wish it, of course."
You feel such overwhelming relief!
On a platform, still grinning, the stumpy, gnarled dwarf says to the stout, crook-nosed man, in sirihish:
"Ah always wanted ta get me ass beat by a female stump."
Nodding, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is letting brother of mine know."
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:"... My pardon, as I was saying, a good bard can make a home for themselves in most places."
The delicate, lofty woman turns and walks southward through the crowd.
The delicate, lofty woman walks south.
s (edging along the wall)
A Large, Airy Gallery [NW]
This portion of the huge tent is dominated by a low stage with seating arranged around it. The billowing canvas walls of the tent are lined with swags of colorful silk, as well as a variety of murals painted straight onto the canvas walls. Glass-shaded lanterns are strung about to give off a delicate glow at night, or supplement the sunlight filtered through the tent's walls during the day.
A couple of empty large purple wine casks are here by the table.
A bleached wooden cask with a cork stopper stands here.
A bleached wooden cask is here in a corner.
An empty cask of strong purple belshun wine sits here.
A cask of purple belshun wine is here in a corner.
A large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.
An empty large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.
Painted in a myriad of colors, backed by a huge silt-horror shell, a large, well-lit stage is here.
Atop an intricately carved table is an oblong, etched obsidian tray.
An oblong obsidian tray has been set here.
Bracketing the stage on the right side is a low, oval maroon baobab table.
Bracketing the stage on the left side is a low, oval maroon baobab table.
Near the center of the room is a long, pale-veined marble table.
A rectangular tray made of cylini wood sits here, etchings adorning its sides.
A carved wooden tray lies here.
You hear a man's voice from the north say, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I take that."
You hear a woman's voice from the north say, in sirihish:
"Two whites on Dargan?"
(And the chatter from the fighting contest continues northward.)
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rubs the back of her neck with a silk-gloved hand, the other still holding a drink.
The delicate, lofty woman smiles to you, touching her temple.
With an easy smile to the delicate, lofty woman, you sip from your sun-adorned, red stone cup.
Plucking one up, you get your fruit-stuffed tart from an oblong, etched obsidian tray.
A look of relief on her features, you take a bite of your fruit-stuffed tart.
Honey lends this pastry a sweet taste, while fruit and nuts make it rich, the flavors mingling together for delicious satisfaction.
The delicate, lofty woman smiles as she glances west.
Trotting, the delicate, lofty woman walks west.
To the west is an Airy Entrance.
[Near]
The delicate, lofty woman is standing here.
The dark-skinned, scarred man is standing here.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman waits, looking into the next room and walking through the sparse crowds here.
Relaxing into a seat, you sit at a highly polished table.
Your favorite southern diplomat sends you a telepathic message:
"I think it would be good. If we're to seek peace and acceptance, cultures should be exchanged, albeit slowly."
Your favorite southern diplomat sends you a telepathic message:
"Naki are traditionally skeptical of anything foreign."
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:
"... Precisely. It is not something that can change in a year, or even in our lifetimes, perhaps, hm? But it is a worthy cause, nonetheless."
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:
"*amused* They come around, given time. Particularly if we send some of our rougher performers."
(The political niceties drift into more serious topics, while Aja waits.)
You think:
"... My, what an orator he's turning out to be."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs beneath your swirling skirt of gauzy blue sandcloth.
The delicate, lofty woman has arrived from the west, tugging along the athletic, olive-skinned man by the hand.
The athletic, olive-skinned man has arrived from the west.
Glancing up to the delicate, lofty woman and smiling, you sip from your sun-adorned, red stone cup.
To you, waving a hand to you, the delicate, lofty woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Us is here, Seeker!"
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:
"... You are a very cruel man. I think I will enjoy our... relationship."
The athletic, olive-skinned man sighs deeply and shyly as he follows the delicate, lofty woman's by the hand, glancing around as he steps into the crowded room.
Gently tugging back at the delicate, lofty woman's without much effort, the athletic, olive-skinned man exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"..I not want to dance.. I is shy!"
With a quiet chuckle, starting to stand, you ask, in sirihish:
"Where would you have me, Ilune Jal Tavan?"
Obviously excited as she stops, both her hands behind her, holding the athletic, olive-skinned man in place, the delicate, lofty woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Here!"
