Original Submissions
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Memoir #9 - The Bynner (Marek) by Rairen
Added on Oct 27, 2009In the incident that leads to him becoming Aja's most fascinating student, an Allanaki-born Byn Sergeant illustrates how easily an outlander can upset the fragile calm of Tuluki upper-caste society.
You are Aja, of many peoples.
Objective: To learn to fight - and still be thought weak.
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 206 days old,
The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]
A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive room, gleaming under the light of a large glass chandelier that hangs overhead. A semi-circular bar, made of hard-grained wood painted a deep black, extends from the eastern wall, several high-backed barstools sitting around it. The walls of this room are brightly decorated, with several elaborate paintings placed carefully for unobstructed view, and shelves holding many exotic potted plants, blooming with bright red and white flowers. Two large stained-glass windows, decorated with elaborate sun symbols, adorn the northwest and southeast corners of the room.
Several decoratively carved tables fill this room, while a polished leather couch nearly ten cords in length sprawls along the northern wall. A stately spiral staircase sits in the center of the room, winding upwards toward the common rooms of the second floor. The sounds of laughter and music can be heard from a doorway along the western wall, while the scents of cooked meat waft in from the east. A small, straight stairway sits along the northern wall, ending at a slightly raised loft and a large carven baobab door sits in the southern wall, leading out onto the North Road outside.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman nods down to each of the others, a glass of wine deposited in front of them.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the short, dusky woman.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the freckled, light-skinned man.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the robust, coppery-curled teen.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man.
You think:
"... I'll be poor but popular."
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man has arrived from the south.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman relaxes back against the bar with elegant negligence, falling silent as she looks down to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, the robust, coppery-curled teen, and the others at the bar.
Stiffly, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man walks towards a black-painted bar.
With a sigh, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man sits at a black-painted bar.
At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, chuckling at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:
"The thought counts, though."
Draining it, the short, dusky woman puts her finely made glass goblet onto a black-painted bar.
With a slight lift of her brow when she notices him and a polite nod in greeting, you look at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
Raven black hair has been twisted tightly into thin braids that dangle down this man's angular head. At the ends of the long braids, his hairs curve sharply, resembling curling claws. An intricate purple inking of a dragon has been tattooed into his dark flesh. The beasts head rests below his right eye and the long body crosses his cheek, the tail curving over his chin and up to his forehead, the tail ending where his hairline starts. His dark brows lay over his light hazel colored eyes on either side of his long nose. His jawbone is covered in dense black stubble which becomes more sparse as it trails down his thick neck. His wide shoulders spread out and hold a pair of heavily muscled arms, scarred forearms and callused hands. His torso is slender and chiseled with long, muscular legs. His features are darkly tanned to an ebon hue except for a few pale scars etched into the rest of his dark skin.
Turning his head, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks at you.
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, smiling at you:
"Aja."
At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, dipping his head into a quick nod, grinning:
"Still, knowing that we both drank from stolen cups only add to the evening."
At your table, you say in sirihish, returning the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man's smile:
"Marek. A pity, you just missed me buying a round of drinks. You'll have to wait until I can gather the courage to do it again."
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man gets his leather waterskin from his leather swordbelt.
At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, giggling at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:
"Two misplaced cups for two misplaced people."
At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, smiling faintly as he sips quietly from his finely made glass goblet:
"I wish it only took courage and not 'sids to be able to afford a round of drinks, 'round here.."
At your table, you say in sirihish, glancing back to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man with his words, amusement in her pale eyes:
"... Courage and 'sid seem to be synonymous, in this case."
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, eyeing you before unplugging his leather waterskin's stopper:
"Well, yeh'll have t'offer me somethin' else, then."
At your table, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, head coming up:
"Huh?"
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman glances at you.
At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling softly as he shakes his head in the robust, coppery-curled teen's direction:
"Everyone commented on our dancing, I'm going to assume that we were not as misplaced in the crowd as we might wish we were.."
At your table, you say in sirihish, head turning as she looks at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, her smile inescapably polite:
"... Is not the pleasure of my company - and of the company of this room - enough to sate you?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, lifting a hand to scratch his short beard, leaning over his fist, elbow on a black-painted bar:
"Well, yer company's fine...but I'd be a lot more sated if th'rest of th'company wasn't 'bout."
You think:
"Such... a bold... flirt."
The short, dusky woman flicks ash from her solidly packed tube of spice, staring with droll, dark amusement at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, arching a brow at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:
"Really? Wasn't expectin' that."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:
"Somehow, I doubt that, Marek."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, and then laughs, a gloved hand lifting to her lips, muffling the sound.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the short, dusky woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.The short, dusky woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man chuckles softly, lifting his other fist to meet the other under his chin.
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, glancing at the short, dusky woman:
"Oh, I'd invite yeh too, Chosen Lady, but tha'd be illegal."
At your table, you say in sirihish, after inclining her head to the short, dusky woman:
"... I believe the Chosen Consort is correct, Marek, though it's been too long since we've spoken. You've been well, I trust?"
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, with a twisted smile:
"Shoulda approached me when yeh had th'chance."
The short, dusky woman's expression darkens with anger and disgust as she stares at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, silently grinding a spice tube out on the bartop.
You think:
"... Soothe, soothe."
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, lifting his shoulders back into a shrug:
"Eh, not as many contracts up here as I'd expected."
At your table, you say in sirihish, in her calm, crystal-like voice as she does... not... look in the short, dusky woman's direction:
"... And I'm sorry for it. Perhaps you would walk with me? I... find I need to stretch my legs."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman taps gloved fingers on the bar, glancing between the short, dusky woman and the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Slowly arching a brow, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the short, dusky woman.
