Original Submissions
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Memoir #10 - The Man in the Ivory Mask (???) by Rairen
Added on Oct 24, 2009The Circle holds a festival, and it closes with improv games on the final day lead by the delighted Driamusek Seeker - who gets the last and final joke, played on her.
Note: This has been HEAVILY editted for spam and length.
It is late afternoon on Terrin, the 2nd day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Reverence, year 48 of the 21st Age.
Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]
Screens, made of oiled paper printed with swirls of red and yellow lozenges, block out the sandladen wind while allowing light into this high-ceilinged, echoing chamber. Bubbles of glass holding oil and wicks hang suspended from the rafters at varying heights. Low, round tables are scattered across the floor, each surrounded by threadbare cushions that serve as seats. From the back of the room comes a constant hiss of boiling water and steam from a ceramic samovar, pitted with age, that towers behind a low wooden counter. A red-railed wooden staircase leads upwards.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks over the room, her smile dividing between the spry, blithe-faced man and a fat-bellied, brown-haired woman.
The spry, blithe-faced man hefts his sturdy canvas bag through the room, taking it to an unoccupied portion that is clear of tables and chairs.
Calling over to him, voice warm with greeting, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"Good day, Master Bard. Some food, courtesy of the Chosen Lord Ranak."
Leaning in closer, the spry, blithe-faced man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Did you want to lead this one like you did the last time?"
With a quizzical look to him, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:
"I could, yes, at least the games I know."
You feel like you could be quite pleased in that role, as point of fact.
With a deep tilt of her head, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:
"I am at your service. When shall we commence the torture?"
The spry, blithe-faced man dips a few shallow nods, merry gaze locked on you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman meets the spry, blithe-faced man's eyes... and smiles, her own slender and dearly amused.
(People crowd into the room throughout.)
Wagging his brows, the spry, blithe-faced man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Don't be afraid to call on me if you need me."
With a soft breath, so very nearly a laugh, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:
"Master Bard, you make a temptation that will be terribly hard to resist."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman spares the spry, blithe-faced man a last conspiratorial smile before looking over the room, greeting a few of the patrons with polite nods.
The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles and winks at you, and backs away toward the gathered tables around the clearing.
You think:
"Still not good enough for Bard, hm?"
You think:
"... Don't mess this up, Aja. Not a third day in a row."
Pulling herself onto its edge, legs resting on a chair, you sit at a square beige table.
Lifting her voice, smile arch with delight, while she looks
over the room, you say, in sirihish:
"Good day, friends and guests, both, and welcome to the Circle for the third day of our gatherings."
The spry, blithe-faced man turns his pale gaze to you, a jovial smile overtaking his features.
Perched on the edge of a table, posture correct while she flicks a smile in the trim, ashen-skinned man's direction, you say, in sirihish:
"You've joined us in competition and performance... and on the third day we play."
The trim, ashen-skinned man offers a wink in return to you and a faint tip of his head.
The short, dusky woman sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table, sinking down in a chair by the trim, ashen-skinned man.
Humor to her tone while she crosses her legs beneath your flowing white linen skirt, you say, in sirihish:
"Bards are very serious people, as I'm certain you are all aware, and even we must practice to have any degree of charm and wit."
The trim, ashen-skinned man lolls his head to the side with a grin in offer to the short, dusky woman before looking back to the speaker - you.
With an idle sweep of a gloved hand along the room, you say, in sirihish:
"But not all of our practice need be spiritless things. We would like to invite you to join in some of our games. Our tests and our pleasures."
After a smile at the trim, ashen-skinned man, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup, attention mostly on you.
Voice lifting further to be heard through the room, you say, in sirihish:
"The tavernkeeper Amalfa has granted us the space, and I would challenge four bold strangers to take part in this first and next game."
With a grin, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Count me in, if you'll have me."
Gaze drifting over the tables, you say, in sirihish:
"Have no fear, I'm as charming of a score keep as could be imagined - and Sivamet is our first. Come here, my dear."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman stands up from a small wooden table.
The short, dusky woman turns her small wooden cup about in her fingers, considering you.
You say, in sirihish:
"The games are improvisation. I'll give you a challenge and you'll be tasked to act it out."
Adjusting her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak about herself, the short, dusky woman stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.
With a pointed smile to him, you ask the expansively-obese man, in sirihish:
"Come, now, Merchant, friend. You'll not stand for Kadius?"
Loitering near her recently abandoned chair, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup.
Artlessly, effortlessly, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"Leisera, how good of you to stand. Come join Sivamet."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman flashes the short, dusky woman an arch smile.
Aiming a smirk aside at you, the short, dusky woman puts her small wooden cup onto a long, vine-etched baobab table.
You give your sturdy canvas bag to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
With a tilt of her head, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Take one thing. Any thing. From this bag. You'll have the right of first choice."
Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I hope this gets me points with the Irofel Masterbards."
Brow lifting, you ask the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"Waiting an invitation, Seeker?"
Beckoning with a hand, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Boys against girls. Even out Ehrick's pair, Vash."
The short, dusky woman whistles a quiet snatch of tune as she saunters up to you, leaning toward you and the bag.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man flashes you a smile as he carefully sets his small wooden cup down, easing through the crowd towards you.
Beckoning with a hand, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Boys against girls. Even out Ehrick's pair, Vash."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman rests her short wooden pole across her shoulders.