With a flickering smile and shake of her head, you look up at the athletic, olive-skinned man.
Proud and lofty of stature, this young man's body is lean and muscular, with broad shoulders and an athletic frame. His skin is fittingly tanned; his dark olive skin has begun to wear smooth, yet retains its youthful structure. Thick brown-black hair falls past his shoulders, bound away from his face in a tail at the base of his neck by a dark leather cord. His eyes, often shaded by a few roguish locks, are of a like color to his hair, and yet, subtly, speckled with light violet and pale blue. His face has a proud forehead and a slender nose, flared slightly at the nostrils. His high cheek bones and a clean shaven jawline match the rest of his regal look.
The slender, lavender-eyed man has arrived from the north, rubbing his forehead.
The delicate, lofty woman whirls around, her ruffled blue silk blouse fluttering with the commotion.
As she pulls out her silvery-gray lute, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Chaska, my friend, don't be shy for me."
With a tender hand, you get your silvery grey pymlithe lute from your light brown, leather instrument case.
The slender, lavender-eyed man gets his sun-adorned, red stone cup from an intricately-sculpted marble table.
Laying it aside, you put your light brown, leather instrument case onto a highly polished table.
To the athletic, olive-skinned man, tapping a finger to his lips, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is waiting for this for all those months I was gone, brother of mine."
Sighing deeply and miserably as he slides a hand to the small of the delicate, lofty woman's back and another in her hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"..I not know how to dance.. Is so crowded..!"
The slender, lavender-eyed man drinks ginka wine from his sun-adorned, red stone cup.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a gloved hand over the strings while the other twists idly at some of the wooden pegs that line its neck.
With a glance to the delicate, lofty woman, amused, you stop using your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves, revealing a tattoo of a six-pronged star.
Sadly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"But I is so happy that us is going to dance, brother of mine..."
The delicate, lofty woman sighs, her eyes dipping down to her pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots.
Revealing her missing two fingers in the process, you put your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves into your fine red sash.
The slender, lavender-eyed man grins a bit, face reddened slightly.
With a mock-reproving frown, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Chaska, look how you've hurt her feelings. Don't be cruel."
Lowering his head some before coming up with a bright smile as he nods slightly in the delicate, lofty woman's direction, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is happiest when you is happy, beloved sister of mine, you is knowing that.."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman twists in her seat, pushing it back to allow her arms room.
The delicate, lofty woman leans her cheek on the athletic, olive-skinned man's, placing a hand on his hip and her other wrapping around his neck.
The slender, lavender-eyed man holds his sun-adorned, red stone cup loosely, glancing between you and the athletic, olive-skinned man.
Calling over to her, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"Slow or quick, my dear?"
His words a bit loud but not quite slurred, the slender, lavender-eyed man asks, in sirihish:
"Are we listening to -the- Aja play?"
The delicate, lofty woman gestures at herself, pressed close to the athletic, olive-skinned man.
Lifting her chin to call out, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"What you is thinking, Seeker? Us is ready to dance slow."
Perking up at the sound of the slender, lavender-eyed man's voice, the ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a wry smile in his direction.
The delicate, lofty woman rests her cheek against the athletic, olive-skinned man's chest.
Voice a murmur as she lets her hands brush over your silvery grey pymlithe lute's strings, you say, in sirihish:
"As you wish..."
The melody that sings from the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lute is a soft one, even a sad one, rich and unhurried.
Taking a few steps back and then forward once more, holding the delicate, lofty woman to him by the waist, chuckling merrily as he guides her around briefly by the hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Maybe quick would make misery of I end faster.."
The delicate, lofty woman nudges the athletic, olive-skinned man, grunting.
Swaying to the melody, the slender, lavender-eyed man says, in sirihish:
"Oh..."
A look of contentment settling over her like a veil, the ethereal, fair-haired woman plays a quiet melody, pale eyes following the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman.
The delicate, lofty woman steps to each side in turn, her hips swinging under her long purple linen skirt.
Voice soft beneath the gentle, unhurried song, you say, in sirihish:
"There need not be only two dancers..."
The delicate, lofty woman takes a step back from the athletic, olive-skinned man, her fingers trailing along his jaw before she hops three steps back to him.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a quiet smile.
