Original Submissions by Rairen of type 'Logs'
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A Tuluki Dance
Added on Nov 16, 2011An atypical response to a GDB question about typical Zalanthan dancing. Aja Driamuasek and Ilune Jul Tavan unwind at the Tooth.
(Aja Driamusek and Ilune Jul Tavan stumble across each other near the Sanctuary.)
The delicate, lofty woman smiles faintly to you, nodding to you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman frowns, struggling with her hood as she pulls it over her head.
You raise the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
Cracking a shadowed smile, you look up at the delicate, lofty woman.
Lofty of stature and lean of frame, this woman's body bears a delicate portrayal. With a thick, unruly sprout of brown-black hair that is pushed back in a disheveled heap, she might carry the vague silhouette of a gwoshi when nothing is worn on her head. A few locks of contrasting hair fall around her brow, their blue shade concealing her bright green eyes at times.
Her olive facial features are stricken into a defined structure with her freckled cheekbones prominently high, and her thin nose tilted upward, all cradled by a pointed chin. Small, rounded ears poke out from either side of her head from beneath her mound of hair.
The delicate, lofty woman is in excellent condition.
The delicate, lofty woman is using:
<head> three intricate symbols in cobalt and white
<worn on face> a small, golden brown tortoiseshell nose-ring
<worn around neck> a tortoiseshell choker
<worn about throat> a length of multi-hued blue sandcloth
<worn on torso> a ruffled blue silk blouse
<arms> many bands of brightly-colored inkings
<right wrist> a few bands of brightly-colored inkings
<left wrist> a few bands of brightly-colored inkings
<worn on legs> a long purple linen skirt
<worn on right ankle> an azure scalloped sandcloth scarf
<left ankle> a few bands of brightly-colored inkings
<worn on feet> a pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots
The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Nah, and if I remember, last we talked I was a bit snippy..."
To you casually, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is seeing you, friend Aja."
The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Sorry about that."
The delicate, lofty woman holds out a hand above her eyes.
The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:
"I still owe ya a tour of the compound, too... don't forget. We should set a definite date."
Turning to join her, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"... And I am always glad to see you, Ilune. Is all well?"
You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:
"Next week too soon?"
The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Next week's perfect."
Lifting their voices in unison, the drums reaching to a deafening clamor, a colorful, boisterous drum circle shouts, in sirihish:
"The world, the whole world at peace! Give us peace!"
You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:
"And I don't remember you being snippy with me. If you were, I hope I did nothing to earn it and if I did, you have my apologies."
To you as she reaches out for your hand, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is always well, friend Aja. I is missing Jhalav ways of mine. I is wanting spear of mine. I is happy with brother of mine here, though, friend Aja."
The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Nah, just the few weeks leadin' up to the event were stressful..."
Looking to her hand before lifting her own, gloved, and giving a quiet squeeze, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"If you start to get too... uncomfortable, do what you must. You'll have a welcome here when you need it."
You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:
"Mm. I can only imagine."
You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:
"Thank you for your kind words. I'll see you next week, and finally have a glimpse of this estate of yours."
Glancing north, then south, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wanting to join friend of mine, if you is wanting I to."
The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yeah, lookin' forward to it."
The delicate, lofty woman smiles toward you in a charming manner.
The stout, crook-nosed man sends you a telepathic message:
"His Light, Aja."
With a quiet chuckle, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"If I'm wanting you to? I think I would hope you would do as you please, within all normal bounds of reason, and enjoy yourself."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You send a telepathic message to the stout, crook-nosed man:
"His Light guard you, Agent, a thousand times over."
You dissolve the psychic link.
Sounding confused, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is just asking if you is wanting to talk and perhaps dance with I, friend Aja."
Head canting to one side, her shadowed smile intrigued, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"... Goodness, you do have a dancer's blood in you. I would be... delighted... to be able to join you, if you wish it."
You think:
"... My other business can wait."
You are carrying:
a light brown, leather instrument case
You now follow the delicate, lofty woman.
The delicate, lofty woman releases your hand and wraps her arm around your waist, turning southward.
To you conversationally, the delicate, lofty woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is Jhalav, friend Aja. Please do not be fooled by brother of mine, who is -shyest- of all Jhalavs!"
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak glances over the delicate, lofty woman and gives a surprised laugh, your light brown, leather instrument case bouncing against her hip while she rests her free arm on her shoulder.
(Walking for the Tooth…)
Mouth quirking, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"If he is shy, dear Ilune, I fear I don't know what I would make of you."
You feel like this woman is highly dangerous.
To you cautiously, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is not wanting to ask, friend Aja. I is fearing your answer..."
(Hemote) The crisp aroma of mint lingers in the air around
the figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
The figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the west.
The delicate, lofty woman glances to you briefly, her eyes then dipping to the ground with a hint of embarrassment.
Pale eyes amused beneath the shadows of her hood, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"... I'm afraid I don't know you well enough, although by all accounts you are a sociable, bold, and engaging young woman."
Head lowering in a faint nod, the figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster ambles on past.
The figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster walks north.
Shrugging with a light swing of her arm, the delicate, lofty woman walks south.
To you cheerily, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is never called so many things, friend Aja..."
Peering over, the delicate, lofty woman looks down at you.
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak keeps a leisurely pace at the delicate, lofty woman's side, mouth quirking.
With a hint of wryness to her voice, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"Never? Hm. What have you been called then?"
The delicate, lofty woman makes a flippant wave of her hand, laughing softly.
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak echoes the delicate, lofty woman's laugh, her own quiet and wry, still.
Her voice mumbling on the side of amusement, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is called lots of things, I is just joking like city women is doing so often, friend Aja."
With a simple shake of her head, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"And you do it very well. I should ask your pardon. My... humor is at best elusive and at worst non-existent."
(Hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak studies the delicate, lofty woman with a sidelong gaze, her tone keeping a serene, conversational cadence.
Holding out a scab-covered hand, a foul-smelling dwarvish beggar exclaims, in an unfamiliar tongue:
"ksci! snhi muj gla uhylyzkab!"
Shaking her head with a friendly smile to you, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is liking you very much, friend Aja. I is not thinking humor of yours is worst."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak frowns down, fleetingly at a foul-smelling dwarvish beggar's hand.
The delicate, lofty woman tugs you along away from a foul-smelling dwarvish beggar, grimacing.
Recollecting herself and glancing back to her, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"You are too kind, my friend. Are we meeting someone, if I might ask?"
The delicate, lofty woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Is you wanting to, friend Aja?"
With a simple shake of her head, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"Not at all. It was more a question of your own desires."
You think:
"She's good."
You feel that she is very, very good.
To you slowly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is not wanting to dance with anyone but my friend Aja."
You feel that this is utterly intriguing.
With a softer voice, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"Where did you learn to dance, Ilune?"
You think:
"Because you are breathtaking to watch."
You feel a weary doubt, that even at your best, that you were never so good.
To you simply, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is learned as young Jhalav in tents of us."
With a flickering smile, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"I was dancer - many years ago, when I was much younger than I am now. It has been a delight, seeing you."
The delicate, lofty woman squeezes you affectionately, appearing flattered.
Smiling to herself, the delicate, lofty woman walks south.
(Hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak lets out a soft breath, nearly a laugh.
You think:
"Very clever girl."
The delicate, lofty woman turns as she nears the entrance, sliding her hand from around you.
The delicate, lofty woman takes hold of your hand, tugging you inside.
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Tavern [EWD Quit]
Smooth, sanded cylini planks have been laid across the floor of this cramped room, their polished surface flickering in the lights of the candles. Dark stains splatter the wooden floor at odd intervals, disrupting the otherwise smooth contour of the wood with slight warps and bends. A curved bar, formed from what appears to have once been highly polished agafari wood extends from the northern wall. Spaced around it are several bare, ascetic wooden barstools. A sturdy trapdoor has been set in the floor behind the bar. Several rows of shelves have been inset into the wall behind the bar and contain a variety of local ales and liquor. Willowy, vine-like plants drape from rounded clay bowls, the gloss of their leaves reflecting the dim light of the candles spaced around the room. Rows of booths line the northern and southern walls while the center of the room is occupied by two rounded tables.
To you over her shoulder, the delicate, lofty woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Where is you wanting to dance, friend Aja?"
With a chuckle, following her in, lead by the hand, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"Wherever there's room, in a place like the Tooth."
l e
To the east is "The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den.
[Near]
The stumpy, gnarled dwarf is sitting on a plush, embroidered couch.
The short, barrel-chested dwarf stands here, scowling faintly.
The chubby, brown-haired man is sitting on a plush, embroidered couch.
The slender, raven-haired woman is sitting on a plush, embroidered couch.
The delicate, lofty woman smirks, glancing around the tavern.
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak shakes her head, her hood falling away from her face.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
To you, reaching up to your hood, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wanting to see this pretty hair of yours, friend Aja."
Hair falling across her face as she casts the delicate, lofty woman an arch look, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"Ask and you shall receive."
To you, tugging your along through a string of tables to a quiet end of the tavern, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is always asking, in case of this, friend Aja."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman trots along after the delicate, lofty woman, squeezing through a crowd of drinking patrons.
The delicate, lofty woman stops where there is a good few paces of room, turning around.
Sliding it across an empty one with a pointed look to a nearby dwarf, you put your light brown, leather instrument case onto a compact agafari table.
To you with a soothing motion of her hand, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is thinking your lute is fine, friend Aja. No one is knowing how to play one here."
Tugging at the clasp with a gloved hand, you stop using your hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
With a soft breath, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"They'll leave it be, I think."
Draping it across it, you put your hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak onto a compact agafari table.
The delicate, lofty woman smiles encouragingly, both hands on her hips as she awaits you.
With an intrigued study of her before she steps closer, brushing at a strand of hair along the side of her face, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"... Well, friend? Do your worst."
With a determined glint in her green eyes, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is always doing worst of mine."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman chuckles, softly, reaching for one of the delicate, lofty woman's hands.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Thief! Thief!"
The coy-looking, young elf raises the hood of a deep-hooded, brown robe.
(Hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances, fleetingly, into the next room.
The delicate, lofty woman places her hands on your shoulders, smiling in a reassuring way to you.
Her brow peaking, the delicate, lofty woman looks down at you.
You notice the delicate, lofty woman start watching you.
Sliding gloved hands to rest against her waist, shoulders rolling, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"... You seem to favor slower dances..."
(Hemote) The crisp aroma of mint lingers in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
To you quietly, nodding faintly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"You is knowing I well, friend Aja."
Leaning into the delicate, lofty woman, the ethereal, fair-haired woman steps closer, slipping an arm further around her waist and easing into her rhythm.
The delicate, lofty woman lifts a hand to rest on your neck, her other not moving from the shoulder.
You feel acutely aware of everything.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes narrow, attentive in their wry, helpless amusement.
The delicate, lofty woman twists her hips backward, tugging you along as she makes small steps away.
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's bright green eyes remain on you, collecting her form curiously as she moves.
Arms tensing about the delicate, lofty woman's waist, the ethereal, fair-haired woman follows her, sidestepping and grazing past an admiring, taller man.
The brutish, red-eyed half-giant has entered the world.
The delicate, lofty woman guides you to turn to the side, taking a step nearly past you.
Taking in a slow, relaxed breath, the ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes her knee against the delicate, lofty woman's leg, your flowing white linen skirt brushing against her.
One of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands slips away from the delicate, lofty woman's waist, letting her turn and shift.
You think:
"... If only Brethel-da could see this..."
The delicate, lofty woman's hands trail along your neck, resting to cup under your chin as she shimmies to side-step to each side. Her hips flair out from underneath her long purple linen skirt, and she stretches her leg past you to press her body back to you.
The delicate, lofty woman bumps against you, offering a polite smile all of a sudden.
Quietly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"You is best I has danced with in this city of yours, friend Aja."
With an answering smile, a slight, teasing wrinkle of her nose, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets a hand glide up the delicate, lofty woman's leg and hip, settling there as she lets the other hug to her back.
With a grave tone and glittering eyes, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"I dare say you say that to whomever you are with... and thank you."
The delicate, lofty woman throws her head back and laughs loudly.
Shaking her head faintly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is not doing that, friend Aja...."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's slender body shakes with supressed laughter, giving the delicate, lofty woman a fond squeeze, almost a hug.
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's hands squeeze you in return.
With a quiet click of her tongue as she turns her, giving a slight twist, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"... My apologies then."
The delicate, lofty woman releases you, folding her hands behind her back as she takes one step back.
The delicate, lofty woman's brow lifts to you expectantly, a coy smile on her lips.
Brow arching, the ethereal, fair-haired woman looks the delicate, lofty woman over from toe to head, taking her time in her quiet inspection, posture still slightly tensed, a dancer's tension.
The delicate, lofty woman lifts her chin slightly to you, as though beckoning.
Ever so slowly, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts a single gloved hand to the delicate, lofty woman almost but not quite touching her upper arm.
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's body twists slightly to touch the gloved hand.
His curious, red-eyed gaze assessively scanning the area, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant grins broadly as settles back a bit to watch a graceful dance.
With an easy flick of her wrist, the ethereal, fair-haired woman stretches further and pushes against the delicate, lofty woman's arm, encouraging her to spin around.
The delicate, lofty woman giggles as she spins on her heel, stopping with her back facing you.
The delicate, lofty woman wiggles her bottom from side to side, her hands still behind her back.
With an easy, smooth stride, the ethereal, fair-haired woman closes the distance to the delicate, lofty woman in the same moment, an arm slipping about her waist.
Laughter warming her own tone, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"... Did I get that right?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman reaches for one of the delicate, lofty woman's hands, lifting it, placing it at the back of her own neck.
The delicate, lofty woman wraps her arms around your waist in turn, craning her neck back to lean her cheek against your own.
The general ruckus in the tavern escalates slightly as a hooded figure rushes up the eastern ramp and into the room from the spice den, holding a sack of coins aloft and bellowing jubilantly.
Smiling happily, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yes."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hair, too-long, brushes at the delicate, lofty woman's neck and shoulder.
The delicate, lofty woman's body shudders slightly at the touch, as though tickled.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes quickly scan over the room, studying the faces of the nearest and most entranced patrons.
Behind the delicate, lofty woman, the ethereal, fair-haired woman curves and writhes, drawing her along with her to a silent, sinewous dance.
The delicate, lofty woman's hips shake slowly from side to side, rubbing against you as her feet pad in place.
You think:
"Breathe..."
The delicate, lofty woman's hand trails through your hair as she lets out a soft, content sigh.
Transfixed by the dance, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant stands as still as stone, his gaze settling on the delicate, lofty woman and you for a long moment.
With something like contentment teasing at the corner of her mouth, the ethereal, fair-haired woman begins to move backwards, guiding the delicate, lofty woman with cautious tenderness, at first.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the delicate, lofty woman's waist an assuring squeeze.
You think:
"I've got you."
You think:
"Feel me, little one. Listen..."
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's hand tugs slightly on your hair as she is squeezed.
Her smile warming, steadying, the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes drift half-closed as she moves faster, her breathing escalating as she gives a sudden twirl, using her body and hands to guide the delicate, lofty woman.
(hemote) Sweat glistens at the ethereal, fair-haired woman's collarbone.
You think:
"... Perfect..."
The delicate, lofty woman twirls lightly on her toes, her hand trailing along you as she does. She slides to a stop, her pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots tapping on the ground.
The delicate, lofty woman takes a decisive step toward you, placing a hand at your lower back and one at your shoulder.