Keeping it out of the short, dusky woman's reach, you give your sturdy canvas bag to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
Sparing a glance towards the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed
Lirathan templar before looking back with a tad touch of nervousness, the trim, ashen-skinned man asks you, in sirihish:
"Ya sure, lass?"
The short, dusky woman gives you a pout, grasping fruitlessly for the bag.
Her smile unrepentant, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Positive, Vash. Come."
Drawing a slow breath as he unlaces the fingers on his chest and draws to his height, the trim, ashen-skinned man stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gets his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch from his sturdy canvas bag.
Calling out to the audience with a cheerful wink, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"See... If you *don't* volunteer, you *shall* be volunteered."
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a gesture and good-natured half-grin to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man as he walks over.
Clasping her hands together, pleased, before she lifts her voice again, you say, in sirihish:
"Thank you, thank you, my -brave- competitors. You will be playing against one another. The first team to run out of ideas... loses."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman moves over to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
With a cocked brow and broadening grin, the trim, ashen-skinned man asks the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Come to steal my man, lass?"
With wavering gravity to her voice, you say, in sirihish:
"Look very closely at your props, my friends, donated by the Uaptal Theater."
The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat, reaching out to tug at the collar of the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman's attire and pull her back toward the short, dusky woman.
Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Sorry, my idiot brother was in my head."
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a clucking noise of his tongue as he moves to stand aside the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman moves to the short, dusky woman with some embarrassment on her face.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask has entered a white-tiled teahouse.
The short, dusky woman pockets her hands in her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak and looks sidelong to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, conspiratorial challenge in her expression.
Setting her bag aside, for now, you say, in sirihish:
"Starting with Ehrick's team, out of courtesy to Sivamet's bravery, you will each need to devise, one after another, a different scene containing that prop."
Looking from the short, dusky woman to the trim, ashen-skinned man, you say, in sirihish:
"For instance, if I had picked an obsidian coin, it might have been a third eye, a piece of jewelery, a hole in Vash's head..."
Curiously, the reedy, slate-haired woman looks up at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask adjusts his ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat, brushing some dust from it.
The short, dusky woman looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
With a light shrug, you ask, in sirihish:
"And you will keep continuing until Leisera's team wins or I get bored, hm?"
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
With a mock-whisper to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:
"I'm an unbiased judge."
With an assuring tone, you ask, in sirihish:
"Work as teams. Have fun. Any questions?"
The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a trace amount of hesitation as the link is established* Seeker Aja, yes? "
You contact the svelte, vividly-inked young man with the Way.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask leans against his whorled agafari cane as he quietly looks around the tavern, taking it all in.
The spry, blithe-faced man's eyes are glued to the people in the cleared out area, a grin plastered all over his face.
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:
"*with an assuring tone* Yes, that's right. How might I serve?"
The trim, ashen-skinned man whispers something to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers something to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
With a snap of her gloved fingers, you say, in sirihish:
"Ehrick's team, when you're done chattering away for what good it does you, begin."
The trim, ashen-skinned man whispers something to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks down at the spry, blithe-faced man.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman smiles without shame or guilt, arms folding across her knees while she watches.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gives his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't think we've met, at least not formally. Maji Zeina al Asenn of the Tan Muark, which is entirely too long to remember, much less pronounce, when less than sober, which is all too often for me. That aside..."
Lifting his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch high into the air and words of dignity, the trim, ashen-skinned man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Shall I present... the purest of chastity belts for the most expensive of Kuraci whores!"
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden has entered a white-tiled teahouse.
The graceful, platinum-haired man has entered a white-tiled teahouse.
With a nod, you say, in sirihish:
"Perfect! The boys pick up things quickly. Zharal and Sivamet... You're up."
The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:
"I wanted to pass along my opinion that, tch, your performance at the competition a couple weeks ago was, by far, the most entertaining of the four. That's... about it."
The spry, blithe-faced man slaps a hand to his forehead, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask steps quietly through the tavern approaching a square beige table.
The expansively-obese man turns his attention to the trim, ashen-skinned man at his words, attention immediate.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:
"I hope you don't mind if I join you."
Shifting her grip, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman holds her short wooden pole.
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:
"I'm... charmed. Truly and honestly. I've seen you about the Ivory - or heard you named as Muarki, but never had opportunity to introduce myself."
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:
"Will you join us at the Ghaati? We're gathering for a bit of fun and games."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman grins to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask and beckons for the table.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask smiles in return as he adjusts his velvet-rimmed, tall black silk hat and slowly lowers into a seat.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask sits at a square beige table.
Although the room is busy and full of movement, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden lowers her head toward the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar.
The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps. I've got some business to take care of beforehand, but perhaps. In case I don't, fortunes, pretty Seeker."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a contented sigh as he lays his whorled agafari cane across his lap.
Brandishing the pole in a mock-threatening manner, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"How could you take my man?! At least I kept the most important bit!"
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks at the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs into the back of a gloved hand, entranced by the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.
After a pause, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"His weapon!"
With a helpless gesture, you say to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"... Go, go. While those two beat the life out of one another."
The athletic, stubble-bearded man lifts his eyebrows slightly, watching the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
With a flamboyant bow and flick of his scarred wrist to hand it over, the trim, ashen-skinned man gives his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
(The two teams trade off making scenes with their props, while Aja takes every opportunity to direct the insanity.)