The athletic, olive-skinned man rests his chin on the delicate, lofty woman's shoulder as he hums the quiet melody, swaying her gently back and forth as he carries her around in a slow dance around the crowded area.
You think:
"Always the player and never the dancer."
(hemote) Beneath her breath, the ethereal, fair-haired woman hums a harmony to the melody beneath her hands.
The delicate, lofty woman spins around on her heel, pressing her back to the athletic, olive-skinned man with her hand curling up to cup the athletic, olive-skinned man's cheek.
Feeling impulsive, you think:
"... Oh, why not, Aja?"
To herself, pale eyes thoughtful, peaceful, you sing, in sirihish:
"They say the wind blows over the plains, softly...
... softly, softly...."
You sing, in sirihish:
"And the tall grass bends, and the low trees too...."
Her touch light against your silvery grey pymlithe lute, you sing, in sirihish:
"And all the while my heart's out there,
... wandering, wandering...."
The delicate, lofty woman leans her head back against his chest with her eyes closing. She lets out a soft, contented sigh.
You sing, in sirihish:
"Looking for something by the name of you."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's melody rises and falls beneath her hands, in time with her quiet breathing.
You sing, in sirihish:
"They say the wind blows over the plains,
...wildly, wildly...."
The slender, lavender-eyed man slowly salsas toward your table, cup in hand.
The athletic, olive-skinned man presses a hand to the delicate, lofty woman's stomach as she comes spinning back into his arms against him, swaying left and right with slow footsteps as he murmurs quietly in her ear.
Voice quiet, fragile, lacking strength but not trying for it, you sing, in sirihish:
"They say the wind blows over the plains,
...wildly, wildly...."
The delicate, lofty woman swivels from side to side, placing her hand over the hand of the athletic, olive-skinned man's on her stomach.
You sing, in sirihish:
"And the nighthawks screech and the wild kanks too."
Looking up to the slender, lavender-eyed man, surprised for a moment, you sing, in sirihish:
"And all that while, my heart's out there
.. calling, calling...."
You sing, in sirihish:
"Looking for something by the name of you."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts a flickering smile up to the slender, lavender-eyed man, features composed, tranquil.
You sing, in sirihish:
"And the wind blows to and the wind blows fro,"
The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly into the delicate, lofty woman's eyes, lost in her gaze and the embrace before gently sending her forward in a playful but gentle motion, before pulling her back to him, sliding his arm back around her waist.
The slender, lavender-eyed man sways a bit by the table, moving rhythmically.
The delicate, lofty woman kisses the athletic, olive-skinned man softly under his chin, beginning to press against him with her hip's dipping motions.
You sing, in sirihish:
"And my heart's held in my hand,"
You sing, in sirihish:
"And the wind blows warm, the wind blows cold,"
Biting down on the edge of her lip, you sing, in sirihish:
"As I look for a place to stand."
The delicate, lofty woman's hand strokes along the side of the athletic, olive-skinned man's face affectionately, her green eyes glazing over as she stares up at him.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman trails off, looking to her hands as they carry the melody with fluid ease, the song ising, strengthening.
As easily, the wistful song quiets and the ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a soft breath, words slipping from her mouth.
You sing, in sirihish:
"They say the wind blows over the plains,
... always, always...."
The delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.
Looking back to the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman, eyes softening, you sing, in sirihish:
"And the dry sand blows, and the red dust too."
The slender, lavender-eyed man flops down into a chair next to you, low-lidded eyes gazing off into nothing.
The athletic, olive-skinned man closes his eyes slowly, murmuring a few more words into the delicate, lofty woman's ear as both hands reaches down, cupping the delicate, lofty woman's backside, swaying to the rhythm of the music being played by you.
Dropping her eyes to the floor, you sing, in sirihish:
"And all that while my heart's out there,
... lonely, lonely...."
You sing, in sirihish:
"Looking and searching for something like you."
The delicate, lofty woman murmurs back to the athletic, olive-skinned man, her entire body swaying into a rhythmic swing.
Too-long, tangled strands of hair falling across her face, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her melody ease, slipping away beneath her hands while she turns her head to look to the slender, lavender-eyed man.
You feel touched by the emotion.
The delicate, lofty woman reaches down for the athletic, olive-skinned man's hand at her back, moving it to one of her hips.