The hand at her waist lifts, the ethereal, fair-haired woman letting it rest against the side of the delicate, lofty woman face while she stills, but for the slightest of rockings from side to side.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the delicate, lofty woman's face a fond brush, gloved hand soft, while her other arm hangs at her side, motionless.
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman tilts her head to rub against your hand with a pleased smile as she drifts from side to side.
She reaches down and snatches up the unused hand, placing it on the delicate, lofty woman's neck.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lets the hand slide down to the side of the delicate, lofty woman's neck, joining the other, cupping her neck as she leans into her, swaying with her silent dance.
The delicate, lofty woman takes three quick steps to one side, half-twisting back into place after causing no more than a lean in the dance.
The chubby, brown-haired man has arrived from the east.
The slender, raven-haired woman has arrived from the east.
The short, barrel-chested dwarf has arrived from the east.
The stumpy, gnarled dwarf grunts, squinting as he looks around.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands are feather light against the delicate, lofty woman's skin.
The stumpy, gnarled dwarf walks west.
With a glance around the tavern, the slender, raven-haired
woman says, in sirihish:
"Crowd picked up."
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's skin is shined with
sweat.
With a bright smile, the slender, raven-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Aja! Hello. "
The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a sharp, approving smile, her body following the movement of the delicate, lofty woman's own, as they dance a silent, sensuous dance in a quieter corner of the room.
The brutish, red-eyed half-giant stoops a bit as he nods toward the chubby, brown-haired man, grinning.
The chubby, brown-haired man nods to the slender, raven-haired woman, looking about.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman starts, stiffening.
The slender, raven-haired woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh, looks like we were missing dancing."
Smiling, the chubby, brown-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Must be because I'm here, hmm?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns her head, picking out the slender, raven-haired woman and narrowing her pale eyes with amused greeting, body not easing away from the delicate, lofty woman's own.
The delicate, lofty woman squints out past the gawking patrons immediately around them in the corner of the tavern to the slender, raven-haired woman.
The delicate, lofty woman glances back to you, shrugging slightly.
The delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is not caring if all these ones are watching, friend Aja."
The slender, raven-haired woman grins and waves to the delicate, lofty woman as she watches.
Looking towards the corner, the chubby, brown-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Hmm? Yes, you'd think I'd be told, hmm?"
With a tone of grave apology, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"My pardon, little one. I am so very out of practice... I shouldn't have let them distract me."
The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles.
Curiously, the chubby, brown-haired man looks up at the brutish, red-eyed half-giant.
Shaking her head faintly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is needing no apology, friend Aja. I is having best time of life of mine."
Smiling as he nods, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:
"Hello."
The slender, raven-haired woman says to the chubby, brown-
haired man, in sirihish:
"I fear we interrupted with our entrance."
The delicate, lofty woman gives you an affectionate peck on the cheek, nodding reassuringly to you.
Winking, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the slender, raven-haired woman, in sirihish:
"We'd better go then."
Head tilting up, the slender, raven-haired woman looks up at the brutish, red-eyed half-giant.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a smile, nose grazing the delicate, lofty woman's hair while she chuckles and steps into an easy spin with her.
The brutish, red-eyed half-giant says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Hello Agent. I'm Morjadin."
The delicate, lofty woman's hands move over your body for a moment before finding their place at each hip.
With a teasing volume to her voice, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"I suppose they don't like the dance..."
To you, half-snorting, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is liking it, friend Aja."
The chubby, brown-haired man looks up at the delicate, lofty woman.
The chubby, brown-haired man looks at you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman slows the spin as easily, laughter fond and returning her hands to the sides of the delicate, lofty woman's neck.
The chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Hmm...to many clothes."
The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles, looking back to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman rolls her eyes skyward for a moment.
The chubby, brown-haired man says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:
"Ahh, good to see you."
The slender, raven-haired woman says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:
"Hey there Jadin! I haven't seen you since that day outside the Bazaar when I talked to you about the Fist. I was glad to hear you joined. "
(hemote) Sweat glistening at her skin, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gives her shoulder a subtle lift.
The slender, raven-haired woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:
"Be good. I still have fruit to pelt you with."
The loose shoulder to the ethereal, fair-haired woman's blouse slides down her neck, balancing precariously against her upper arm.
With a wide grin, his red eyes lighting up a bit, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Thanks! I like bein' seen too."
After a laugh, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the slender, raven-haired woman, in sirihish:
"You know I can't be good."
The delicate, lofty woman rests her head against yours, murmuring softly.
His eyes settling on the slender, raven-haired woman for a long moment, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant asks the slender, raven-haired woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Oh, you the nice one that sent me to Sergeant Nora?"
Chuckling, the slender, raven-haired woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:
"I know. That's why I carry so much fruit."
The chubby, brown-haired man nudges the slender, raven-haired woman.
The delicate, lofty woman's hands glide up and down you as the two step back and forth, taking turns advancing in their twisting motion.
Nodding, the slender, raven-haired woman says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:
"That was me, although the Agent may disagree on the nice bit."
Softly, her dance a slow roll, an unhurried, patient movement against her, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"Shh..."
In amusement, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the slender, raven-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Oh you're nice."
(hemote) The air in the tavern already heated, humid, the
ethereal, fair-haired woman's body is quite warm against the delicate, lofty woman's own.
Raising a brow, the slender, raven-haired woman asks the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:
"I am?"
The chubby, brown-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Well, let’s get going, hmm?"
The slender, raven-haired woman nods.
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's chest is rising and falling irregularly, her breathing a quiet pant.
His eyes peering up as he rubs at his brow, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Oh. Well, thanks anyway, even if you are not nice. Sergeant Nora was good to me."
Smiling, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the slender, raven-haired woman, in sirihish:
"You always have fruit for me, so yes. Nice."
Smiling and waving to you and the delicate, lofty woman, the slender, raven-haired woman says, in sirihish:
"Have fun dancing."
The delicate, lofty woman's ruffled blue silk blouse flutters from side to side.
With a smile as she drags a hand down the delicate, lofty woman's arm, you look at the slender, raven-haired woman.
With a grin, the slender, raven-haired woman says to the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:
"I'm glad she was and you joined us."
Towards the pair dancing, the chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Less clothes means better tips."
You feel enraptured.
The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, softly, sliding her hand around the delicate, lofty woman waist, again, letting it settle against the silk.
The delicate, lofty woman glances down to her tattooed arm.
Nodding, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the brutish, red-eyed half-giant, in sirihish:
"See you about, hmm?"
You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"*sensuous contentment shimmering across her thoughts* You are impossible, Brethel-da Kurac."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The chubby, brown-haired man moves towards the street, hand in hand with the slender, raven-haired woman.
With a polite nod, his eyes closing in his direction, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Alright then. Thanks."
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's glittering tattoos glisten with her coat of sweat. She drips from her chin.
Pale eyes refocusing on her face, softening, the ethereal, fair-haired woman cups the delicate, lofty woman's chin between a few gloved fingers.
Body slowing, stilling, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"You should rest, little one. You don't care for yourself..."
(hemote) A few drops of sweat roll down the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck, disappearing beneath your loose-cut white linen blouse.
Stopping, her eyes wandering over you without her chin moving, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is fine, friend Aja."
The stout, crook-nosed man has arrived from the west.
Soothingly, giving a protective squeeze of her other arm, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"There will always be time for another dance. Let me find you a drink of water, hm?"
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's cheeks begin to glow in a blush.
Dancing to a sensuous and silent melody, the ethereal, fair-haired woman holds close to the delicate, lofty woman, one hand cupping her chin.
The stout, crook-nosed man sits at a curved, agafari bar.
The robust, head-shaven man trades a red-striped granite tankard to the stout, crook-nosed man.
You feel like this girl is going to faint away if she isn't careful.
Following along, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wanting to kiss you, friend Aja. I is too hot to not."
The delicate, lofty woman stares at you with a serious expression, the fingers of her hand curling over your cheek.
Apology in her pale eyes, along with understanding before she lowers them, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"I... can't, Ilune..."
His brow furrowing as he suddenly straightens, the brutish, red-eyed half-giant grumbles under his breath, shaking his head slowly as he lumbers off.
Gently, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"... Forgive me..."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans, just a little, into the delicate, lofty woman's hand.
Nodding faintly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is forgiving of you, friend Aja."
Smiling faintly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Perhaps next time us is dancing, friend Aja."
With a strained laugh, nose brushing her temple, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"You don't... It is a... long story. A custom of mine."
With a soft breath that ruffles the delicate, lofty woman's hair, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"I don't take favorites..."
Laughing softly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wanting to hear story of yours, friend Aja.
Perhaps next time, when us is not dancing."
With a grave nod, pale eyes fond, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"... Next time. When you are not getting something to drink."
The stout, crook-nosed man looks around a curved, agafari bar, then to the doorway.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the delicate, lofty woman's face a fond brush, again, before pulling back her hands, slowly.
Regret plain in her eyes, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is meaning to ask of your story, friend Aja. I is curious where you has learned instruments of yours."
You think:
"I'm too old for this."
The delicate, lofty woman drops her hands from you casually.
Looking over her, clearing her voice as she lifts it, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"I might well ask you the same question. For my part, I am... Circle-born."
(hemote) No small amount of tension lingers in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's slender body, even after the dance has ended.
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's hand fidgets restlessly at her side, her eyes on you.
Sliding it free, frowning a little, you get your leather waterskin from your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.
With a tone of practiced ease, pushing the skin into her hand, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"You will take at least a drink of this. Chaska would never forgive me if I let you faint away here."
To you, her hand on her cheek, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wanting to talk more about story of yours, friend Aja. I is not having time today. I hope I is able soon."
You give your leather waterskin to the delicate, lofty woman.
The delicate, lofty woman accepts her leather waterskin with a polite smile.
Her eyes on you, the delicate, lofty woman drinks water from her leather waterskin.
With a deep nod, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"If you wish, and only if you will share yours as well. I do not think mine is as of as much interest."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's breathing slowly calms, steadying.
You notice: The delicate, lofty woman's green eyes wander over you thoughtfully.
Hair clinging to her sweat-streaked skin, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gathers the tangled strands in one hand, lifting them away from her neck.
To you, a hand on her slowly recovering chest, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is so happy to. I is looking forward to this story of us, friend Aja."
Handing it back with a warm smile, the delicate, lofty woman gives you her leather waterskin.
Watching her before mirroring the gesture, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"Until next time, Ilune? His Light watch over you. And thank you for the dance."
With a look of quiet relief, you sip from your leather waterskin.
To you as she steps close, patting your shoulder, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is liking you very much, friend Aja. I is definitely reconsidering Jhalav ways of mine so I can share with us story of us."
You think:
"Story of us. Oh, for pity's sake, Aja. What are you doing?"
The delicate, lofty woman turns to the side and steps past you, a pleased smile on her face as she drifts into the crowd.
With a hint of a smile and touching her free hand to her own, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"I'd be honored if you would... but I would not pry."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches after the delicate, lofty woman before letting out a wry chuckle.
You think:
"I'm far, far too old for this."
Over her shoulder, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is offering, friend Aja."
With a lingering smile, you put your leather waterskin into your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.
The delicate, lofty woman takes two steps backward, her eyes on you, then turns around and enters the crowd.
The delicate, lofty woman has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
(Aja Driamusek and Ilune Jul Tavan stumble across each other near the Sanctuary.)
The delicate, lofty woman smiles faintly to you, nodding to you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman frowns, struggling with her hood as she pulls it over her head.
You raise the hood of...
Continue Reading...Memoir #16 - The Faithful Lord (Elithan)
Added on Dec 29, 2009A Jihaen High Templar investigates a brutal murder.
The Road of Poets [EW]
Blue-tinged stones, each speckled with a variety of multi-hued flecks, have been cut into even and symmetrical squares before being cobbled into the path that forms this road. Numerous buildings can be seen dotting the landscape on either side of the road, workers and various artisans scurrying to and fro between the structures. To the south lies the old city wall, its scars a reminder of the city's history.
Sprawled in the middle of the road, the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute lies here.
A well-built, golden-haired man walks briskly along the street.
A scrawny onyx-haired boy stands eyeing passersby.
Slowing, the ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down at the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute, features expressionless.
Features impassive, blank, the ethereal, fair-haired woman kneels down distant from the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
You think:
"... What... the..."
You feel disgusted.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a calming breath through her nose.
You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"*with a wave of nausea* Elithan, someone... beheaded a... woman in the middle of the street..."
The tall figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the west, riding a war beetle.
A war beetle walks east, carrying the tall figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster on its back.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"Where did this occur?"
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Poets' Road. Just near the market."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
(Much uncomfortable scanning and looking ensues.)
The ethereal, fair-haired woman folds her arms across her waist, attention travelling most anywhere but on the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The browned, jallal-curled man has arrived from the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands motionless in the street, arms folded across her waist.
The browned, jallal-curled man's form grows rigid and his eyes wide as he joins the small crowd of people around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
Blinking a few times, the browned, jallal-curled man asks you, in sirihish:
"What happened?"
Jaw tensing when she touches a hand to a golden-haired boy's shoulder, you say, in sirihish:
"... Back. Go on with you."
With something like resignation, you look at the browned, jallal-curled man.
This man's face is prematurely tanned by Suk-Krath, browned lightly into the color of the desert near dawn; slightly cracked and wrinkled by the erosion of not a few sandstorm winds. His eyes are a dark, cunyati brown, their sparkle betraying his relative youth. His eyebrows are thin, dark and defined, and sit above his eyes in a dignified manner. A short, kinky brown beard falls from his chin about an inch, tied at the end with a thin, golden thread. A small cascade of loose, jalall toned curls fall from his head in a large, roughly spherical halo. Grit and sand are intermingled with hair, contributing to a desert-hardy appearance. His lips are thin and well shaped, and they curl up in one corner; perpetually giving him the appearance of a wry, knowing smile. His body is thin and wiry, and though he is not exceptionally strong, he has some decent musculature. His hands are rough and calloused, his fingers long and thin. A tattoo of a setting Jihae sits on his left shoulder.
The browned, jallal-curled man is using:
<worn on head> a loose white linen surmud
<worn around neck> a carved ivory pipe
<worn across back> a raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel
<worn around wrist> a thin obsidian cuff
<worn around wrist> a thin obsidian cuff
<worn on right finger> a turquoise-set horn ring
<worn on left finger> a dune-carved, black onyx ring
<worn around body> a hooded, coal-black sandcloth dustcloak
<worn on legs> a pair of sleek-cut, ivory silk pants
<worn on feet> a pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots
With a light shake of her head, you say to the browned, jallal-curled man, in sirihish:
"I don't know, beyond the obvious. His Legions are coming presently."
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar has arrived from the west.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier has arrived from the west.
The browned, jallal-curled man stares down at the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute, pursing his lips and shaking his head before noticing the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar and dipping him a deep nod.
The golden-haired boy looks to the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand, squirming a bit before moving away from the slowly gathering crowd around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar approaches the scene with a staunch expression, his gaze panning towards the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks at the browned, jallal-curled man.
When the crowds start to step aside for him, you look at the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
With a polite, crisp tilt of her chin, you say to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:
"I found her such, High Templar..."
You think:
"... Disgusting..."
Your mood is now revolted.
With a dip of his head, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar asks you, in sirihish:
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Seeker. How long has she been like this?"