Cupping her hands to her mouth, you say, in sirihish:
"I do grant arbitrary points for humor."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask a smile and a helpless, oh, so innocent shrug.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a small chuckle as he leans back in his seat.
(The scene ends with Vash, the lecherous silt pirate, gagging Simvamet with his eye patch, silencing the unending stream of ‘wooden staff’ jokes coming from her and Zharal. You can’t make this stuff up.)
Applauding, gloves muting the sound, you say, in sirihish:
"My compliments. I'll laugh at you, I'll mock you, but it's no easy thing to compete in a strange game, ye shy ones."
After a wink at the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, handing it that way instead, the short, dusky woman gives you her short wooden pole.
With a nod of approval the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask claps his hands in modest applause.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man laughs and begins to clap for the short, dusky woman and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman before reaching out for the pole.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman applauds for the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man and the trim, ashen-skinned man.
Using two hands to hold up four fingers, you ask, in sirihish:
"I'd like four more, now, now that you've seen an example. Any of you care to stay in?"
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives return applause as he casts the short, dusky woman and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman a grin.
With a grin, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Reckon I can get another game in."
With a dry, completely somber tone, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to the short, dusky woman, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I'll take that back, if you please, and go at once to find a seamstress to fix it upon these greaves."
The spry, tousle-haired man carefully shakes his head, eyes still on the main area.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to you, in sirihish:
"Who knows, it might be clean this time!"
Holding out a hand to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:
"The silt pirate chastity belt of the mouth, if you please."
Giving his armored arm a comforting pat, the short, dusky woman says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Oh no, you don't get it back. Let it be a lesson for you - never trust a pretty woman. Her vengeance is terrible."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Hand it to Aja, my boy. I gave it to you."
Spotting the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden out with a grin, you say, in sirihish:
"Apprentice who beat me in the competition, I think you're due next."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gives you his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch.
With a flourid roll of his hand to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the trim, ashen-skinned man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And 'e stole it right off my c-...."
The trim, ashen-skinned man clamps his mouth shut instead of finishing.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a look to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask:
"... Revenge is such a lovely thing."
The graceful, platinum-haired man grins over at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, eyebrow lifting.
Picking up the pole from the table, the ethereal, fair-haired woman pokes at the trim, ashen-skinned man's leg.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask grins to you.
Chuckling as he walks over to the empty table, the trim, ashen-skinned man sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table.
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:
"What circle is she of?"
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a touch of pride:
"Driamusek, of course."
Casting a glance towards the clearance amongst the tables, the supple, jasper-curled young man asks the spry, tousle-haired man, in sirihish:
"How about it, Private Creek. Why not give it a go?"
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a nod:
"Of course."
With a laugh, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Maybe I should do Elkinhym instead."
Leaning back against the wall, the tanned, black-haired young man gives his head a shake, grinning, lifting a hand to rub at his face.
Looking dumbstruck, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks you, in sirihish:
"You want me to-- -what-?"
Sinking down in her chair by the trim, ashen-skinned man, the short, dusky woman sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"This is quite fun."
With a long-suffering sigh, you ask, in sirihish:
"Am I so fearsome? Do I make you quake?"
At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the trim, ashen-skinned man say in southern-accented sirihish, looking to the short, dusky woman sidelong:
"As much as the two'f ya stroked that poor man's cutoff pole. Remind me to never piss ya off, kay?"
Waving two hands nervously, the spry, tousle-haired man says to the supple, jasper-curled young man, in sirihish:
"I'm -really- not that funny. The props just... look like props."
Crooking a finger to her, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"I'd like you to join with Sivamet's team. You'll have a prop and you'll need to use it in as many creative ways as you can."
Almost muttering, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"I'll get you for this yet."
The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.
With a crooked smile, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"Maybe I should talk to you, Masterbard, instead of Irofel."
Peering, the expansively-obese man looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
Lifting her voice, you say to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"You could cheer for her from up here, by the by."
Glancing up at her, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"If that is what you wish."
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a dubious look:
"She's an apprentice?"
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks thoughtful, and then nods.
As she approaches, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I'm really no Konviwedu. Or Elkinhym. What are the rules, exactly? I was a little late."
The graceful, platinum-haired man turns his head to look over at you, mouth still half-open.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a distracted murmur:
"Asosa? Mm-hmm."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"We have to get a prop and make up a scene with it. Whoever's lost for ideas first loses."
With an assuring smile, the teasing note to her voice quieting, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"You're competing against another team. You and Sivamet will work together to come up with interpretations
of an item."
With a light nod, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"For instance, Vash and Ehrick turned an eyepatch into a chastity belt, a gag, a loincloth, and acted out as a silt pirate."
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a grin:
"Should have given her a scolding for asking such questions to her superiors."
After a thoughtful pause, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"Well, Seeker, I suppose with Siva's brilliance, I might manage."
With a fleeting smile, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:
"Care to join? I'm short by two, I think."
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, wincing:
"Oh... hmm."
Calling to him, you ask the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"Are you playing, Master Bard?"
Thoughtfully, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gets her frayed lace shawl from her sturdy canvas bag.
The spry, blithe-faced man asks you, in sirihish:
"If you're calling on me for it, how can I resist?"
Tilting her head to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"They're all shy. You could bolster anyone's confidence."
Passing it back, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives you her sturdy canvas bag.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks down at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
Pushing his chair back gently and stepping around the tables into the cleared out area, the spry, blithe-faced man stands up from a small wooden table.