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, dipping his head to the short, dusky woman:
"'Scuse me, Chosen Consort, no offense meant."
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, to you:
"Aye, let's walk."
In a smooth motion, your flowing white linen skirt
fluttering about her legs, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
At a black-painted bar, the freckled, light-skinned man speaks, nodding towards the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
At a black-painted bar, the short, dusky woman speaks, snapping out.
At a black-painted bar, you overhear the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man say in southern-accented sirihish, eyeing the short, dusky woman, nodding:
"I was merely statin' tha' yer above me, Chosen Consort...apologies."
The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Is this man valuable to the northern templarate in any way?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's steps slow... and then she turns, offering the short, dusky woman and the freckled, light-skinned man a polite nod in passing.
You contact the short, dusky woman with the Way.
At a black-painted bar, you overhear the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the freckled, light-skinned man:
"An' we can do most anythin', Chosen Lord. Scout, hunt, kill, gather, I'm sure we'd be much easier t'place than th'soldiers of Lyksae..."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman's posture changes, tensing and coiled.
You send a telepathic message to the short, dusky woman:
"I fear that they do not confide such matters to me, and I do not know how valuable he is to the Byn."
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man stands up from a black-painted bar.
You send a telepathic message to the short, dusky woman:
"For now, I can take him away from you, though, while you... decide."
The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
"I see."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The robust, coppery-curled teen attention lingers on the contents of her finely made glass goblet as she fidgets uneasily.
Adding curtly, the freckled, light-skinned man says, in sirihish:
"And all of the Warriors in my Sept can do that, and keep civil tongues in their heads."
Shrugging his shoulders, the freckled, light-skinned man says, in sirihish:
"Small wonder you have difficulty finding contracts."
You contact the sinewy, obsidian-haired man with the Way.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman stands up from a black-painted bar.
You send a telepathic message to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:
"My apologies for having to depart so abruptly. I'm certain you understand."
With a smirk, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man asks the freckled, light-skinned man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Aye, perhaps I should turn around'n head back home, hm?"
The spangled-blond, muscular woman moves down the bar and pauses near the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
Inclining his head deeply, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the freckled, light-skinned man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Find m'when yeh think of anythin'."
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
Touching a hand to his elbow, you say to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"Not without walking with me first."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lowers her hand, glancing up to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, as well.
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man nods to you, beginning to walk to the doorway.
The short, dusky woman fingers the hilt of her razor-sharp, hawk-etched halfsword, then drops her hand smoothly to the bartop, maintaining a silence.
In her strange thin falsetto, giving weight to the first few syllables, the spangled-blond, muscular woman asks the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"No offense, Sergeant, but I think you're creating a small disturbance. Perhaps you'd step out and return another time?"
You contact the spangled-blond, muscular woman with the Way.
At a black-painted bar, you overhear the sinewy, obsidian-haired man say in sirihish, smiling curiously in the freckled, light-skinned man's direction, tilting his head to the side:
"Surely you have a stable or two that needs cleaning, Chosen Lord?"
You send a telepathic message to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"I'll keep an eye on him, Sid, and let you know where he is if you need him."
Sternly, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
Voice cool, calm, level, the short, dusky woman says to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"I would have found that insulting before I was Chosen, Sergeant. Watch your tongue more carefully. You're obviously unfamiliar with northern customs."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman's gaze locks calm and steady on the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
Turning, eyeing the spangled-blond, muscular woman a moment before speaking, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Perhaps yeh could enlighten me."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands reach for her hood as she glances between the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man and the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"Like I said, no offense. Just trying to keep the peace. But then too, I'm straight serious. Come back another day, huh?"
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"'Cause I don't know th'diference between a compliment'n an insult here. They's both seem t'come'n go th'same way."
The short, dusky woman says to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"Perhaps you should walk with apprentice Aja Driamusek before you put your dung-covered boot further into that mouth of yours, Sergeant."
Frowning, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man walks south.
You follow the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, and walk south.
North Road [NESW]
The stark white of this wide stone road lies nestled between the rise and fall of a conglomerated jumble of eclectically styled buildings. Passing through the city, the road is kept clean of any blowing sand and forest debris. The pale backbone cuts a decisive line east across the
bustling metropolis towards what remains of the Old City.
The pale white of the road merges with a newer road just to the east. Further in the distance, the crumbled ruins of the old city can be seen rising up above the newer walls that have been built up around them. Set on the north side of the road is a large two-story tavern. On the south side of the road is a large wagon yard.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman relinquishes her hood, accompanying the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man with formally correct posture.
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man raises the hood of a hooded, brown military aba.
The tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Where yeh wanna walk to?"
His purple-inked dragon-tattooed features twisting into a dark grimace, the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Allanak'd be a good place t'begin, I'm thinkin'."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Your solution was a lot more elegant than mine, Bard. Thank you for the help."
With a fixedly polite smile, you ask the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba, in sirihish:
"... Have you had opportunity to tour the city during your time here?"
The tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"No."
You send a telepathic message to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"Elegant, though I would have enjoyed yours more if it could have provoked him into being thrown into the jails. And please, call me Aja. Or Apprentice, if you will use my title."
With a slight nod as she looks out over the commons, you say to the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba, in sirihish:
"Then let’s walk to the gardens. They've calmed hotter heads than yours."
You are Aja, of many peoples.
Objective: To learn to fight - and still be thought weak.
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 206 days old,
The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]
A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive room, gleaming under the light of...
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