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar turns his attention back to the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The browned, jallal-curled man steps towards the back of the small crowd, conversing in hushed tones with a few in it he seems to recognize and shrugging at their questions.
Pale eyes sweeping over the crowd, you say to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:
"There were already people here when I came. I... couldn't say, but I... it wasn't a few hours ago that I came this way last. I would have seen."
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar crouches down and looks for tracks.
Case sitting on the street at her side, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches over the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, arms wrapped across her waist.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar walks slowly around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute silently.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, not the headless body.
You feel gravity washing over you.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar shakes his head as he looks to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar gives the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier an order.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier picks up the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman flicks a glance up to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier before letting her attention watch over the crowd, which no longer tries to encroach on the scene.
Along with a few others, the browned, jallal-curled man begins to start off on his way again, heading west.
The browned, jallal-curled man walks west.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans down, picking up your creamy white, leather instrument case.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier, in sirihish:
"Come Private, let's take her out of here."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman offers the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar and the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier a respectful, grave nod in thanks, stepping back from the blood-stained stones.
With a shake of his head, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says, in sirihish:
"No one deserves to die like this."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
You think:
"Who could... stomach such an act?"
The gray-stubbled, wiry man has arrived from the west.
Looking over those assembled, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar asks, in sirihish:
"Will any witnesses come forward?"
The gray-stubbled, wiry man looks around, his eyes falling on the headless corpse.
Watching the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, features impassive and serene, the ethereal, fair-haired woman glances briefly to the few people who glance back to her and to the others around her.
The crowded street grows oddly quiet around the ethereal, fair-haired woman and the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
The gray-stubbled, wiry man walks west.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar pauses as his gaze sweeps over the quieted crowd.
To the ethereal, fair-haired woman's side, a golden-haired boy keeps just away from her skirt, peering up at the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier cradles his headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute in his arm covering her mutilated and naked form in an attempt at modesty.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, posture stiff with tension.
Flicking a glance skyward, the ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes a gloved hand back, finding the golden-haired boy's face and pushing him further behind her back.
The golden-haired boy raises a muffled complaint into the ethereal, fair-haired woman's gloved hand.
A lanky, hazel-eyed man grips the golden-haired boy's shoulder, pulling him back from the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand.
Frowning, the ethereal, fair-haired woman snaps her head back to look to the lanky, hazel-eyed man, brow creasing.
Motioning back to the woman held in the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier's arms, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says, in sirihish:
"This is the work of an animal, any information leading to its capture will be rewarded."
The golden-haired boy squirms and fights being taken back from the ethereal, fair-haired woman - before scrambling up the lanky, hazel-eyed man's thigh, finding purchase there.
With the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's words, the lanky, hazel-eyed man stops glowering at the ethereal, fair-haired woman to cast him a somber - and pensive - look.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives a curt nod to the lanky, hazel-eyed man and to the golden-haired boy, attention travelling over the serious, hushed crowd.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar draws in a slow breath as he turns sharply to walk down the road, the crowd parting to give him a pathway.The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar walks east.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier walks east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman shakes her head, letting out a quiet breath.
You think:
"I could well use a drink."
The Road of Poets [EW]
Blue-tinged stones, each speckled with a variety of multi-hued flecks, have been cut into even and symmetrical squares before being cobbled into the path that forms this road. Numerous buildings can be seen dotting the landscape on either side of the...
Continue Reading...Memoir #15 - The Tan Muarki (Zharal)
Added on Dec 29, 2009An escaped slave and the gypsy who escorted her home speculate on the best way to spend one's free time.
It is late afternoon on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.
Atop Lucky Ghaati, Overlooking Poet's Circle [D]
The adobe roof of the teahouse furnishes a surface here for several small tables and benches in a rooftop garden that overlooks the main sweep of Poet's Circle to the north. Halved wine barrels have been planted with crimson-flowering cacti. The edge of the roof is surrounded by white tiled, raised half-walls. On the street below, crowds swirl and eddy, making their way along the Circle's concourse.
At your table, you say in sirihish, in her bemused, crystal-like voice:
"And I've rarely had so pleasant a trip. I'm also pleased to see that I have at least one type of tea left for you to try before you weary of my company."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, chuckling shortly:
"Try me."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you:
"There's plenty I'm curious about, and plenty I could ask of you."
You notice: The short, dusky woman's eyes narrow in a brief wince.
At your table, you say in sirihish, mock-sobriety falling over her features:
"I've charmed you for... hm, three meetings now, but you'll soon see through my idle chattering. We've talked of mutual interests, of tea... Will there be enough to last through another serving, though?"
At your table, you say in sirihish, levity warming her tone:
" I'm uncertain... and therefore must insist to share your next with you, at your leisure, to discern the truth."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes study the short, dusky woman's features with accustomed calm and a brief flicker of curiosity.
You notice: The short, dusky woman's expression remains distantly distracted, though she glances from time to time at you.
Features serene, you sip from your small wooden cup.
This tea smells and tastes strongly of fragrant mint.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down over the Circle as she drinks from your small wooden cup, contentment settling into her posture as she rests and elbow on the back of her chair.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes kindly occupy themselves away from the short, dusky woman, untroubled.
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, re-focusing on you:
"Well, I'm a dull girl. Not much to me. So I rely on others to provide me witty banter and stories to tell."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a relaxed half-smile as she pulls her attention back to the short, dusky woman:
"Oh? Mm, then we have a problem. I'm a better listener than conversationalist, by half, I think, and witless to be sure, unless I can steal it from another."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, with a thoughtful expression:
"Then I'm forced to wonder where all these words are coming from."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a slight gesture of your small wooden cup in the short, dusky woman's direction:
"It is a mystery, to be sure. I'd blamed a gypsy's talents, but it seems she denies them."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you:
"Perhaps we've caught each other stealing wit and fencing it off?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, waggling a finger, then plucking up a wooden cup to take a measured sip:
"I knew there was something about you I hadn't quite uncovered."
At your table, you say in sirihish, the corner of her mouth lifting:
"If so, I swear not to tell your secret. What a peculiar circumstance it is, then, when two dull, spiritless sort meet for tea and cause such... amusement."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes sparkle with mirth as she drinks her tea.
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, taking in a long breath and letting it out in a sober sigh:
"A mystery. Mmm, now that's something else I enjoy."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a soft, reluctant sigh of her own:
"... I have so few secrets, and you'd seek to tear them all from me. Cruel, cruel woman."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, glancing out toward the circle:
"Cruel? I prefer 'curious'. As I've so recently stated, a mystery is irresistible to a dull girl like me. It fills my empty head with intrigue."
At your table, you say in sirihish, head canting to one side as she studies the short, dusky woman:
"Hm. And if a secret enthralls you so, it could only mean a greater presence in the Ivory if we can provide them - which means I may have to devise some, true or otherwise."
Out in the Circle, the sinewy, bald-headed man walks east.
You think:
"... The sun about shines off his head, doesn't it?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:
"I was always good at putting puzzles together. Finding the pieces that fit, watching the picture slowly take shape... an enjoyable diversion."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur as she savors her tea:
"Mm. Puzzles. I think we share a common interest there. I find with most others that they lack the... hm, patience for such a pursuit. Does it trouble you?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, her attention lingering, still, on the busy circle:
"Sometimes I lose patience, or find that the picture isn't to my liking."
(hemote) Brief and, oh, so sardonic amusement flits across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes as she speaks, gaze distant a moment.
At your table, you say in sirihish, crystalline voice serene as she takes up studying the Circle as well:
"That happens to the best of us. We can't be faulted for the picture's deficiencies. What do you find makes for the most entertaining puzzle?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, pensively:
"I've always enjoyed portraits. What about you?"
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a thoughtful frown:
"As have I, to be honest, though broader landscapes have their appeal, too."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, wavering a hand side to side:
"Those are usually the most complicated and frustrating. I often find that many pieces have gone missing."
At your table, you say in sirihish, gaze falling to the short, dusky woman's hand:
"I enjoy the game of finding the missing ones, I think. It becomes a puzzle within a puzzle."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:
"That said; the harder the challenge, the sweeter the taste of success."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with an approving smile as she dips her cup in the short, dusky woman's direction:
"Precisely."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman sips from your small wooden cup.
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, at length, staring off at the horizon:
"Sometimes a simple, dull-witted girl tires of puzzles."
Glancing into it before laying it to the side, you discard your small wooden cup.
You think:
"But where is one of those here?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you, during a pause between two gulps from her teacup:
"Too much of a good thing."
The short, dusky woman drinks fruit tea from her small wooden cup.
At your table, you say in sirihish, in her soft, crystal-like voice:
"As a fellow simple, dull-witted girl, I can agree. I've missed them, though, when I haven't... had access to them."
At your table, you say in sirihish, lifting an assuring hand:
"That said, I often find that I have too many puzzles to sort through, or too few. A... pleasant balance would be more desirable."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, with a brief, leisurely grin:
"There's the trick of it, isn't it? I admire those who have a neatly organized puzzle collection. I suspect it's a rare circumstance."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with an equally relaxed smile:
"Impostors, all of them. I can't see it as possible."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, a lazy jadedness in her voice:
"Sometimes, I get the urge to just throw them all away and find some other past-time, like.. oh, needle-work."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes flash with cautious irony as she looks at the short, dusky woman.
At your table, you say in sirihish, mouth quirking:
"Mm, an honored pasttime. I've never had the skill for it. My sister was better gifted."
You notice: Weary cynicism mixes with amusement while the short, dusky woman regards you.
The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.
(hemtoe) The ethereal, fair-haired woman meets the short, dusky woman's eyes with a slight nod before looking over to the sunset.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the sunset, her smile easing with quiet contentment.
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, agreeably, relaxed in her chair while she takes in the fading sky:
"It takes dedication and a deft hand."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, sitting up, straighter:
"On that note, we've seen a sunrise, and we've seen a sunset. Nearly full-circle, and I'd better see my bedroll between now and the complete turn."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a quiet smile as she looks back to the short, dusky woman:
"You took the words from my mouth, as sad as they are to me."
To you, tilting her chin up, the short, dusky woman asks, in sirihish:
"We wouldn't want the quality of our company to suffer. 'Til next?"
With a respectful nod to her, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"Until next. I'll pass on your gifts and send you word of them, if we don't meet before then."
Unhurriedly, the short, dusky woman stands up from a small wooden table.
Flashing a smile as she walks for the stairs, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"His Light guard you, gypsy."
Following, the short, dusky woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Good fortunes to you and yours."
It is late afternoon on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.
Atop Lucky Ghaati, Overlooking Poet's Circle [D]
The adobe roof of the teahouse furnishes a surface here for several small tables...
Continue Reading...Memoir #14 - The Tuluki Soldier (Sid)
Added on Dec 29, 2009While in a lesson, a blunt tool of the northern Legions teaches a too self-assured Circle bard a lesson in humility.
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Tavern [EWD Quit]
Smooth, sanded cylini planks have been laid across the floor of this
cramped room, their polished surface flickering in the lights of the candles. Dark stains splatter the wooden floor at odd intervals, disrupting the otherwise smooth contour of the wood with slight warps and bends. A curved bar, formed from what appears to have once been highly polished agafari wood extends from the northern wall. Spaced around it are several bare, ascetic wooden barstools. A sturdy trapdoor has been set in the floor behind the bar. Several rows of shelves have been inset into the wall behind the bar and contain a variety of local ales and liquor. Willowy, vine-like plants drape from rounded clay bowls, the gloss of their leaves reflecting the dim light of the candles spaced around the room. Rows of booths line the northern and southern walls while the center of the room is occupied by two rounded tables.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman dips a nod to the robust, head-shaven man after finding a path to the bar.
The figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard has arrived from the west.
The figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard tugs back her hood.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans back against the bar - and then catches sight of the figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard with narrowed eyes and a smile.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman lowers the hood of a long, hooded red and white tabard.
Pushing in her direction, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"Sid, good to see you well."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman beats dust from her tabard as she walks.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pauses at the spangled-blond, muscular woman's side, touching a hand to her elbow.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"And you."
Tilting her head in the direction of the other room, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"Perhaps you'd care for a quieter booth? I'll confess to my own foolishness, as I left home without a ‘sid to my name."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman dips her head to you before peering around her, eyes the rougher looking patrons suspiciously.
(hemote) The crisp aroma of mint lingers in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Lemme see if I'm fixed any better"
The spangled-blond, muscular woman gets her pile of coins from her sunburst-buckled, hardened leather sword belt.
With a rueful twist to her smile, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"I'll owe you, hm? It's a terrible oversight, I know."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks, in sirihish:
"We can't even afford an ale. How bout we sit and talk, dry?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives a soft, incredulous laugh as she bows her head in the spangled-blond, muscular woman's direction.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Unless you think you can charm him into giving us one for eight sid? You've got a more winning way than me."
the robust, head-shaven man has the following goods to trade:
09) a rough clay mug of ale for 10 obsidian coins.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman tilts her head toward the bar, indicating the robust, head-shaven man.
Glancing over to the robust, head-shaven man, jaw working to one side, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"Hm... I wonder if I could. It seems we travel to match - I'm carrying eight on me, too."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts up a finger to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, pale eyes narrowed with mirth as she pushes back toward a curved, agafari bar.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes herself up on a curved, agafari bar, leaning forward to share hushed words with the robust, head-shaven man.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman crosses her arms, relaxing into a slump.
The robust, head-shaven man angrily insists on keeping the price the same for a rough clay mug.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes a few coins in one hand as she offers the robust, head-shaven man a rueful, wry smile.
Amused, you whisper to the robust, head-shaven man in sirihish:
"Next time, next time. I'll not forget this, friend."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman slings your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel over her shoulder again as she rejoins the spangled-blond, muscular woman with a helpless shrug.
You notice: Standing in a lazy slouch, the spangled-blond, muscular woman seems amused, the slight twitch of a smile giving her away.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"You can pretend you're a soldier. Eat some rations. Drink some water been in the skin long enough to get that taste."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman falls in behind you.
Mirth to her tone, still, you whisper to the spangled-blond, muscular woman in sirihish:
"To think he couldn't do a bard a favor. I'll find a way to get even with him, I promise."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks you, in sirihish:
"Where'd you want to sit?"
As she finds a 'clear' path toward the next room, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"... Oh? I doubt even rations and water could make me a soldier. Remind me to tell you of southern foods, by the by, sometime. It makes rations seem a feast."
A Secluded Alcove [S]
Separated from the main room by a curtain of beaded fringe, this booth
provides a small measure of privacy. The haze of sweet spice smoke mixed
with the exotic seasonings of the food combine in an aroma that is almost
intoxicating by itself. Benches made of thickly stuffed, dun-colored tandu leather line each side of this booth and a sturdy table made of thick cylini planks stands between them. The walls behind the benches are covered with a worn sandcloth tapestry depicting a raging sandstorm on one side and a wagon caravan on the other. Hanging from the wall in between is the bleached skull of some large grasslands creature.