Lifting a finger, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"One more, one more. A partner for the venerable Master Janosh Elkinhym!"
The trim, ashen-skinned man crooks a growing grin at the spry, blithe-faced man as he watches.
Triumphantly, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks you, in sirihish:
"Since it was Morn's idea to perform, well, isn't it only fair that he perform as well?"
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:
"I suppose I could give it a try."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask stands up from a square beige table.
Calling out through the noise, the short, dusky woman exclaims to the svelte, vividly-inked young man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Maji! You can perform!"
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask slowly pushes to his feet with the aide of his whorled agafari cane.
With a matching smile, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"I couldn't agree more. Morn, get up here. I can't refuse Asosa a thing."
The graceful, platinum-haired man slinks a little lower in his chair.
Snorting, the spry, blithe-faced man says to you, in sirihish:
"Venerable? You make me sound old."
The graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Oh. . drov."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"And if you're old.. that makes me far older."
Leaning her head to the side, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"I mean... I'm sure you owe me something."
Silent and unobtrusive, the svelte, vividly-inked young man slips through the crowds toward the far wall, near the counter.
Sliding out of his chair with a dejected look, the graceful, platinum-haired man stands up from a small wooden table.
Mouth quirking, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"... My apologies, Master. As wise as you are, I'd think you as old as the sands."
The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles.
The graceful, platinum-haired man walks over to the spry, blithe-faced man, bowing his head politely.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her hands in an apologetic gesture.
With a developing grin, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"I'll be counting on you to do all the work!"
With a smile, you say to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"For your graciousness, pick one thing - just one - from that bag."
Glancing to her, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Master or no, I'm still making you go first."
Glancing to the graceful, platinum-haired man, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask asks you, in sirihish:
"Does this mean I am off the hook for this round?"
Chuckling, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:
"Yes. For now."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans over to rub her hand over the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask's head.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a slow sigh of relief as he retakes his seat.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
The graceful, platinum-haired man gets his brightly colored fruit hat from his sturdy canvas bag.
At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the trim, ashen-skinned man say in southern-accented sirihish, with a glance to the short, dusky woman:
"That was surprisin'ly fun."
Watching the graceful, platinum-haired man, the spry, blithe-faced man looses a short, bubbling laugh.
Taking in a deep breath before she raises hers again, you say, in sirihish:
"Guests, there's a basket lying around somewhere with food if you get hungry. In the meantime, for those joining us..."
At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the short, dusky woman say in tribal-accented sirihish, seeming distracted, but responding to the trim, ashen-skinned man:
"It was. I love acting. I miss doing it."
The svelte, vividly-inked young man lifts a hand to his mouth, peering toward the doorway.
To the spry, blithe-faced man, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Do I get to go first, sir?"
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden shows her frayed lace shawl to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a faint noise of agreement in response before returning his attention to you.
Gesturing toward you, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"Aja is the one commanding us."
Taking in another deep breath, you say, in sirihish:
"... The game is a competition between Master Janosh of Elkinhym and Morn the hunter-who-forgets-to-clean-his-cloak, against Sivamet the victor and Apprentice Asosa, the even greater victor."
The graceful, platinum-haired man chuckles.
Lounged back in her chair, the short, dusky woman looks up at the graceful, platinum-haired man.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask raps his whorled agafari cane against the ground in approval.
You say, in sirihish:
"With Sivamet's team starting, each pair must come up
with a creative use for the prop in their hands and will go one after the other until I get bored and pick a winner."
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden tilts her head to either side, indecisively with your introduction.
Pointing out of the tavern, the graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Blame the sandstorms, not me."
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives the gimlet puce-eyed woman a polite nod before working his backside into the seat of his chair and lacing his fingers over his chest.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman wraps her frayed lace shawl around her arms and hobbles like a little old lady.
His attention briefly drawn by movement, the svelte, vividly-inked young man looks down at the slight, twin-braided woman.
Her smile unabashed before she claps her hands twice together, you say, in sirihish:
"Sivamet and Asosa, prepare to stun the room. Begin."
Beckoning him closer, the short, dusky woman says to the svelte, vividly-inked young man, in bendune:
"Muri, p'uysu."
Holding up a finger, her dark voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"In my day, everybody wanted to be a bard! We'd clamour to the Circle, hoping for challenges like this."
The svelte, vividly-inked young man perks up a bit, peering over the crowded teahouse quickly until he spots the short, dusky woman, pushing out of his lean.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs, expression sublimely patient, and links gloved hands around her knee.
Her voice quavery as she fakes wiping at a tear, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Unfortunately, I lost my voice in a bet."
The graceful, platinum-haired man gazes down at his brightly colored fruit hat with a grin.
The spry, blithe-faced man presses his lips together as he watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
Studying her hands, you look up at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
The svelte, vividly-inked young man quickly winds his way through the crowd with muted apologies to the short, dusky woman, dipping his chin.
In a bored, monotone drawl, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Uh-huh... yes ma... did you drink tea today? Mmm. Yes, well, tell them all the stories you want."
The reedy, slate-haired woman watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman hobbling about in her frayed, disheveled shawl, and chuckles.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden rolls her eyes at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, leaning back against a nearby table. She holds up two hands and makes a talking motion.
Simply, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I wish you had lost your voice, you know."