As he quietly repeats the words being sang by you as he continues to sway back and forth, holding the delicate, lofty woman close to him in both arms, ignoring the rest of the crowded room, the athletic, olive-skinned man whispers something to the delicate, lofty woman.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman plays with quiet grace, half-watching the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman and half giving them privacy, her melody continuing long after the words fade away.
The slender, lavender-eyed man glances to you briefly, shadowed eyes distant, before taking another swing of his sun-adorned, red stone cup.
Staring at him lovingly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.
You think:
"What an elusive emotion."
The slender, lavender-eyed man puts his sun-adorned, red stone cup onto a highly polished table.
The tawny, braid-crowned half-giant has arrived from the west.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a slow breath, chest rising and falling beneath your loose-cut white linen blouse while she plays, slow and sweet for the dancing couple.
The delicate, lofty woman halts in her dancing suddenly, her eyes flitting open toward you.
Pushing past a couple of elves, the tawny, braid-crowned half-giant walks north.
The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly up at the delicate, lofty woman's as he gives her a lingering kiss to her forehead, then, after slowly stepping back from her, his fingers still intertwining into her own, he takes a slight thankful bow in your direction.
Meeting the delicate, lofty woman's eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her hands away from the strings of your silvery grey pymlithe lute, the song fading from the hall.
The delicate, lofty woman bows slightly to you, a pleased smile on her face.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman returns the delicate, lofty woman's bow, the tilt of her head deep with respect.
The delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.
You feel a chill. A good chill.
With a self-conscious straightening, the ethereal, fair-haired woman sits up and reaches for the gloves tucked unceremoniously into her sash.
To you, taking a step away from the athletic, olive-skinned man with his hand held tightly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is real happy now, Seeker. You is great friend."
You get your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves from your fine red sash.
At your table, the slender, lavender-eyed man says in sirihish, lazily in his chair, a hand on a highly polished table, tone concentrated and quiet:
"Well played... you composed it...?"
Smiling warmly as he approaches you, reaching for his huge, darkly-stained sandcloth knapsack with his free hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is thanking you again for beautiful melodies of yours, Seeker friend, them always make I remember best memories of mine, shared with sister of mine."
The athletic, olive-skinned man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his huge, darkly-stained sandcloth knapsack.
The athletic, olive-skinned man gives you (a healthy number of) coins.
Her voice soft, still, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"I did think you would be. Enjoy your happiness, friend."
The athletic, olive-skinned man presses a few coins in your hand and then inclines his head thankfully once more.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a simple shake of her head to the slender, lavender-eyed man:
"I did not. It is a song of the north, but it is not mine."
To the athletic, olive-skinned man, turning from you, the delicate, lofty woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Us is wanting to do something else now, brother of mine?"
Accepting the coins with a gracious smile, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Your words are honor enough, Chaska, but I do thank you for this."
With a sidelong smile to him, you say to the slender, lavender-eyed man, in sirihish:
"It's been one of my favorites since I was a girl..."
The slender, lavender-eyed man leans over in his chair lazily, glancing north.
Dipping his head into a quick nod to the delicate, lofty woman as he glances around, before smiling once more to her, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:"Yes, us go do something else while us wait for next auctions? Maybe someone will tell us when it begins.."
At your table, the slender, lavender-eyed man says in sirihish, glancing to you:
"It is a lovely song..."
Lifting her pale eyes to her, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"... I hope it pleases you, Ilune. Please say if I can play for you again. I do enjoy watching you dance."
At your table, you say in sirihish, meeting the slender, lavender-eyed man's eyes:
"It is."
Masking her missing fingers, you pull your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves onto your hands.
To you, glancing over, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wanting to dance much in this city of yours. I is sure you will, friend Aja."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman smiles to the delicate, lofty woman, quietly, and offers her a deep nod of thanks.
The slender, lavender-eyed man's features falter at your gaze seemingly as he glances away.
The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly once more in your direction before gently dragging the delicate, lofty woman away from the crowd and towards the exit.
The athletic, olive-skinned man walks west.
The delicate, lofty woman walks west.
You are Aja, of many people.
Objective: To find a purpose.
You are 33 years, 0 months, and 89 days old.
It is late morning on Dzeda, the 185th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Jihae's Vengeance, year 45 of the 21st Age.
A Large, Airy Gallery [S]