With a glance over her shoulder, shrill voice pitched to carry, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"That's fine. When you're flush he won't be the one you tip."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, gesturing to one bench for the spangled-blond, muscular woman as she reaches for the curtain.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman seems unable to completely repress a grin, as she slides her bulk onto a bench.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, a knowing smile dancing at the corner of her mouth:
"You already seem an expert on politics, Sid. What by all that is good do you need me for?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Seriously, don't tip the fucker. Why? Cause I'm always curious about shit there ain't no one to ask."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Ain't like I can question the chosen or the Faithful, and no one explains nothing to me, cause it ain't gonna help me catch thieves or break up fights."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath, very nearly a laugh:
"Point very truly taken. I'll do what I can then, to be that... resource for you - and if I can't answer the question, I can assuredly attempt to do so through my own means."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing to the ceiling for a moment, smiling still:
"As for the tipping, I don't intend on it, until it becomes more pertinent to do so. As it is, I could likely get us six drinks from a penitent Kuraci, no? "
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Likely so. In the end, might have been a favor he done you, poor fuck."
(hemote) No small amount of ironic amusement lingers in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet nod to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"Is there something on your mind, then, in particular? Politics is a... vast topic, if interesting one."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Lots of things. Lots of questions. Like, what's the tax on the grasslands about?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a mild lift of her brow:
"A very, very good question. It's a question I'm... researching, although I haven't learned the answer yet. My understanding is overhunting."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I know Uaptal, put it out, and it's aimed at the merchant houses, just the four big ones or all of them? They all piss off Uaptal or just a couple? And how do the other chosen feel bout it?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight lift of one hand:
"Fewer animals bring more dangerous ones closer to the city and so on."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Oh. Well, that seems more practical than political."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pauses glancing from the spangled-blond, muscular woman to one gloved hand before she cracks a smile.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, in a softer tone, her nod careful:
"It does seem that, but as with many things... political, they often have more than one motive."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, if tomorrow you decided that you just had to chase down a tregil, you have to hand over a leg?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, her tone assuring, unconcerned:
"I'm not certain the full terms of it, but yes, it seems that in most cases there will be taxes paid for it - to House Uaptal, as you said."
You think:
"... Just be careful, little Aja."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"When a hunter asks me if they got to pay a tax, what do I tell them? Go find Chosen Lady Shara?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, taking a breath than sighing:
"Sorry, I ain't hardly giving you time to answer. I hope I ain't gonna leave you feeling interrogated."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile, still:
"That would be my advice. I would also inquire of His Faithful if you are responsible for enforcing the taxes of the Chosen Governors."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman nods a few times.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone assuring, again, as she lifts a mild hand:
"Please, it is good practice for me, I promise you that. My Masters are even quicker tongued than you, friend."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her slender shoulders:
"As a point of fact, I'd be curious as to their answer on that, as well. Given how many questions are arising about this tax, it might help... spread word more effectively."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I asked you for your -opinion- of what the tax is about, could you give me a less polite answer with a bit more meat to it? Or would that just make you uncomfortable, and get me more of the same?"
Pale eyes trailing over her as she offers her a languid smile, you look at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
White and silver threads, interspersed through the shades of gold and
yellow, create the illusion of sparkle in a blunt, shoulder-length,
perfectly straight growth of thick hair. Her brows and lashes are just
plain white. The darkness of her nut brown skin is marred by lighter
scarred flesh. An odd shade of greenish blue, her eyes look like a marriage of jade and moonstone trapped in slanted almond crescents. This woman's face is completed by a low bridged nose, and narrow mouth. The hollow of her neck is deep, while the muscles stand out, like a foreshadowing of the bulging sinewy brawn that covers long limbs. The softness of her breasts and hips in no way detract from air of strength that emanates from this woman.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a softer tone as she adjusts the clasp to your hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak:
"I can, if you like, though I would not have my supposition taken - or spread throughout the city - for fact. If that is not unacceptable, then I can give my... conjecture."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks back, levelly, expression disclosing nothing but curiosity.
(hemote) he ethereal, fair-haired woman studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman, pale eyes pensive.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, lips moving finally into a slow smile:
"I keep my mouth shut."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I ain't quite as foolish as the bartender. I can think ahead to next time I want a question answered."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, returning the spangled-blond, muscular woman's smile:
"And I am a servant to His Faithful and an instructor to His Legions. My largest question about the tax is what will be done with the coin it collects."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman's eyebrows slowly climb as the seconds beat off in the aftermath of your statement.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, her voice taking on a tutorial, patient cadence:
"While taxes can be prohibitive, I find it unlikely that the value of additional coin has gone unnoticed."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Yeh, well, there's an interesting question I'd have never thought of."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing to the curtain which blocks sight of the noisier room beyond:
"I know House Uaptal and House Lyksae enjoy a rivalry between those Houses, and I know House Lyksae has shown prominence of late in service with the Alliance."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile relaxed:
"To what ends House Uaptal will use it, I don't know. Perhaps simply to have the ability to do so."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman glances too at the table and turns back to you head moving in a slow nod.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a tilt of her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"But if I were to start... looking further into this, I would question current development projects sponsored by House Uaptal as well as the rivalry with House Lyksae."
You think:
"But why not Dasari? Why, why..."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, listen..."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a pause, glancing back to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"... Always. Go on."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Sometimes, if I wanted to know what someone's up to, maybe I don't ask them nothing."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Maybe I let them ask me, and what they're asking, it shows something you know?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, a smile warming her tone:
"Yes, I know. You do this often, Sid?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But sometimes it don't. And I got a lot of time to think, sometimes I'm patrolling the old quarter, and I'm just thinking."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs beneath your flowing white linen skirt, pale eyes watching the spangled-blond, muscular woman with quiet interest.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, you think, Who pissed of Uaptal and from there, next thing you know, you're wondering if it means the Kadian's are going to be cutting back on blue. Or..."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, I thought I'd ask stuff, and then I thought if I ask, maybe it sounds like I know shit I don't."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Or I'm implying shit I ain't."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And what would be made of that?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, giving a soft breath as she tilts her head from one side to the other:
"Valid concerns, particularly in your position, where justness is so important."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, trailing off and then shaking her head:
"I ain't overburdened with no one asking me to do much more than make sure there ain't no one robbing the stores or getting drunk and throwing up on the Chosen's shoes."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a longer pause as she touches a hand to her chest to still the glass bells chiming there:
"... And that does leave a great amount of time to think, doesn't it?"
contact shara
You contact the svelte, top-knotted woman with the Way.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, no, I don't question too many people. But before I was a Legionnaire, I been on my own, and you learn to take what advantages you can, when you got to."
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"My pardon for intruding on your mind, Chosen Lady. I've been receiving numerous questions regarding the recent tax on the grasslands, and I'm not certain how to answer them or who to direct them to."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Yeh, so I guess I'm just curious about what ifs."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"If you or House Uaptal have a preference, I would be more than happy to direct people in the appropriate ways."
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Good Morning Aja? Tax on the grasslands? Who has been asking about this particularly?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile still as she studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"Hm. Well. I suppose it sounds as though you wish you had more answers and less... intangible things to think on. I can suggest strategies, of course, though none will be... perfect."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Like if them two houses ain't getting on, does it mean they smile or snub? Did it all break out before or after the ball to honor the new Chosen Lord and Consort? And if it happened after would Chosen Lord Thrend still have gone?"
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"Hunters in the Sanctuary, Chosen Lady, among others."
You think:
"... And we are all curious, I know."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, leaning toward you, expression intent:
"Could you? And I wouldn't get in trouble with em?"
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Well, hmm, the only entity I have spoken with about a hunting -license- is House Kadius thus far."
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"And Kelsin - actually, so I'm not entirely sure where all of this is springing up, but while a future license is being discussed to prevent over hunting.... nothing has been finalized yet."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious smile:
"I could, of course - though if I might ask, when you said would Chosen Lord Thrend still have gone... Has he gone?"
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"Intriguing. I fear I am as at a loss as you, Chosen Lady. Thank you for the clarification, and I apologize then for troubling you over such a minor matter."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow creases, ever so slightly.
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh no, thank you for enlightening me Aja - you're very helpful as always. I'm still hoping you can give a group etiquette lesson soon. I shall meet you for payment soon as well."
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"What was our total again?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"Meant Chosen Governer Shara gave the ball, and Chosen Governor Thrend attended."
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"We're just a small, Chosen Lady, and I'll look forward to working more closely with your House in the future."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Did he attend even though they ain't getting on? Or were they in a better cheer with each other at the time?"
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Wonderful! High Templar Elithan wise as usual, was quiet keen to snatch you up so quickly as a partisan Aja."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight nod:
"Yes, of course. My pardon for that - and I don't know when the rivalry began to truly intensify. I've only noticed it recently in discussions with His Chosen."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And what's it mean to be a governor?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, sighing:
"See? One question gives rise to the next, and there ain't no end to it."
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"Thank you for your kind words, Chosen Lady. I hope I might always work to deserve them."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And this is just in the time we're sitting here."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile:
"... I enjoy it, although not everyone does. It's a bit of a puzzle, trying to put all of the pieces, all of the questions in place."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But, see, you're a bard. You're supposed to be curious."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'm meant to shut up, and do what I'm told, quick and quiet. I ain't supposed to think too much."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, laughter in her tone:
"... Am I, now? You speak of us like you would that tregil you were going to hunt down in the grasslands. It does happen, though, that I enjoy puzzles."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a softer, fonder tone:
"And no, His Faithful would never want you mindless, thoughtless, Sid. That's how the southerners work."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, another grin coming reluctantly at first:
"I ain't thought of it that way. I meant no offense, you know."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, wryly:
"And you can see what good it's brought them. His Faithful want you to think, Sid, they want you to know and to be able to help. And you're very smart, which would make it a shame to waste a gift."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman offers the spangled-blond, muscular woman a smile and shake of her head.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman with pale, thoughtful eyes, most of her easy levity never reaching them.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'm flattered you think so, I don't think it's an opinion much shared. It might be it renders you unique."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile quirking:
"May I always be unique, and perhaps I am a bit overindulgent where my students are concerned, but I enjoy a person who asks good questions. Who ask questions at all, truly, as too many never do."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman grunts softly with another quick nod.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And then I wondered too, bout the merchants, who're on the receiving end, of the tax."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I wondered what it means to have the power of trade, and how much liberty it gives em."
(hemote) The sleeve to your loose-cut white linen blouse slips down the ethereal, fair-haired woman's shoulder.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"What if... say Kurac did something that wasn't against the law, not that I think they did or anything like that, but say they did."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And it was something that wasn't exactly illegal, but unpopular, what would happen?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"What if... say Kurac did something that wasn't against the law, not that I think they did or anything like that, but say they did."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And it was something that wasn't exactly illegal, but unpopular, what would happen?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, linking her gloved hands in front of her face as she nods:
"I suppose it would depend on how it impacted the rest of the city. No longer supplying theodeliv would be unpopular in the extreme... but not punishable."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smiling behind clasped hands as she touches them to her lips:
"Though, perhaps then House Tenneshi would stop having them cater parties... and so on, and so on."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Let's say one of the chosen had a pet ratlon that got lost. And they were out on the road near the post and decided to spit it and roast?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her shoulders:
"If it was Kuraci outriders, I would say that they may get slapped on the wrist, at worst, but only if an Agent is brought in and the Chosen's House decided to leverage this against them for relative gains."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Let's say it was Brethel. He's got an appetite. I bet he could eat the better part of a ratlon, no matter how tough it might be."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman grins.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a sudden, genuine smile:
"... Your point is noted. Assuming it to be an Agent of Kurac and assuming they knew and ignored that it was a pet of His Chosen and assuming His Chosen learned of it accurately - all significant assumptions, by..."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed, thoughtful:
"By the by. I would imagine that he would claim it an accident or that the animal was lame or that it was done for desperate need. And likely repay the loss in ale and Kuraci spice."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, brow creasing:
"Would the Chosen House actively seek reimbursement? I doubt House Kurac would give them time to."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Let's say for the sake of argument that all the things you said as ifs were so, except that last. Let's say it was clear that it was done with some malice."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And would it matter which Chosen's pet it was?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of reproach to her smile:
"Sid, for what reason would an Agent of Kurac maliciously harm a pet of a Chosen House? If that be the case, then yes, the actions would be more severe, on His Chosen's part and on House Kurac's."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tapping a thumb to the table as she nods to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"And yes, it would. Very much so.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, they wouldn't."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Here, this question, I ain't asking you what I really want to know."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I ain't asking cause ..."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"What I want to know's been all settled.... and what I wondered about wasn't so, when I was thinking about it."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, sighing:
"That make sense to you?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur:
"... I think so. Are you worried about wanting to know the possibilities for outcomes as well as the truth of them? In case it ever arises again?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Got nothing to do with Kurac or ratlons. Just something went missing and before we knew where it went I wondered if we might piece it together."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And if it had turned up, in a place that seemed possible, how much trouble would it have caused."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But it didn't. It's all just wondering."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, fondness creeping into her tone:
"You are part poet and part tactician, Sid, I swear it. If -I- might ask a question, why? Why do you ask the questions? To prepare yourself? For simply the sake of... imagination?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Cause when it happened I wondered. And there was no one to ask. And then it turned out not to be the case, so there was no way to ever know the answer."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And it plagues me like an itch I can't reach."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tapping her four-fingered hand against the table, mouth quirking:
"I understand that well enough. In the future if these... suppositions occur, I'd be more than glad to listen, even if I can't offer anything but an open mind to you."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'd appreciate that."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, eyes narrowing:
"You know what I'm talking about?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:
"... And by all that's good, yes. We have... similarities. I like to listen to people, and I like to ask them questions, to learn. And, in the process, they tell me things - for better or worse."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, wryly, touching a hand to the back of her neck:
"And it becomes an itch, wanting to know the entire story, because there is always... a bigger piece."
It is late at night on Terrin, the 90th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age.
You think:
"Eight years. Eight -years-, Aja."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Right."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"It ain't cause I have any business knowing."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Or cause knowing would do me any good."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"It's just that not knowing is so fucking uncomfortable."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Like the whole story with the taxes? What is that?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, working her jaw to one side as she lowers her hand:
"Sid, I can only say again that I know exactly what you mean. You are a soldier. Unknowns do not... suit you."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a pause, before she laughs, soft and low:
"I thought we might circle back that way. I had a brief chat with the Chosen Lady while we were speaking."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, inclining her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"While I don't know if I can add further enlightenment, the Chosen Lady Shara was most surprised that I was inquiring about the tax on the grasslands."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman laughs, the sound a soft warbling screech, that dies away quickly.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But, why?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur, assuring:
"I did not mention you, Sid. Thankfully, there was a second person asking me of it, a hunter that I'd never known."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I mean, if you start taxing people, it ain't like a secret. It's a tax. It's levied."
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"As to her surprise, she said that the only people she'd mentioned this to were House Kadius and Kelsin, the partisan to Faithful Lord Vraj."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, they ain't the only ones who know."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Some big old hunter was asking me."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Up from Nak, she was, I think."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath, nearly a laugh:
"Yes, I know, and I'm surprised that the Chosen Lady did not know that, which makes me think that she does not wish me to publicize this."