The athletic, stubble-bearded man chuckles softly as he watches the performers, placing an elbow on a small wooden table.
Holding up a finger, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"Don't you patronize me, girly! And never make a bet you can't win!"
The short, dusky woman crosses her legs and folds her arms, shrugging into the folds of her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak and clearing her throat while she watches.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman straightens up and flips her frayed lace shawl off her shoulders.
The gimlet puce-eyed woman watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman and the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, an amused smile on her lips.
Tilting her head to the side, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"-Honestly.- One day you're a Kuraci, the next you're a bar whore, the next you're a dwarven stripper..."
With a grin to the spry, blithe-faced man and respectful tilt of her head, you ask, in sirihish:
"Master Bard... Morn... We've seen a hoarse, cloak-covered woman. Let them chatter - A dwarven stripper?"
Clearing her throat, recollecting herself, you say, in sirihish:
"That is... Let them chatter. You take a go."
The graceful, platinum-haired man clears his throat.
The willowy, onyx-braided woman's attention suddenly flicks towards the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, a brow single brow perking upwards.
The graceful, platinum-haired man clasps his brightly colored fruit hat to his chest, strutting about with it puffed out.
Taking a bite, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man eats a portion of his half eaten ripe blue kalan fruit.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat under her voice.
With a conspiratoral smile, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"... I could've had you go on for longer than that, impossible thing that you are."
Voice clear and presiding, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"I say, I went and had a drink of firestorm!"
The graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"They say it puts hair on your chest, but I grew this!"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, pressing a hand to her eyes.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"No, no, we need to let Masterbard Janosh have a go. Especially since I think I want to join his Circle now."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.
Cupping his hands and feeling up the brightly-colored fruits held against the graceful, platinum-haired man's chest, the spry, blithe-faced man says, in sirihish:
"Hmm... You might want to get this checked by a medic."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks to the graceful, platinum-haired man as he lets out an amused laugh.
Shaking her head, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"A two point, for utter peculiarity and creativity. Back to you, lovely ladies. Janosh'll be in there, yet."
The expansively-obese man snickers, watching the graceful, platinum-haired man.
Blushing, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Oh, my. You like they way they feel?"
Holding up a hand, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"Medic here!"
Calling to him, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"... He needs more than a medic, Master Elkinhym."
Placing her hands on her hips, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"You are -not-... I say..."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman scampers over to the graceful, platinum-haired man.
Over his shoulder, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Quiet, you. I'm not done with him yet."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, squinting at the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"Was that a fruity breast joke?"
With a shake of her head, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"You go to her for medicine and you'll leave two inches shorter, ten years stupider, and a hundred times more likely to die tomorrow."
The spry, blithe-faced man tilts his head, an intrigued expression overwhelming his features as he gently squeezes the ceramic fruits one by one.
Clearing her throat, but carrying on pleasantly, you say, in sirihish:
"For the benefit of all of you, yes, that was a fruity breast joke. Do carry on. There's more nonsense to see."
Peering over the fruit on the graceful, platinum-haired man's chest, her voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"Oh dear. This's the worst case of fruit-tit-itis I've ever seen!"
The svelte, vividly-inked young man shifts his weight from foot to foot, his attention snapped away by a merchant that brushes by him en route to the food basket.
The graceful, platinum-haired man drags his left boot against the ground, pouting demurely at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
The expansively-obese man chuckles at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, massive belly shaking.
The athletic, stubble-bearded man smooths his hair back, his hand brushing over his half of a massive rolled tube of spice half-tucked under his leaf-patterned, tembo-hide helmet.
Putting her frayed lace shawl over her eyes and peering through it, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Oh yes, it's fruit-tit-itis."
The spry, blithe-faced man leans over, clacking his teeth against one of the brightly-painted ceramic fruits in an exaggerated gnawing motion.
Blankly, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Just because your breasts are practically inverted doesn't mean you have to go gnawing on his."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, nodding approvingly:
"Good. It just isn't a fun time til someone comes out with a fruity breast joke."
With a dip of her head to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you ask the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"Sivamet's playing the medic with her... shawl... of... healing, yes, shawl of healing. Gentlemen?"
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman wraps her frayed lace shawl around her arms.
The graceful, platinum-haired man slides over to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, winking.
The expansively-obese man chuckles louder, belly bouncing and jiggling.
The graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Does that mean you want to take a bite instead?"
Waving a hand in your direction, the spry, blithe-faced man says, in sirihish:
"Can't talk. Busy."
Muttering, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"So much for keeping it clean."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow arches, imperious for a moment as she looks to the spry, blithe-faced man's hand.
At your table, you say in sirihish, under her breath, slender body shaking with laughter:
"Is what I get for trying to order about a Master Bard, it would seem."
Giving a firm nod of his head in approval, the trim, ashen-skinned man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Gnawin' the juicy melons is definitely clean in my mind."
With a shake of her head, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"Trust me, I only take bites where it matters-- and generally, that leaves a two-headed creature longing for a partner. Didn't you know?"
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:
"Would be akin to herding quirri or dealing with a southron house merchant."
Sniffing, her voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"The youth of today!"
The graceful, platinum-haired man cranes his head back before scampering over to the spry, blithe-faced man.
Hushing her, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden exclaims to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Not everyone was youthful when the sun was born, old woman!"
You get your oversized wooden dart from your sturdy canvas bag.
With a look of calm amusement, the slight, twin-braided woman smiles as she watches on.
Aside to him, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"She's just jealous that you've got more tits than she does."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"Just because your boobies haven't grown yet, girly!"
Calling out and standing on her chair for emphasis, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I'm calling a prop swap. Asosa, catch."
You give your oversized wooden dart to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman tosses the shawl over to you.
With a slender smile, you say, in sirihish:
"Carry on, dart-wielding medics."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"Gimme the cure, girly!"
Holding up the pointy end of her oversized wooden dart, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"Anyhow, boy, let me get rid of that fruit with this. Trust me, it doesn't hurt..."
The trim, ashen-skinned man keeps his eyes on the performers, his mouth quirked in a near permanent smirk.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman scoops up the shawl from the air and deposits it on the table before sitting primly on its edge.
Hurling himself in between the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden and the graceful, platinum-haired man, splaying his arms out, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Wait!"
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"She got that from me, you know. Her healing gifts."
The svelte, vividly-inked young man shifts his weight again, watching the performance with a mild grin.
Cringing, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"But, I like my tits! I get to play with them whenever I want!"
On a sigh, you say, in sirihish:
"Remember that, women. Don't take your fruititis for granted."
Her voice lightened, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"But, sweetheart, don't you know you'll end up all crouched over like my mum if you where them all the time? They get heavy..."
Stepping around behind the graceful, platinum-haired man, slipping his arms beneath the graceful, platinum-haired man's arms to grasp and sort of squeeze the ceramic fruits, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"No! They're wonderful!"
Taking her eyes off the performance briefly, the slight, twin-braided woman looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the expansively-obese man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the reedy, slate-haired woman, pudgy face creased by a lewd smile:
"I don't know, that dart might be just what's needed. Melons need some hard 'darts' sticking out."
Nodding, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"It's true. I had breasts so big I was mistaken for twin bahamets."
Raising a hand as he looks up at the group, the trim, ashen-skinned man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"If ever ya lasses have fruit-tit-itis'n need help... I'm a willin' sucker."
The graceful, platinum-haired man lets out a high-pitched squeak.
Turning, the svelte, vividly-inked young man sidles through the crowd toward the door, taking a deep breath.
Snickering, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup.
The browned, jallal-curled man chuckles lightly at the proceedings.
The short, dusky woman waggles her eyebrows at the trim, ashen-skinned man, slouched in her chair.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman shoots the trim, ashen-skinned man a patented, high browed look of instructoral disapproval... and then smirks, relenting.
You think:
"And in five..."
You think:
"... four..."
Tossing her oversized wooden dart in her direction, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden exclaims to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Good grief... here. You take care of him, then.
He'll never understand the curse of the twins. And his aren't even twins!"
You think:
"... three..."
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives her oversized wooden dart to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
You think:
"... two..."
One hand releasing its lewd hold on one of the graceful, platinum-haired man's fruits to point an accusing finger at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman alone, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hands off the man's tits!"
At your table, you say in sirihish, sputtering, stammering:
"Aaaaaaaaaand... on that note... players, pause!"
Shaking his head slowly, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Now now, there's no reason to fight over my chest, there's plenty for everyone!"
Holding up to empty hands, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"If you haven't noticed... you're the only one with hands -on- them."
With a hopeless shake of her head, you say, in sirihish:
"I really would name you the winner, Morn, for starting that... what... ever it was, but I'm afraid I have to name Master Janosh the singular winner, as he helps handle Seeker's promotions."
Wry humour in her voice, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"You do know if they're not pricked, they'll be contagious."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.
The slight, twin-braided woman offers a nod to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask before turning her attention fully back to the performers.
Point at the graceful, platinum-haired man and laughing, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"He started it!"
The graceful, platinum-haired man bows his head to the spry, blithe-faced man.
Laughter still warm in her voice, the ethereal, fair-haired woman applauds over to the quartet.
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a deep, throaty noise of agreement as he grins.
Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I'm sitting down and gathering the tattered remnants of my dignity."
The graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Only with your magnificent presence could I have done something this. . . this. . ."
The short, dusky woman smirks vaguely, tilting back a sip from her small wooden cup.
The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts his hands and claps for the performers, looking to them and smiling warmly.
The graceful, platinum-haired man walks over to you.
Leaning forward a little, reaching for the graceful, platinum-haired man's prop, you say, in sirihish:
"... Preposterous and delightful."
The short, dusky woman puts her cup down to applaud the performers, relaxed tiredly into her chair by a long, vine-etched baobab table.
To you, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Would you like my chest?"
Smile lingering, you ask the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"What would I do with one of those?"
Calling out, the short, dusky woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"That should've been 'would you like a nibble?'"
Plopping down, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden sits at a small wooden table.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman say in sirihish, wryly:
"Sun King have mercy."
The graceful, platinum-haired man gives you his brightly colored fruit hat.
The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles, pointing in the short, dusky woman's direction and nodding.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman points to the short, dusky woman, the look she casts the graceful, platinum-haired man a touch reproachful.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"Well, Aja, when life gives you kalan..."
The trim, ashen-skinned man licks his lips as he waggles his eyes at the graceful, platinum-haired man.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks up at the gimlet
puce-eyed woman.
The graceful, platinum-haired man blows a kiss to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
With a warm tone, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"... Drink the night away."
Looking away from the graceful, platinum-haired man to smile to the room, you say, in sirihish:
"A new game, a new round of players. I wouldn't have you bored with us yet. I need... three people. Maybe four if you beg."