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"This tax, that is."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, once Naki hunters know about your tax, it can't be called a secret, can it?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, mouth quirking:
"No, I suppose not. Her assurance, however, was that she had only mentioned a hunting license - not a tax, if I caught her terminology correctly - with House Kadius."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"Aja, this is a fucking disappointment. Not you. Not you at all."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"This whole the more you know the no fewer questions you have."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Like reaching back to scratch and the itch moves."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious tilt of her head, laughter in her pale eyes:
"... It is a disappointment. Try to find pleasure in the answers when you can, or in using them well. Spice can't take away an itch, but it can... distract you by making other parts feel good, that is."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But it does answer some questions. Like they ain't all pissed off the Chosen Governor in unison. It's just the one house that's got her angry. And that's easier to fathom."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Or maybe not her. Maybe House Uaptal."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a nod:
"It does answer some questions. She also said that nothing had been finalized."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But one house makes more sense than all of them."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight lift of one hand:
"To return to one of your other earlier questions, the Chosen Governors are selected from their House to oversee parts of the Ivory and the surrounding lands."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a tilt of her head:
"Such as House Uaptal with the grasslands, or House Lyksae with the Red Sun Commons."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"The Faithful have no hand in the selection?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed with thought:
"The first were chosen by His Faithful, and I've assumed that it has continued to be done in that fashion - but I can look more into that for you."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, it ain't worth upsetting anyone over. Just interesting. "
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a second, slight nod:
"It is, and I should be more... current in such affairs, as you aren't the only one who asks me of it. Foreigners, in particular, are always interest in learning the intricacies of Tuluki politics."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I hope I ain't asked or said nothing I shouldn't have. Nothing that'd upset none of the Faithful or Chosen."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her slender shoulders:
"You haven't, and I'd likely inform you - again, as your instructor - if I saw anything remiss in your behavior."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"That's appreciated."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile lingering as she glances to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"It is a... benefit to being a teacher, being able to be so frank with those you are close to."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, tone thoughtful:
"Are we?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, with a shrug:
"I ain't close to many people, so... I ain't always sure how close works."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, taking in a slight breath, tone thoughtful:
"It is not a truth universally held, but in my family, in my Circle, such honesty is crucial to being able to help another learn and improve."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, after pausing, her murmur non-committal:
"Hm. Let's see... I still don't think of myself as knowing you well, Sid, although I surely would enjoy doing so. Regardless, however, because I am hired on as your teacher, you must be close to me."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, in a softer voice:
"Honesty is a... deep sign of trust, both in your ability to hear it and in mine to... lower some guards that might otherwise exist."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, alright. I guess yeh, I'm putting down some guards. And hoping I don't end up hurt for having done it."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, suddenly grinning:
"Curiosity is a dangerous vice."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Both cheaper and dearer than spice."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, exhaling softly, a few strands of hair flying up from her face as she does so:
"Yes, I... feel the same, be assured in that. And yes, curiosity is a delightful vice - although apathy is a vice, as well, and less delightful, hm?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Do you suffer from apathy?"
You feel as though you hate her for asking that question.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:
"Me? No, I enjoy puzzles too much, as I said. Although my... curiosity is not evenly distributed. I have some interests greater than others."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So..."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"We close enough I can be rude and ask something with no thought of tact?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, trailing off before she offers the spangled-blond, muscular woman a serene smile:
"Of course, Sid. Feel free."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"How come you're more talented than lots of them seekers and you ain't one?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks across to the spangled-blond, muscular woman and then laughs, soft and serene, the bells at her neck chiming.
You feel as though you didn't need to be asked that today.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman watches you, gaze level, until finally she shrugs sheepishly.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a wry shake of her head:
"Thank you for prefacing that with a question. Most do not. First, I must also thank you for the compliment for it is deeply appreciated."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, cause I wonder."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of nod:
"The reasons are... two-fold, I think. The first is that I was gone for several years, Sid. Even I cannot deny that I did not... improve in many areas during that time."
You think:
"Eight year anniversary."
As she listens, the spangled-blond, muscular woman looks at you.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile quirking, a hint of ironic amusement flashing across it:
"The other is that not all... Circles advance at the same rate. The Driamusek Circle has very high standards. As such, it is the greater honor to be a Seeker for us."
(hemote) Two of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's fingers - one on each hand - are missing; the fabric of her gloves hangs empty where they should be.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Does it bother you? If not you're a finer person than me. It'd bother me, I think."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, taking in a soft breath, jaw working to one side:
"It does in some senses. Not... everyone understands our ways, and so it seems odd to them, a partisan to a High Templar being but a poor, troubled Apprentice."
You feel as though it seems odd to you at times, too.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"It helps when they ask, as you have, to allow me opportunity to explain."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Who you're partisan to, aside, you give a performance audience feels like they seen a performance."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Ain't that the whole point of being a bard?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed with amusement:
"One of the greatest points, without doubt. I enjoy the performances that no one notices, but that is an entirely different topic of conversation."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with practiced patience:
"However, we are all... skilled differently. A performance from a Master is unlike anything a novice could create. It is part of our... auditions, our advancement, just as you must learn a better dance with swords."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"No, I don't."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"If a criminal is running away, I got to stop them."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I don't got to impress them with how I stop them."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious smile as she pulls tangled hair back from her face:
"True. My pardon."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I just got to get them into a cell."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I go into battle, I got to kill more enemy than kills me."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I ain't got to impress them either."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet nod:
"And your ability to... continue killing enemies, to capture thieves is dependent on... what, experience, I'd say?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, if I was talented with a blade it would depend on outfighting em."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I was smart, it'd depend on outsmarting them."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight nod, a smile teasing the corner of her mouth:
"... And...?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And some days it just comes down to throwing a rock at them, before they run too fast and get away."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"End of the day, I don't have to be good. I just have to get the job done."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I can make it pretty, that's nice."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I can't..."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman shrugs.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a touch of incredulity to her tone:
"But isn't getting the job done -being- good?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, fond levity in her tone:
"My dear friend, there are many sorts of... proficiency. Beauty is only one of them."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"I don't know. I don't know the answers."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone softening as well as her smile:
"Then I believe it is. Being able to survive and succeed - those are marks of His Legions. It is the same with us. Time and experience teaches us how to survive and succeed."
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"But my criminals are instead sharing drinks with His Chosen. My wars are dances on a stage."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a thoughtful frown:
"And I don't suppose you have any rations on you that you might be willing to spare? I left home without food as well as 'sid."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, digging through the bag:
"I do, but I doubt you'll thank me. They're..."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman gets her bundle of leaf-wrapped rations from her leather tool bag.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, interjecting smoothly:
"... better than roasted scrab head and crusty cheese. My thanks to House Tor of Allanak for those experiences."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, producing a bundle:
"Well, they're filling at least"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'd trade the rations for crusty cheese and heads. I hate rations."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman gives you her bundle of leaf-wrapped rations.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:
"I'm spoiled to a core, then. A few weeks of... stew, I think they called it, although I'd hardly be so generous with the name, and I was missing dry bread."
After lifting it to the spangled-blond, muscular woman in thanks, you eat part of your bundle of leaf-wrapped rations.
You think:
"... Admittedly, these -are- quite foul."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'd kiss the cook if he made stew. I explained stew to him...nothing."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I think it's an insult to all cooks to call him one. I never actually seen him -cook- anything."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a dry glance to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"I wish I'd've known your recipe for it. I've assisted cooks, but my own... talent for it is less than satisfactory, and there are few tyrants in this world like a cook in a kitchen."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Take the meat he's throwing in the rations and put it in a pot with some water and some ocotillo, the fruit from the rations some water from the barrel and put the pot on the hearth."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be ... something but this."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, lifting both gloved hands up in a helpless gesture.
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"I submit, my friend. I submit. If I were your cook, I would do as you commanded in all things."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Have a talk with him, Aja. Have a talk with the man."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a wry tone:
"I couldn't seduce two tankards of ale from a friendly bartender. I doubt a hardened cook to His Legions will be any softer swayed."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, threats and taunts ain't moved him, maybe a bit of sweet would do it."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a dip of her head in thanks:
"I will do what I can, but I'll not make promises, sadly. Perhaps I could at least get him to use spices on the rations?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"He could piss on them, and they could only be improved."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, touching a hand to her mouth, her smile amused:
"Where I used to live, every Detal we would receive a fresh shipment of kalan fruit. There were few pleasures in this world such as a week of... mush followed by a few hours of fresh kalan."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, inclining her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"If nothing else, perhaps... perhaps... we could get something special to liven your days."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"That'd be a fine addition."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, cracking a smile:
"... And then I shall see to it, if you would be so kind as to permit me to take my leave. I fear I have other duties less pleasant to see to than this."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Your time is appreciated."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I hope I wasn't too much of a trial to you."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile lingering:
"Your questions are always appreciated and... please. Please. Believe me when I say that my time with you is no trial. If nothing else, believe that I've taught too many southerners through their ignorance."
Sliding free of the booth, you stand up from a baobab booth.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"His Radiance upon you, Aja."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman stands up from a baobab booth.
With a respectful nod, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"And His Light grace you, as ever, Sid. I'll look forward to hearing from you, and will check in after a month or so, if no new questions arise on your end."
(hemote) Mirth flashes across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes.
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Tavern [EWD Quit]
Smooth, sanded cylini planks have been laid across the floor of this
cramped room, their polished surface flickering in the lights of the candles. Dark stains splatter the wooden floor at odd intervals, disrupting the otherwise...
Continue Reading...Memoir #13 - The Lirathan Santa Claus (Serilla)
Added on Dec 29, 2009Whatever happened to the gift that Raven promised?
The Bahamet's Maw Tavern - Main Room [ESU]
Half a dozen tables are scattered throughout this diminutive tavern.
Despite the lack of lavish decor, the bar exudes a feeling of being anything but paltry. The walls are coated in a layer of vivid tan paint, and occasionally a framed painting hangs from their glossy surfaces. The floorstones below are simple squares of red sandstone, haphazardly inlayed into the level ground. Just above the elongated bar on the northern wall hangs a luxurious tapestry, the tedious embroidery of a fiery sunburst stitched onto a white background.
The cramped entrance to the east leads out to a road, while the room snakes away to the south. A polished baobab staircase is affixed to one end of the bar to carry patrons to an upper level dormitory.
The gurth-bellied half-giant soldier looms here, gazing intently about.
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar is sitting on a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.
The bristling red-streaked kurtok paces here, growling for no reason.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
Lifting a warm smile, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar looks up at you.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a calming breath.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks over to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar with a smile in greeting as she crosses the tavern.
Beckoning, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says to you, in sirihish:
"Aja, do join me."
With a respectful nod to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar, you sit on a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, as she sits:
"Of course, Faithful... Lady. I hope the day finds you well?"
You feel your heart racing - and like you need a home closer to the Heart.
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding deeply:
"It does, indeed. It has been a provident day in His Light."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, giving her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish a pat:
"It seems I've a gift for you that is long overdue, my dear."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, her smile lingering as she looks to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar:
"... A gift."
You think:
"... Raven?"
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, settling her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish onto the table:
"Indeed. Tell me what you know of the one called Raven who you mentioned to me once before."
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar gives you her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"It is from her."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, reaching for your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish, a gloved finger tracing over it:
"... I know little, Faithful Lady. She is a slave to the Lord Templar Samos of Allanak, but I do not know her through... that city."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, looking back to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar with a shake of her head:
"She says she knew of me, when I... served the Tor Warlord, but I do not recall such a woman."
You think:
"How, by all that is good, did she get this to you?"
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"What sort of questions has she asked you? She seems to have takena great liking to you."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's thumb traces over your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone rueful as well as wry:
"I... wish I knew, Faithful Lady. She was lonely and found my mind. Her own is... troubled. Mad, you might say, although I've seen no harm in her."
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar chews at her lower lip, studying your face.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, pausing before she gives a slow shake of her head:
"She asks how I am, if I'll tell her a story. She asks advice on getting to know others... and mostly talks on nothing at all."
You think:
"I... don't know. I'm sorry."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"Do me a great favor, Aja. Find her mind and let her know I've finally gotten your gift to you. And inquire as to why she has kept up with you. I am quite keen to find out."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft clearing of her throat after she nods:
"Of course, Faithful Lady. I... thought this gift was a figment of her imagination. She said she'd given one to you, was... angry that I hadn't received it. "
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"A slave of Samos the Red sending gifts to a Driamusek family member? It is a bit odd... ah, yes. Funny story, that."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, jaw working to one side:
"Mm. It is how I had the pleasure of an introduction to that man. I do not know... if I'll be able to find the answers you seek, Faithful Lady."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"Someone thrust that dish into my hands some months ago and said nothing of who it was for. I thought it was some sort of present for me until this woman Raven found my mind."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow creases. Deeply.
You think:
"Incredible..."
You feel at a loss.
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding to you:
"Let me know when you've reached her again. I trust I need not stress the importance of giving nothing about His Ivory away."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet inclination of her head:
"Of course, Faithful Lady. I'd dislike being a puppet to a southerner - even an ally."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman adds the last three words with just the barest of pauses.
You think:
"... I'll have to seek her out."
You feel incredulous. And concerned.
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding her head firmy:
"Quite so, quite so. All the more reason to find out what her motives are. Mere slaves do not usually act in such a matter."
You think:
"If she could reach the Faithful Lady so easily..."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur:
"She is more than just a slave. He think highly of her, I believe."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, with a quiet smile:
"Have we anything else to go over? I am afraid I am needed in the Heart. Ah.. yes."
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar's lips curls distastefully.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, returning the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar's smile:
"No, Faithful Lady, I do not think so. I appreciate you taking the time to provide this to me."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, chuckling ruefully:
"I am only sorry it took me so long. His Light, Aja."
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar stands at a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman dips a slight nod down to your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.
In a smooth motion, you stand at a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.
The bristling, red-streaked kurtok sniffs at you with a single wag of his bushy tail.
With a respectful nod, you say to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar, in sirihish:
"His Light grace you."
l in dish
In a wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish (carried) :
a lavender blossom
a silky blossom
a bright red fruit
a piece of wrapped candy
a spun-sugar spider
a piece of wrapped mint
a dark-red, oval lozenge
a huge crimson blossom
a stuffed ginka fruit
a tiny bark lantern
a piece of honied candy
a few brandy-filled candies
a necklace of glass bells
a gem-adorned chain belt
You feel overwhelmed.
You think:
"... I'll... have to find her."
The Bahamet's Maw Tavern - Main Room [ESU]
Half a dozen tables are scattered throughout this diminutive tavern.
Despite the lack of lavish decor, the bar exudes a feeling of being anything but paltry. The walls are coated in a layer of vivid tan paint, and occasionally a...
Continue Reading...Memoir #12 - The Long-Distance Troublemakers (Raven and Samos)
Added on Dec 29, 2009For weeks having been visited by the mad, unsettling voice of a southern slave, Aja manages her way into a conversation in which she learns more about her guest than she ever wanted to know. Oops?
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
(While chatting in the Sanctuary...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I sent you a present."
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I remembered."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"A present, Raven? That is... so sweet of you. I thought you were staying... indoors?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't need to leave to send things."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I... see. Do I get to... that is, pardon me, do I get to know what it is you sent?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"... Serilla has it."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"The Faithful Lady? I... didn't know you knew her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... not to know what it is, Raven? You tease."
You feel uneasy, uncertain.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not entirely sure myself."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... My, what... a mystery."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I am... charmed that you would remember me, Raven. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*slightly wistful* Are you just saying that but not meaning it? I think you do that a lot."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are distracted, her smile never quite reaching them.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Say things without meaning them? I certainly hope not. It would be unkind to you."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's all right if you do. You're tricky though."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Tricky? *soft amusement* I hope not, too. Why would I trick you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know. *confusion* Everyone tricks. Politics. Always. You need to do this and then they'll do the other thing."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, it can be... challenging. You do not like such puzzles?"
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact serilla
You are unable to reach their mind.
contact wine
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Shh... I know many who do not. What do you enjoy, then?"