The short, dusky woman chuckles and holds her hands up, a helpless gesture.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the browned, jallal-curled man say in sirihish, with a light chuckle for the reedy, slate-haired woman:
"You should be performing, Irminia."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
The graceful, platinum-haired man slinks over to a small wooden table.
Alighting upon a chair with a bit of color in his cheeks, the graceful, platinum-haired man sits at a small wooden table.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman say in sirihish:
"I apologise for those sand-awful jokes."
With a bright grin, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"Well, I think we both drank away a whole week not so long ago, but there probably wasn't any kalan involved."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish:
"Well, I'll never be taken seriously again."
Lifting up three fingers and shooting the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden a shushing glance, you say, in sirihish:
"Mm-hmm. Three people. A game much like what you saw before, with a twist."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the expansively-obese man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, attention focused squarely on her chest:
"Awful? They were delightful!"
As he slowly pushes to his feet, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says, in sirihish:
"I suppose I'll give it a go, though my prudish nature may be quite boring."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, to the browned, jallal-curled man, sniffing:
"Only if they buy something."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask stands up from a square beige table.
Still rubbing gently at his jaw, the tanned, black-haired young man squints faintly, looking toward you.
With imperious pride, you say, in sirihish:
"And my players never falter, so don't worry about being left out."
With a grin and lowering one finger, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:
"I have this one, here, who refuses to take off his mask despite it being hotter than an Allanak Detal in here."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, wagging a finger at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden with a grin:
"I'll have you to blame for this, at least."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask leans against his whorled agafari cane with a casual demeanor.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, chuckling wryly:
"I guess she doesn't get to Allanak many Detals..this is positively brisk."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:
"I've never been to Allanak, does it get that hot there, krath."
Calling to him, you say to the expansively-obese man, in sirihish:
"Stand for Kadius, merchant. I'll be kind."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden say in sirihish, waving a hand in front of her face:
"Speaking of which, it is getting more and more hot in here."
Shifting up his massive bulk, the expansively-obese man stands up from a small wooden table.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, tapping his obsidian breastplate:
"You're not the one wearing armor."
(hemote) Sweat glistens at the ethereal, fair-haired woman's collarbone and neck.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask gives the expansively-obese man a deferential nod.
Lowering a second finger, you say, in sirihish:
"I need one more, one brave, daring man or woman to stand with the best of the Ivory or her guests and be counted."
l
Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]
The browned, jallal-curled man is sitting at a small wooden table.
The gimlet puce-eyed woman is standing here.
The pursy, female half-giant stands here, trying to look mean.
The slight, twin-braided woman is sitting at a small wooden table.
The spry, blithe-faced man is sitting at a small wooden table.
The tanned, black-haired young man leans against the wall, by the entrance.
The graceful, platinum-haired man is sitting at a small wooden table.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden is sitting at a small wooden table.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask is standing here.
The lean, cerulean-eyed man is standing here.
The trim, ashen-skinned man is sitting at a long, vine-etched baobab table.
The short, dusky woman is sitting at a long, vine-etched baobab table.
The grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar is sitting at a small wooden table.
A squat, tattooed guard stands here.
The expansively-obese man is standing here.
The reedy, slate-haired woman is sitting at a small wooden table.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is standing here.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman is sitting at a small wooden table.
The graceful, platinum-haired man lifts his left eyebrow while glancing over at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.
Stretching languidly, the short, dusky woman stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.
Lowering his hand from his jaw, the tanned, black-haired young man quirks his mouth idly.
Coyly, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:
"No pressure then I suppose."
Quietly, as she swaggers over toward the performers, the short, dusky woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Oh, no. I stood up."
Looking at the short, dusky woman and throwing his hands into the air, the trim, ashen-skinned man exclaims, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And the gypsy throws down the cestus!"
The willowy, onyx-braided woman has arrived from above, smoking pipe in hand.
The trim, ashen-skinned man lets his hands fall back to a long, vine-etched baobab table with a clatter.
With a reproachful smile, you ask, in sirihish:
"And Zharal falls for standing, yet again. Alright, then, players - and you there, masked one, can I have a name to swoon over?"
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask nods politly to the short, dusky woman.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:
"Elithan."
The short, dusky woman spreads her hands out in a 'bring it' sort of gesture, sauntering bravely up to you. She smiles and nods politely at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
Jaw falling open, you look up at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
This man has seen many years as he has reached the rarity of old age. His neatly trimmed hair is a grayish white. There are hints of crimson streaks in his hair perhaps revealing what color his hair was in this man's youth. High arched cheekbones and eyebrows elongate his stern facial features, and his thin lips are distorted by a thin scar that runs diagonally through them. However, his features are offset by his warm blue eyes. His heavily scarred skin is beset with age as deep lines are set into his face and prominent crow’s feet are set around his eyes. Scars of varying degrees are visible on just about any amount of exposed skin giving him a battle hardened appearance. A smattering of discolored circular burnscars run down his left cheek. One scar which stands out above all others is a scar that runs from the base of his chin on the left side of his face and down his neck. The scar appears old, but is discolored to a strange purplish hue. He is very well kept: trim hair and nails, smoothly shaven face, and a healthy physique of taut muscles seemingly uncharacteristic for his apparent age. His hands are worn and callused as if this man was no stranger to physical labor. Though his massive amount of scars mixed with the ravages of age give this, upon closer inspection, hearty man an appearance of being far older than he may be.