You feel helplessly linked to this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I like to walk sometimes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Do you? Where do you walk?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everywhere."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Mm. And what do you look at? The sky?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't look at anything."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"How could I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How could you? I... don't understand."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm..blind. I can't really look at anything, can I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... What of your other senses, Raven? I knew a woman once, blind as you are... but she could always tell it was me coming to visit her."
You feel like you need to push harder on this mystery.
You think:
"Just a little, Raven... Let me push a little closer."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Looking means eyes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I apologize for my lack of clarity, Raven. What do you feel, then?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everything."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Even me, so far away?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't.."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Who was the girl?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... The girl?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"The blind girl. Your friend."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*carefully* Her... name was Kaevya."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh. I remember that name."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Do you? Do you know her, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"She was killed. In the alleys."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Was she? It... was more than a year ago. I didn't know what happened to her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Is it bad to...to let someone live...if they want to kill you?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Raven, what... do you mean? Does someone mean to harm you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Lots of people, probably. But I'm not talking about that."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Then, I don't... know. Someone spared my life once, thinking I meant to kill them. I dare say I owe them for that."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I just want to know if it's bad. And what's a better word than alluring? Everytime I say it to people, they draw the wrong conclusion."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It can be either, Raven. It's not a question I can answer and..."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... *with a brief flaring of amusement* Ah... try charming?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Charming?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, you can call their company charming, if they mistake you for a seductress."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They all did."
Sliding from her stool in a smooth motion, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are troubled, distant.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"All? Oh, my. I'd not realized."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Me neither."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How many, if I might ask?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They didn't really though."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Just...two or three. They all said I was using the wrong word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Hm. Do I know them, Raven?"
You feel like you are perpetually grasping at the air around this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't think so."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the svelte, top-knotted woman before turning, reaching for her hood.
(Strolling off to somewhere quieter to concentrate.)
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Such a pity. How... did you know Kaevya?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice subdued* Aja... I hope everything was alright."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I'm listening, dear. Please pardon my distraction."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Alright? What is it?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Mmm? No, no... I mean... I hope you are alright."
You feel lightheaded.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Me? Of course, Ehrick. I'm never unwell."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I...*faint confusion*"
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't remember. Please. Talk to your friend. I should go."
A Wooden Path Within the Garden [NEW]
Mottled stones, flecked with speckles of brown and red, have been set
into the ground to form a cobbled road that winds a circuitous path around
the perimeter of this garden. The air surrounding the pathway is filled
with the earthen aroma of moisture. Newly planted herbs and other forms of flora, situated so as to create a patterned burst of color, explode from the soil on either side of the path. Clumps of yellow-blossomed purslane tuck themselves under the soft, bluish-green leaves of Lady's Mantle while delicate pymlithe trees rise up behind them.
A wooden bridge, delicately carved from heartwood, has been set within
the center of the garden, encircling an immense, marble statue.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Yes, Raven?"
Pulling herself onto the bridge's railing, you sit down.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Shh... I'm sorry for startling you. Please, forgive me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, someone told me about her."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak closes her eyes, hands pressed to the railing.
You think:
"... Dizzy..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's not your fault."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... of course not. My apologies - with the patrol and such, I am still on edge."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm sorry, it's getting very crowded in here."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Are you certain, Raven? In that case, be well. It was so kind of you to remember me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you, that's all."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak takes in a deep, calming breath through her nose.
You think:
"... I don't understand..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Thank you for the new word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"If that doesn't work, I'll... try to think of a new one for you."
You dissolve the psychic link.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak's shoulders tense, rigid.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, *pleased* thank you. very much."
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak gives a soft groan, deep in the back of her throat.
You think:
"... Breathe, little Aja. Breathe."
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Not at all, Ehrick. I know how such things affect those patrolling. Was all well on the Road?"
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*an eerie feeling weaving through his words* Well enough, I suppose. Just a... pack of gortok. They hardly gave me pause."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... Ehrick, I'm a bit lightheaded, I won't lie to you. However, are... you certain that is all?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice firm, nearly commanding* That was all."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're... lightheaded? Are you sleeping well?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"*imperiousness crossing her thoughts - and quickly, very quickly suppressed* ... I... see. And it's merely from trying to walk and use the Way. Such dizziness can be... distracting."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a quick burst of heat interweaving his thoughts* We could always go for a lesson, if you've time... teacher."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"My... owner... says I can't use charming. He says I should use interesting instead."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I... believe I might have time, but perhaps give me an hour or two. Some distractions are more easily chased away than others."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.
The red orb of Jihae, the red moon, begins to vanish as it slowly sets.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Your owner? Hm, they and I should have words. Interesting is a good word, however, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Certainly. I'll inform him that you wish to speak to him. Any particular subject I should relay?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I..."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... beg your pardon. That was not intended for you."
You feel completely and utterly mortified.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"A thousand pardons, Ehrick."
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*mortification faint in her thoughts* Yes... I... feel as though your owner and I should speak if that is the case. However, interesting is a good word, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. There is... no need to apologize, Aja."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak lifts a hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger to her eyes.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"..Are you...what's wrong?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Nothing, dear. Nothing. I'm fine. Merely... clumsy."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No you're not. You're very graceful."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I am... charmed by the compliment. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's ok. I've got lots of others at home."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Other compliments or other graceful people?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Other...compliments."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Then I hope I can earn them all, in time. Does your owner know of me, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes. He doesn't hurt my friends."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... glad to hear it. Does he have a name? I... feel left out, him knowing me but I not able to make my introductions."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I will ask."
You think:
"... Dizzy."
You feel as though you'll need to lie down.
You think:
"... Please. I need to know."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak sits motionless on the railing of the bridge, the material of her cloak fluttering about her face.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
You feel comforted by the evening air.
You think:
"Pymlithe and cool winds..."
You feel at home.
(Waiting...)
You think:
"Let me have your name. Let this be done."
(... and more waiting...)
You feel impatient.
You think:
"... Come, Raven. Please."
(... and yet MORE waiting...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You think:
"... Mm."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Well that took forever."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It's fine, Raven."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Did you have any luck?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Hi there, Aja."
You contact the rugged, stubble-bearded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Good... evening. That is, how do you do - and I beg your pardon, but have we met?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*a slightly disbelieving pause* Uh. Yes."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"No, we haven't, though I was a friend of Kharad's."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Oh, I see. You know Raven, too."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I do. You're very intelligent to catch that so quickly."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I thank you for the compliment, stranger. Might I ask the pleasure of your name? I never thought to hear you contact me directly."
You feel tense.
Your mood is now uneasy.
You think:
"... Oh, Sweet Krath, who is this?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven thought you wanted to introduce yourself."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"My name is Samos."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman goes... very... very... still.
You think:
"Oh..."
You think:
"... -fuck-."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Samos."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"That is... it's... a pleasure to meet you, then. Raven has spoken so little of you - but has apparently given you my name, in return."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She's a sweet creature. I hope you do not mind me speaking with her?"
You think:
"Oh... this is bad. This is... very... very bad."
You feel like you remember Paryl saying, "Lord Templar Samos says... Hi.".
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't. She.. likes having someone she can talk with."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I will... attempt to entertain her, still. It was... so... kind of you to offer to find my mind. As I'd said, I'd not expected it."
You think:
"And this is so... so... bad."
The enormous sun rises above the barren plains in the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down blankly at the bridge in front of her.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I like catching people off guard now and then."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with quiet, arch amusement* Then I believe your mission is accomplished... Samos."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I met Elithan last week. He seems like an honorable enough man."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Elithan is an honorable man, by all accounts, it is true. You are in the northlands, then?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. No, darlin', I don' think I'm welcome there quite yet."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with soft laughter* No more than a Faithful Lord of Tuluk is welcome in the south, surely."
You feel like you're going to be sick.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Not in the now. In the future, who's to say... but anyway."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm led to understand you had a stay in Allanak yourself, and then returned home."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"An interesting notion. Yes, that is true. We were both... friends... of the Warlord of Tor."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I wanted to let you know that we'll not hunt you or try to bring you back."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with sudden stillness* How kind of you."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"It's a small gesture for me to make, I'm sure for you it must be a larger worry lifted."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"If you'll pardon my frankness... Samos, I often worry about small gestures."
You think:
"Oh... for pity's sake. Why me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Why would you? I gain nothing in trying to chase you down, and I'd hope Elithan would do the same, for one of mine."
You think:
"... Oh, this is false."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"And you're Raven's friend. I take that seriously."
You feel rigid, angry, frustrated.
You think:
"This is the Ivory and you have no place here."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ah, I hope I am not intruding, Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I am... overwhelmed. It is a pity that I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance while in the Black."
You feel like bashing your head into a tree a few times over.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Maybe you might if you come with Elithan to our next meeting. If not... at least now you know me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... I see that I am. I'll await a touch in my mind, but otherwise my time is free."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You think:
"Ehrick, that is... such... an understatement."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I've... heard of you, as you undoubtedly know by now, but I do not believe the Faithful Lord is in the habit of bringing his partisans to such... auspicious meetings."
You feel like you really need a drink.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps not."
You think:
"You have a fondness for taking fingers."
You feel bitterly amused.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I feel like I'm probably not who you were expecting to hear from. Didn't mean to unsettle you this much."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"In my experience with your kin, I... often found that unsettling was what they enjoyed best. But no, I... assuredly was not expecting you."
You feel like this is just a fantastically perfect way to spend your seven year anniversary since your exile.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not like many of the others, I think I can safely say. And I wouldn't hurt a friend of Raven's. Who was it who enslaved you, when you were here?"
You think:
"I don't want to talk about this..."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Hm. Shiran Oash led the interrogation, but it was my Lady the Senior Lady of House Borsail that took me in her protection. And then the Warlord, after her."
You feel at a loss. You feel like you could truly use Elithan here RIGHT NOW.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I've heard a good deal of interesting things about old Shiran."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I heard he died to the Warlord and Senior Lady, but I fear our acquaintence, itself, was... brief."
You feel a touch of pride at that.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... If I may, do you often show such interest in escaped slaves, or simply the northern ones who know the Faithful Lord Elithan?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven says she just wanted you to be happy. And I just wanted to reassure you, if you were worried, that I'm glad you returned home."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're not an escaped slave, and no, I don't often. Actually, I only thought to say hello because she asked."
You think:
"... What woman is this, to have such power?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope you didn't take all this as some sort of threat. That's really not how I work at all."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with lingering amusement* ... Oh? How do you work, Lord Templar?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes several deep, calming breaths.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I defend my city and my flock. I don't threaten."
You think:
"Don't believe, little Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Your words remind me of the Warlord. I can see why you would be friends."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"We didn't always agree, but neither of us saw point to causing pain needlessly."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rolls her shoulders, idly.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You spoke of a Borsail Lady... was that Lady Ceylara? The senator? She was his lover, I think."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She... was, I believe, though it was never said openly."
You think:
"... Why in the name of all that is good is he still talking with me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"He always seemed devoted to her when we spoke."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She was... on his mind, often, yes. He took her promotion to the Senate reluctantly at best."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"It was a shame, the Warlord's death. His rivalry with the Guild only grew in intensity during my time there."
You think:
"... I... should not be doing this."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I tried to prevent it. I saw where it was going."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"They.. killed most of his other servants."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Yes, I'd known many of them, in my time there. It seems I was the most fortunate of them all. How did you fare during the assault by the gith, Lord Templar?"
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"The Warlord was fond of them, as a race."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm glad they didn't get you. And it was an honorable thing, not to leave while he lived. I took a few bruises from the gith, but I survived."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Thank you for the words and the compliment. It is a pity the Warlord never spoke of you."
You think:
"Or I would know what is going on."
You think:
"Must they always try to kill me with kindness?"
You think:
"... Elithan... couldn't you... walk by soon?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yeah. Same to you. I've other things to do, so I'll let you go. It was good to meet you."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Likewise, Lord Templar. It was an... unexpected pleasure."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Be well. Send Elithan my regards when you tell him about this."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... I'll tell him you said 'Hi', Lord Templar."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. Alright, then."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact elithan
You are unable to reach their mind.
You think:
"Oh, Sweet Krath."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a long gasp of air.
You think:
"... Oh, sweet... Krath... who do I tell about this?"
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
(While chatting in the Sanctuary...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I sent you a present."
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I remembered."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"A present, Raven? That is... so sweet of you. I thought you were staying... indoors?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't need to leave to send things."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I... see. Do I get to... that is, pardon me, do I get to know what it is you sent?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"... Serilla has it."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"The Faithful Lady? I... didn't know you knew her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... not to know what it is, Raven? You tease."
You feel uneasy, uncertain.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not entirely sure myself."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... My, what... a mystery."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I am... charmed that you would remember me, Raven. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*slightly wistful* Are you just saying that but not meaning it? I think you do that a lot."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are distracted, her smile never quite reaching them.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Say things without meaning them? I certainly hope not. It would be unkind to you."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's all right if you do. You're tricky though."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Tricky? *soft amusement* I hope not, too. Why would I trick you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know. *confusion* Everyone tricks. Politics. Always. You need to do this and then they'll do the other thing."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, it can be... challenging. You do not like such puzzles?"
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact serilla
You are unable to reach their mind.
contact wine
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Shh... I know many who do not. What do you enjoy, then?"
You feel helplessly linked to this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I like to walk sometimes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Do you? Where do you walk?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everywhere."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Mm. And what do you look at? The sky?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't look at anything."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"How could I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How could you? I... don't understand."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm..blind. I can't really look at anything, can I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... What of your other senses, Raven? I knew a woman once, blind as you are... but she could always tell it was me coming to visit her."
You feel like you need to push harder on this mystery.
You think:
"Just a little, Raven... Let me push a little closer."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Looking means eyes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I apologize for my lack of clarity, Raven. What do you feel, then?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everything."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Even me, so far away?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't.."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Who was the girl?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... The girl?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"The blind girl. Your friend."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*carefully* Her... name was Kaevya."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh. I remember that name."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Do you? Do you know her, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"She was killed. In the alleys."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Was she? It... was more than a year ago. I didn't know what happened to her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Is it bad to...to let someone live...if they want to kill you?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Raven, what... do you mean? Does someone mean to harm you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Lots of people, probably. But I'm not talking about that."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Then, I don't... know. Someone spared my life once, thinking I meant to kill them. I dare say I owe them for that."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I just want to know if it's bad. And what's a better word than alluring? Everytime I say it to people, they draw the wrong conclusion."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It can be either, Raven. It's not a question I can answer and..."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... *with a brief flaring of amusement* Ah... try charming?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Charming?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, you can call their company charming, if they mistake you for a seductress."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They all did."
Sliding from her stool in a smooth motion, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are troubled, distant.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"All? Oh, my. I'd not realized."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Me neither."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How many, if I might ask?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They didn't really though."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Just...two or three. They all said I was using the wrong word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Hm. Do I know them, Raven?"
You feel like you are perpetually grasping at the air around this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't think so."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the svelte, top-knotted woman before turning, reaching for her hood.
(Strolling off to somewhere quieter to concentrate.)
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Such a pity. How... did you know Kaevya?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice subdued* Aja... I hope everything was alright."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I'm listening, dear. Please pardon my distraction."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Alright? What is it?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Mmm? No, no... I mean... I hope you are alright."
You feel lightheaded.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Me? Of course, Ehrick. I'm never unwell."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I...*faint confusion*"
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't remember. Please. Talk to your friend. I should go."
A Wooden Path Within the Garden [NEW]
Mottled stones, flecked with speckles of brown and red, have been set
into the ground to form a cobbled road that winds a circuitous path around
the perimeter of this garden. The air surrounding the pathway is filled
with the earthen aroma of moisture. Newly planted herbs and other forms of flora, situated so as to create a patterned burst of color, explode from the soil on either side of the path. Clumps of yellow-blossomed purslane tuck themselves under the soft, bluish-green leaves of Lady's Mantle while delicate pymlithe trees rise up behind them.
A wooden bridge, delicately carved from heartwood, has been set within
the center of the garden, encircling an immense, marble statue.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Yes, Raven?"
Pulling herself onto the bridge's railing, you sit down.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Shh... I'm sorry for startling you. Please, forgive me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, someone told me about her."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak closes her eyes, hands pressed to the railing.
You think:
"... Dizzy..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's not your fault."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... of course not. My apologies - with the patrol and such, I am still on edge."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm sorry, it's getting very crowded in here."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Are you certain, Raven? In that case, be well. It was so kind of you to remember me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you, that's all."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak takes in a deep, calming breath through her nose.
You think:
"... I don't understand..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Thank you for the new word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"If that doesn't work, I'll... try to think of a new one for you."
You dissolve the psychic link.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak's shoulders tense, rigid.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, *pleased* thank you. very much."
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak gives a soft groan, deep in the back of her throat.
You think:
"... Breathe, little Aja. Breathe."
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Not at all, Ehrick. I know how such things affect those patrolling. Was all well on the Road?"
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*an eerie feeling weaving through his words* Well enough, I suppose. Just a... pack of gortok. They hardly gave me pause."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... Ehrick, I'm a bit lightheaded, I won't lie to you. However, are... you certain that is all?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice firm, nearly commanding* That was all."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're... lightheaded? Are you sleeping well?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"*imperiousness crossing her thoughts - and quickly, very quickly suppressed* ... I... see. And it's merely from trying to walk and use the Way. Such dizziness can be... distracting."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a quick burst of heat interweaving his thoughts* We could always go for a lesson, if you've time... teacher."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"My... owner... says I can't use charming. He says I should use interesting instead."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I... believe I might have time, but perhaps give me an hour or two. Some distractions are more easily chased away than others."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.
The red orb of Jihae, the red moon, begins to vanish as it slowly sets.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Your owner? Hm, they and I should have words. Interesting is a good word, however, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Certainly. I'll inform him that you wish to speak to him. Any particular subject I should relay?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I..."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... beg your pardon. That was not intended for you."
You feel completely and utterly mortified.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"A thousand pardons, Ehrick."
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*mortification faint in her thoughts* Yes... I... feel as though your owner and I should speak if that is the case. However, interesting is a good word, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. There is... no need to apologize, Aja."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak lifts a hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger to her eyes.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"..Are you...what's wrong?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Nothing, dear. Nothing. I'm fine. Merely... clumsy."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No you're not. You're very graceful."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I am... charmed by the compliment. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's ok. I've got lots of others at home."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Other compliments or other graceful people?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Other...compliments."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Then I hope I can earn them all, in time. Does your owner know of me, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes. He doesn't hurt my friends."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... glad to hear it. Does he have a name? I... feel left out, him knowing me but I not able to make my introductions."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I will ask."
You think:
"... Dizzy."
You feel as though you'll need to lie down.
You think:
"... Please. I need to know."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak sits motionless on the railing of the bridge, the material of her cloak fluttering about her face.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
You feel comforted by the evening air.
You think:
"Pymlithe and cool winds..."
You feel at home.
(Waiting...)
You think:
"Let me have your name. Let this be done."
(... and more waiting...)
You feel impatient.
You think:
"... Come, Raven. Please."
(... and yet MORE waiting...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You think:
"... Mm."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Well that took forever."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It's fine, Raven."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Did you have any luck?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Hi there, Aja."
You contact the rugged, stubble-bearded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Good... evening. That is, how do you do - and I beg your pardon, but have we met?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*a slightly disbelieving pause* Uh. Yes."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"No, we haven't, though I was a friend of Kharad's."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Oh, I see. You know Raven, too."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I do. You're very intelligent to catch that so quickly."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I thank you for the compliment, stranger. Might I ask the pleasure of your name? I never thought to hear you contact me directly."
You feel tense.
Your mood is now uneasy.
You think:
"... Oh, Sweet Krath, who is this?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven thought you wanted to introduce yourself."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"My name is Samos."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman goes... very... very... still.
You think:
"Oh..."
You think:
"... -fuck-."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Samos."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"That is... it's... a pleasure to meet you, then. Raven has spoken so little of you - but has apparently given you my name, in return."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She's a sweet creature. I hope you do not mind me speaking with her?"
You think:
"Oh... this is bad. This is... very... very bad."
You feel like you remember Paryl saying, "Lord Templar Samos says... Hi.".
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't. She.. likes having someone she can talk with."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I will... attempt to entertain her, still. It was... so... kind of you to offer to find my mind. As I'd said, I'd not expected it."
You think:
"And this is so... so... bad."
The enormous sun rises above the barren plains in the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down blankly at the bridge in front of her.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I like catching people off guard now and then."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with quiet, arch amusement* Then I believe your mission is accomplished... Samos."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I met Elithan last week. He seems like an honorable enough man."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Elithan is an honorable man, by all accounts, it is true. You are in the northlands, then?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. No, darlin', I don' think I'm welcome there quite yet."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with soft laughter* No more than a Faithful Lord of Tuluk is welcome in the south, surely."
You feel like you're going to be sick.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Not in the now. In the future, who's to say... but anyway."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm led to understand you had a stay in Allanak yourself, and then returned home."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"An interesting notion. Yes, that is true. We were both... friends... of the Warlord of Tor."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I wanted to let you know that we'll not hunt you or try to bring you back."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with sudden stillness* How kind of you."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"It's a small gesture for me to make, I'm sure for you it must be a larger worry lifted."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"If you'll pardon my frankness... Samos, I often worry about small gestures."
You think:
"Oh... for pity's sake. Why me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Why would you? I gain nothing in trying to chase you down, and I'd hope Elithan would do the same, for one of mine."
You think:
"... Oh, this is false."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"And you're Raven's friend. I take that seriously."
You feel rigid, angry, frustrated.
You think:
"This is the Ivory and you have no place here."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ah, I hope I am not intruding, Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I am... overwhelmed. It is a pity that I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance while in the Black."
You feel like bashing your head into a tree a few times over.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Maybe you might if you come with Elithan to our next meeting. If not... at least now you know me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... I see that I am. I'll await a touch in my mind, but otherwise my time is free."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You think:
"Ehrick, that is... such... an understatement."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I've... heard of you, as you undoubtedly know by now, but I do not believe the Faithful Lord is in the habit of bringing his partisans to such... auspicious meetings."
You feel like you really need a drink.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps not."
You think:
"You have a fondness for taking fingers."
You feel bitterly amused.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I feel like I'm probably not who you were expecting to hear from. Didn't mean to unsettle you this much."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"In my experience with your kin, I... often found that unsettling was what they enjoyed best. But no, I... assuredly was not expecting you."
You feel like this is just a fantastically perfect way to spend your seven year anniversary since your exile.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not like many of the others, I think I can safely say. And I wouldn't hurt a friend of Raven's. Who was it who enslaved you, when you were here?"
You think:
"I don't want to talk about this..."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Hm. Shiran Oash led the interrogation, but it was my Lady the Senior Lady of House Borsail that took me in her protection. And then the Warlord, after her."
You feel at a loss. You feel like you could truly use Elithan here RIGHT NOW.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I've heard a good deal of interesting things about old Shiran."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I heard he died to the Warlord and Senior Lady, but I fear our acquaintence, itself, was... brief."
You feel a touch of pride at that.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... If I may, do you often show such interest in escaped slaves, or simply the northern ones who know the Faithful Lord Elithan?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven says she just wanted you to be happy. And I just wanted to reassure you, if you were worried, that I'm glad you returned home."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're not an escaped slave, and no, I don't often. Actually, I only thought to say hello because she asked."
You think:
"... What woman is this, to have such power?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope you didn't take all this as some sort of threat. That's really not how I work at all."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with lingering amusement* ... Oh? How do you work, Lord Templar?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes several deep, calming breaths.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I defend my city and my flock. I don't threaten."
You think:
"Don't believe, little Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Your words remind me of the Warlord. I can see why you would be friends."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"We didn't always agree, but neither of us saw point to causing pain needlessly."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rolls her shoulders, idly.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You spoke of a Borsail Lady... was that Lady Ceylara? The senator? She was his lover, I think."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She... was, I believe, though it was never said openly."
You think:
"... Why in the name of all that is good is he still talking with me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"He always seemed devoted to her when we spoke."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She was... on his mind, often, yes. He took her promotion to the Senate reluctantly at best."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"It was a shame, the Warlord's death. His rivalry with the Guild only grew in intensity during my time there."
You think:
"... I... should not be doing this."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I tried to prevent it. I saw where it was going."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"They.. killed most of his other servants."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Yes, I'd known many of them, in my time there. It seems I was the most fortunate of them all. How did you fare during the assault by the gith, Lord Templar?"
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"The Warlord was fond of them, as a race."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm glad they didn't get you. And it was an honorable thing, not to leave while he lived. I took a few bruises from the gith, but I survived."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Thank you for the words and the compliment. It is a pity the Warlord never spoke of you."
You think:
"Or I would know what is going on."
You think:
"Must they always try to kill me with kindness?"
You think:
"... Elithan... couldn't you... walk by soon?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yeah. Same to you. I've other things to do, so I'll let you go. It was good to meet you."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Likewise, Lord Templar. It was an... unexpected pleasure."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Be well. Send Elithan my regards when you tell him about this."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... I'll tell him you said 'Hi', Lord Templar."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. Alright, then."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact elithan
You are unable to reach their mind.
You think:
"Oh, Sweet Krath."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a long gasp of air.
You think:
"... Oh, sweet... Krath... who do I tell about this?"
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
Continue Reading...Memoir #9 - The Bynner (Marek)
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...
Continue Reading...Memoir #8 - The Siblings (Ilune and Chaska)
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]
Memoir #7 - The Student (Peloquin)
Added on Oct 27, 2009The escape from Allanak buying her status and a Jihaen patron, Aja uses a mix-up over cloaks to test her most favorite student.
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap = Peloquin
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man = Corporal Valin of His LegionsIt is dawn on Nekrete, the 181st day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.
North Salt Road [NSW]
Rows of pale stones form the backbone for this broad avenue, settled into the ground with graceful fervor. Decorating the edge of the street, the buildings and storefronts are universally adorned with garish and tawdry sculptures, bas reliefs, and murals. The road is filled with a continual throng of humans and demi-humans alike as they scurry about the bustle of daily life.
The sounds of a rowdy commotion spills out onto the streets from the building to the west. A trio of humanoid sculptures are caught before the junction between two roads, the crowds passing around them. An odd-looking sculpture surrounds a stone bench off to one side of the road.
It is a warm day.
Gritty sand blows in from the west, piling in small dunes.
You raise the hood of a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"The barracks are slow of late. Thought I could offer you a drink or something? Unless that sounds boring -"
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap has arrived from the west.
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Slow? In truth... Oh, were... you resting recently?"
Steps a touch slower as she lingers in the intersection, you look at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
Here is a short lissome young man still in the teenage years of development. His soft skin holds a deeply-bronzed tone, making it apparent the young man isno stranger to the savage rays of Suk-Krath. A mass of thick chocolate hairhangs loosely from his head in a slight shag with the occasional clump coveringhis curious deep green eyes which are covered with barely noticeable goldspeckles. Beneath his fine nose lies a soft, gentle-lipped mouth. His chin isslender, with a vaguely squared jawline and completely lacking in any noticeablefacial hair. The young man's slim build shows off what limited muscle he has. His legs are slightly toned and limber however, most likely due to a life ofrunning errands. The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is in excellent condition.
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak casts the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap a shadowed smile.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I've been busy in the warrens, why?"
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"A giant roc was seen flying over the city."
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap inclines his head politely to you.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"...Roc?"
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Yes, a roc. It's a giant... hawk, for lack of better description, if you are unfamiliar with the creature. His Faithful believe it to have been a one-time sighting, but are, I understand, reviewing it."
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances skyward, for a moment, with a rueful shake of her head.
You think:
"Valin, decide where you need me."
With a hidden smile, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"It was a wild roc."
Glancing down to him a moment before she smiles, again, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... It was. It was."
You think:
"And that was not what I was thinking."
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"When, might I ask?"
With a bemused shake of her head, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... And I should learn to confine my use of the Way to when I am sitting."
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Yesterday. Just after high sun."
With an apologetic tone, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I am sorry...I've met you before but your name eludes me."
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak fights a smile. Oh, does she fight a smile.
With a soft click of her tongue, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... Oh, it's no problem at all. The name's Ameli."
You feel oh, so amused.
You think:
"Let this be a test."
Reaching for his facewrap, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I am Peloquin."
The short, lithe young man stops using his dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"It is dangerous then...?"
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Looking down at the short, lithe young man, face shadowed by her hood, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Oh, that's right. Aren't you an Aide to a Chosen or some such?"
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"That is what His Faithful are endeavoring to discover, but I do not believe they think so."
With a slight smile, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:
"Faithful Lord Elithan, Miss Ameli."
With a long, drawn out 'oh' sound, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"I see, I see. That's an honor, now. Aren't you a little young to be serving one like him?"
You think:
"This is oddly amusing. I should feign voices more often."
With a sheepish chuckle, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:
"Probably...but he took me in when my mother died, otherwise I would be homeless. I suppose it is the only thing he could think to do with me until I am old enough to serve the Legion."
With a quiet, rough laugh, you say to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Is that the way of it? Stuck in the city? Better you'n me, boy."
The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard has arrived from the south.
Sidelong, the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard looks down at the short, lithe young man.
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Do not recognize me."
The short, lithe young man looks up at the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Pass by me without a glance. I'm... giving a test to the Aide."
Along with the short, lithe young man, you look up at the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.
With a firm nod, the short, lithe young man says to the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard, in sirihish:
"Good day Recruit."
The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard tips his head amiably to the short, lithe young man after a moment.
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak dips her chin down as she nods to the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.
Calmly, after a moment, the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard says to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Find my mind later, if you wish to get some training in."
The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard walks west.
You feel highly amused.
The short, lithe young man forms his mouth into a slightly crooked grin in the direction of the departing figure.
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances down the road with a snort of laughter.
Turning to look down at him again, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Is that the sort you want to be like?"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak straightens her shoulders, puffing out her chest for 'militaristic' posture.
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"You have my deepest thanks, my friend. I believe I owe you a drink when this is done."
Tilting his head halfway, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:
"No, I don't think I could be as grouchy as Valin."
Making a soft 'Ah...', you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"So grouchy, is he? He seems the sort. What are you going to be, then? Have a stick up your arse?"
You think:
"I... don't know how long I can keep this up. Oh, my."
Brightening his deep green eyes, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:
"I am going to be a good honest man who works for the good of the Ivory and its people."
You think:
"A good answer, a good answer."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Just doing my job, miss Aja."
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Good luck with him."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Starting to walk again and beckoning to him, you say to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Right, of course. A real noble sort. Like I said, better you'n me, that's to be sure. Me, give me the grasslands and I'm happy."