The short, dusky woman ..... stares. At the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man stops using his painted ivory half-mask, revealing a splotchy burn scar.
The gimlet puce-eyed woman laughs once, covering her mouth.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man blinks at the ancient, brutally-scarred man, slowly.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives the ancient, brutally-scarred man a double-take.
Doing a double-take, the expansively-obese man looks at the ancient, brutally-scarred man.
Mouth hanging open, the trim, ashen-skinned man says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That is the most amazin' fuckin' thing I ever saw."
Pressing a hand to her mouth, you say, in sirihish:
"... Oh... sweet... Krath, I just toussled the hair of my High Templar and very benevolent and caring patron."
His expression shifting into a grin quickly, the spry, blithe-faced man applauds.
The graceful, platinum-haired man blinks a few times, clearing his throat.
Grinning widely, the short, dusky woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Can't think of anybody I'd rather have on my team."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden say in sirihish, holding a hand over her mouth:
"Sweet..."
The gimlet puce-eyed woman's shoulders shake as she watches you and the ancient, brutally-scarred man.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman places a hand to her mouth, eyes going wide as kalans.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks at the browned, jallal-curled man.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man says to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"Indeed."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, staring openly and unashamedly at the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Well how about that."
The browned, jallal-curled man blinks as he notices the ancient, brutally-scarred man remove his mask.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish:
"And now, I've shown the High Templar my melons."
The trim, ashen-skinned man breaks in a deep chuckle as he sinks into the chair and laces his hands over his chest.
Recovering nicely from her grinning amazement, the short, dusky woman dips a bow of her head, deep and respectful, to the ancient, brutally-scarred man.
With a low groan, you say, in sirihish:
"Very well. This makes things much more enticing. As you wish, High Templar Elithan Winrothol."
The expansively-obese man continues to look shocked a moment, before dipping a respectful nod.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman bows her head respectfully to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, her smile turning wry and self-deprecating.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, burying his face in a large, open hand:
"My dignity has vanished."
Skin a deep red - from heat, naturally, you say, in sirihish:
"The game is a game of improvisation, the games we love best. Or I do when I'm calling the commands against you."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man inclines his head respectfully to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, finally seeming to regain his composure.
Mustering a wry half-smile, you ask the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in sirihish:
"I hope you won't be opposed to playing a soldier?"
(After the end of the insanity, which involves among other things a gypsy elf stealing Barbek’s nuts... and because I can’t resist...)
Standing on her chair and offering a deep tilt of her head to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, the short, dusky woman, and the expansively-obese man in turn, you say, in sirihish:
"This singstress has yelled herself out, but I'd like to give one more challenge before I bury my head somewhere where no one can find me again."
The ancient, brutally-scarred man steps back towards a square beige table taking a seat.
With a knowing smile to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, a teasing wrinkle of her nose, you ask, in sirihish:
"To the group. Who here... has the best toast?"
Grinning and tipping a bow of her head, the short, dusky woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Very indulgent, High Templar. That was fun."
Pointedly, you say, in sirihish:
"You all drink. Krath knows that much. I'll give a prize to the most creative, the most clever toaster in the Circle this day."
The ancient, brutally-scarred man says to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"That it was, though I admit I'm not much of an actor."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman stands up from a small wooden table.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I'll give it a try."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.
The trim, ashen-skinned man licks his lips as he half-grins at you and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, then scatters a gaze around...
With a sweep of her arm, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"At the top of your lungs, Sivamet the victor."
Raising her voice a little, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"I don't know if I can toast, but I can tell you what I'll never forget about tonight. 'Can I have a name to swoon over?' 'Elithan.' Bam. Jaw. Floor."
With a crisp smile, you say, in sirihish:
"Excuse me while I throw darts at Asosa. Won't be a moment."
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden bursts into laughter, holding her arms up to protect her face.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman chuckles, making a swat in the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden's direction before smiling to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
You say, in sirihish:
"Go, go. I'll have the rest of my life to live that down."
Giggling, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"Will you ever..."
Drawing two fingers together in a shushing noise, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"Dart."
Lifting an imaginary cup at the audience, her dark voice carrying, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"To the Sun King! May Your Faithful always be blessed with humour, Your Chosen with generosity, Your Legions with ... weapons ... and Your bards with creativity!"
More sedately, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"And Your City with the arts which remind us all of who... and what... we are."
Raising his voice, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"And may your nuts be plentiful!"
The short, dusky woman starts to laugh helplessly at the spry, blithe-faced man's input.
Laughing, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"And yes, may we always have nuts."
Joining in with the shouted cheers, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"And the enemies of the Ivory, never meet a friend!"
The spry, blithe-faced man's complexion warms with subdued laughter.
Adopting an eloquent bow, hair - sticky with sweat - falling across her shoulders, you say, in sirihish:
"It's been my pleasure, friends. Stay, chat, converse. I'm your servant for as long as I can think of ways to torment you."
Straightening, smile arch when she sweeps an arm to a fat-bellied, brown-haired woman, you say, in sirihish:
"And be sweet to your host. Have a cup of tea before you go."
Note: This has been HEAVILY editted for spam and length.
It is late afternoon on Terrin, the 2nd day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Reverence, year 48 of the 21st Age.
Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]
Screens, made of oiled paper printed with swirls...
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