The short, lithe young man falls in behind you.
n (with long, quick strides)
North Salt Road [NS]
Rows of pale stones form the backbone for this broad avenue, settled into the ground with graceful fervor. Decorating the edge of the street, the buildings and storefronts are universally adorned with garish and tawdry sculptures, bas reliefs, and murals. The road is filled with a continual throng of humans and demi-humans alike as they scurry about the bustle of daily life.
The murals here are especially well-colored, the bright dye calling attention to a row of exaggerated daily scenes. An enormous sandstone sculpture of a mantis looms over the road from before one of the eastern buildings.
The short, lithe young man places his dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap onto his face.Cloak wrapped tight about her body, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"It's the world out there, boy. The world out there that you're missing. And -"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak takes a few more, long paces and then comes to a quick halt, whirling to look down at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
You ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Wait, wait. So you ain't a soldier yet?"
Shaking his head, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I can't be until I am sixteen."
After a stunned silence, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... And so, you're wasting your life in here?"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak shakes her head, moving forward again with long strides.
(Walking onward and "Ameli" always half a step in front of him...)
The Road of Merchants [NS]
Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals. Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps. The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground.
A thick wall composed of agafari beams rises up to the east, preventing travel in that direction.
With a slight shrug, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:"No. I am allowed to leave as long as I have someone with me. I can usually get a guard, the Faithful Lord or a recruit to take me out to hunt and such."
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak slows down near a group of people gathered near one wall, one of them gesturing wildly to the sky.
Still walking forward, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Oh, right. A guard. So I suppose you're too kank-shit scared to come out with a real hunter?"
The Road of Merchants [NS]
Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals. Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps. The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground.
A thick wall composed of agafari beams rises up to the east, preventing travel in that direction.
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances over her shoulder and then steps close to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, shadows falling over her face.
You whisper to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap in sirihish:"I'm going to go kill that fucking bird."
The Road of Merchants [NES]
Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals. Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps. The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground.
A path of cobbled, blue-hued stones runs east.
With a distinct frown, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I can go...but I don't want to kill the roc. It's too beautiful and there are so many other purposes for such a creature."
Stopping again with stunned silence, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Better purposes? Name one."
Ruffling his thick chocolate hair briefly, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"It could be trained and watch over the passage to the Ivory from atop the fortress to the west."
Silent, again, as she clicks her tongue a few times, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Trained, huh? Bet His Faithful would pay a pretty 'sid for something like, wouldn't they..."
With a meek shrug, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in sirihish:
"Probably."
Shoulder almost touching his own, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Well, here's a deal. I take you with, Faithful Aide, we find a roc. I give it a clip to its wing and you help me get a commission with the Faithful."
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"Is it safe for me out there Miss Ameli?"
Stopping to spit off to one side, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Sure'n its safe, if you stay with me and don't do nothin' stupid."
You say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"I've been hawk trainin' since you were on all fours. You stay back and down, and ain't nothin'll harm you."
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"Well I've got some things to do before I can go on such a big trip...maybe you could wait and I could find your minds in a few days?"
With a slight nod, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"I think I can wait that long. We agreed? You'll speak for me?"
You feel suddenly overwhelmed and ill from the heat.
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"Yes, but you understand the roc is bigger than you and it's not at all going to be easy to clip?"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak nods, throwing back her cloak to offer the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap a white linen-gloved, four-fingered hand.
The harshness in her voice giving way to something softer... and more crystalline, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Yes, I think I know exactly that, Aide."
With a surprised widening of his eyes, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"...Aja?"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak lifts her hands, pulling back the long hood of her cloak.
You lower the hood of a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak.
You feel a sudden wave of nausea.
Pale eyes studying his face, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... Yes?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips form a thin line.
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks at you.
You think:
"Keep... it together..."
You get your leather waterskin from your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.
Slowly, you drink the water.
Still looking at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, you put your leather waterskin into your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.
Slouching his shoulders subtly, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"Was that a test?"
With a slight nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Mm-hmm."
You think:
"I'm going to be sick, but... this lesson is too sweet..."
Rubbing a partially healed wounded on his cheek, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in sirihish:
"Busted..."
With another, slight nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Mm-hmm."
Her voice softening as she looks to the sky, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"I know you must... have things to attend to. We can speak on this later."
You think:
"Please, don't let me faint..."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman’s skin pales, sweat glistening on her skin.
With a gentle sigh, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"Yes Aja...Light Guide you..."
With a polite nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"And you... Peloquin."
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap walks east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman waits until the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is out of sight before she slumps against the wall.
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap = Peloquin
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man = Corporal Valin of His LegionsIt is dawn on Nekrete, the 181st day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.
North Salt Road [NSW]
Continue Reading...Memoir #6 - The Warlord (Tor)
Added on Oct 27, 2009Following on his Silver Scorpion's announcement, the Warlord of House Tor demonstrates his interpersonal "soft skills". Ish.
It is before dawn on Abid, the 3rd day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 24 years, 2 months, and 138 days old,
A Broad Barracks [ND Quit Save]
A wide staircase cuts a square well in the middle of the broad chamber, railed off by neat ranks of baobab wood topped by a pale thuja banister. Placed around the stairwell is an inner formation of slender beds, each with a chest at its foot. Spread out in a neatly ordered square facing towards the walls is another rank of beds, this one more numerous.
All told, there would be around twenty beds resting in careful precision throughout the spacious barracks. Two silvery banners, almost six cords in length, hang from the vaulted ceiling proudly displaying a brilliantly
detailed scorpion in red and black standing victoriously beneath an anakore,its barbed stinger embedded deep into the belly. Placed on the western wall are two large racks, for holding weapons and armor.
You contact the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with the Way.
You think:
"... It's him? What an unexpected pleasure."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman reclines on a plain agafari bed.
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"Pardon my intrusion on your thoughts, my Lord."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes, I do."
You feel ruefully amused.
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"There were a few minor matters I hoped to inquire with you over, but nothing of any pressing concern. I've explained them to Emissary Erzsebet, as well, should you have a moment less active than your usual."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"So many words to say something so simple. I shall come speak with you this morning."
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"A northerners curse, is it, my Lord? To enjoy the sound of our thoughts so much as to put them into as many words as possible? I look forward to your visit."
You dissolve the psychic link.
A Large Work Room [NS Save]
Tall walls of red stone rise upwards proudly, proclaiming their protection of the entrance hall to a large building. The floor is made up of tightly fitted black stone slabs, carefully hewn into square tower shields. Upon each of the shields is a finely etched scorpion, the small grooves kept free of sand by constant vigilance. A long table of baobab
runs north to south, before the western wall. Upon the table are a variety of tools for repairing armor and weapons. Before the eastern wall is a long counter, topped with grey slate acting as a work area. Positioned carefully along the east and western walls are jade sconces cupping small crystals, casting a pale green light across the chamber.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man neatly folds his pair of dark-lensed sunslits and tucks them away.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman steps inside the entryway, shifting into a respectful bow in the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's direction.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you, and studies you in thoughtful silence.
As she straightens, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"How do you do, my Lord?"
Rasping softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Not terribly unwell, Aja."
(hemote) The bitter aromas of sweat and lye linger in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
With a careful smile, hands clasping in front of her, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I see. It is always a pleasure to have you here, my Lord. Is there anything I might do for you?"
As he steps over to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate and casually looks in the large container there, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Have your squash seeds taken?"
Turning her head to glance to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate with a soft shake of her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"No, my Lord. Not these last ones, at least. I was thinking of restarting with a fresh batch."
Glancing around, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Perhaps someplace with sunlight."
Turning to face you and folding his arms over his chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What 'minor things' do you wish to speak about?"
With an inclination of her head in the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's direction, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord. I will attempt that, next. As for the minor things, I've been working with the inventories kept here, and I'm worried that if the collection of shells and armor grows..."
As she glances to a heavy agafari chest, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... that there will be no room to store them."
With a simple shake of her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"It is always possible to make do with what is currently here, but I have no desire to let your storeroom turn into a shambles, my Lord, without giving you proper warning."
Speaking in a low hoarse voice as his gaze sweeps the room, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Your worry and warning are acknowledged. What is the next 'minor thing'?"
Gesturing to a blue-striped keg with a thin, four-fingered hand, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... The Barracks once provided a cleaning liquid that helped in caring for your armor. There is no more, and I wondered if it would be possible to attain a new supply?"
Shifting his gaze to a blue-striped keg, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It would be beneficial, but I am uncertain where to obtain more. I obtained that supply by a unique circumstance."
Walking closer to the counter and leaning one hip against it, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Good that you told Erzsebet. Perhaps she can locate more. There is a third 'minor thing'?"
Inclining her head in acknowledgment as she resumes her attentive posture, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord. I will see what wonders soap and persistence can do in its stead."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man smirks faintly.
After the slightest of pauses, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I believe that is all, my Lord, at this moment. You asked that I remind you of the shortage of chairs in the other room, but that is hardly pressing. Company is rarely entertained here."
(hemote) A brief smile flickers across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips.
You think:
"... What to do about Erzsebet..."
Nodding pleasantly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You misled me, then, by saying 'a few' instead of 'a couple'."
With the faintest flicker of warmth in her eyes, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"So it would seem, my Lord. I beg your pardon."
Beckoning with one spike-knuckled hand as he steps away from the counter and walks southward, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Come with me."
(While he eats, they chat about work and materials until interrupted by his aide's arrival.)The figure in a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak moves quietly into the room, pulling her hood down.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the figure in a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak, from her spot to one side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman lowers the hood of a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at the delicate, tribal-inked woman.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman walks over and bows before the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, a small smile offered as she stands upright again.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the delicate, tribal-inked woman with a polite motion.
Favoring the delicate, tribal-inked woman with a smile and nod, then addressing both her and you as he gestures vaguely, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"If either of you hunger, satisfy."
Lifting a finger as she shakes her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Thank you, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you.
Smiling and shaking her head a bit, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I do not want for food, thank you though Warlord."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I would like to find Aja a hooded cloak and a pair of gloves."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman whispers something to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
You feel overjoyed.
(hemote) A touch of interest enters the ethereal, fair-haired woman's polite, pale eyes.
After swallowing his last bite and dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That decision is yours."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man beckons for the delicate, tribal-inked woman to follow.
You think:
"... Why now? Will the expedition progress?"
You think:
"... Perhaps I'll at least look the part of a living creature..."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman falls in at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's flank.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the ceiling, one hand brushing at your scorpion-emblazoned slave's collar.
As he turns around and secure the stopper, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You wished to speak on some matter. Can it be discussed in front of Aja?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, features serene.
Chuckling slightly, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Well, I was going to ask you questions she had herself so I would not mind."
(And the trio goes off on, of all things, an expedition about the Academy looking for suitable clothing for their – in Erzsebet’s teasing words ‘unpresentable’ - northern slave.)
As he walks over to a locker near the middle of the row, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Surely we have a pair of gloves somewhere. So then... have either of you had an interesting experience lately?"
Quietly as she pulls at her cloak, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I ran down to Luirs early this week to spread the word of you looking for dwarves in preparation of your arrival. Since no one had heard of it at all."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man closes his eyes.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Of course I did not mention our trip."
Softly with his eyes still closed, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And I wish you had not mentioned it now."
To one side, the ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat softly, hands remaining folded beneath her cloak.
You think:
"... Luirs. Please, let me go home."
Opening his eyes, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I did not want you to know our destination. I did not want to tempt you so close to home. Tell me honestly now, how knowing will affect you."
Looking to him with her pale, calm eyes, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"My Lord, I've given you my word. I will not broach it, even if you took me within the Heart of the Ivory."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman swallows, looking at the floor.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands tense beneath your hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You could easily find Elithan's mind now and alert him, if you want to see my party slaughtered. We will finally see if your words match your.. inaction."
Voice remaining soft, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord."
Chewing his lip thoughtfully, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Or she could remain here and I could postpone the trip..."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman blinks rapidly, eyes darting away with shame.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with calm serenity, gaze focused on his face.
You feel saddened, immeasurably.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man purses his lips, deeply thoughtful as he considers.
You think:
"There is nothing more I can do."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Erzsebet... do calm yourself. It is that Aja inspires trust, I know."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes flicker closed and then open as she lets out an inaudible breath.
Glancing thoughtfully at you, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I was content to never put it to the test, though."
You feel helpless.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman continues to look to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, pale gaze softer, if still serene.
Looking back to him, her face splotchy, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Warlord, May I be dismissed until you are finished speaking with Aja please."
Rubbing the fingers of his left hand together pensively for a moment before he answers, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I suppose you may be. What's done is done, and probably for the best. You need not fret."
Bowing quickly, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Thank you for dismissing me Warlord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods to the delicate, tribal-inked woman.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman turns quickly as she stands, practically bolting for the door.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman walks west.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the delicate, tribal-inked woman's back in a polite motion before looking back to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It would seem I do not need to reprimand her for the slip. She will do it herself."
In a soft tone, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"She... has often treated me with great warmth in the past. This lesson will be a valuable one for her."
(They walk together through the Academy in silence for a short time, before he decides to change the subject.)
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Have you made progress with any new musical pieces?"
After a thoughtful pause, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"One or two. It doesn't often occur to me to apply myself in that area, although your piece continues to be a puzzle to me, I will confess, my Lord."
Gruffly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"How could I make it less puzzling?"
A smile crossing her lips, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"How can you make the man less puzzling? I know not, my Lord. It is no credit to my talent or training, but I hope you will not criticize my kin for my failings."
Grinning crookedly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That is an amusing concept. You souring my good opinion of Circle Bards. The reality is the complete opposite."
Returning his smile with a touch of warmth mixed with embarrassment, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... My Lord is too generous and must have had a low opinion of my kin, indeed."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"As the only other two I met wished me dead, my opinion has been colored."
Clearing her throat softly, behind one hand, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I... see, my Lord. My pardon for not realizing."
(Gossiping a bit of mutual acquaintances, Aja gives her millionth slip up of the day and mentions their difference in ages.)
Grinning faintly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"During your childhood. You do make me feel old. How many years have you seen now, Aja?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks up.
Her smile growing thoughtful as she glances to the ceiling, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I... must be nearly twenty-five, my Lord."
Gesturing to a chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Take what you wish to bring with you, and guess my age. I just celebrated another year."
A motor tic briefly contorts the left side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's face.
Casting him a smile over her shoulder as she moves to her cot, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Given your experience and comfort in leadership, I would guess you to have lived some... thirty-five years?"
With an unusually tender hand, you get your dark-stained baobab lute from a scorpion emblazoned chest.
As he reaches up to massage at his spasming cheek, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Thirty three."
Her smile remaining gentle as she toys with her bag, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... There, not too much of an overestimate on my part. My congratulations, as well, on having seen another year. Did you celebrate it?"
Adjusting your sizeable leather backpack on her shoulder, the ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses the floor back to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's side.
With a smile of thanks, you look up at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
This man has his tidy black hair tied with worn leather and braided
into a style worn for battle. Tightly plaited, his warbraid is centered and hangs between his neat tapered shoulders. His build is trim and sinewy, and what he lacks in imposing size he makes up for with volatile, jumpy reflexes. The sun's glare has touched his skin, leaving his complexion a mild bronze tan. Strong features are cleanly shaven, centered by a slightly oversized aquiline nose. The swirling essence of smoke is captured in the grey-blue irises of his eyes.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man is in excellent condition.
Shaking his head, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I did not. When I said I did, it was only a colloquialism."
Inclining her head up to him, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord. It is a pity, given how many men of your profession have not had your skill."
Arching a brow, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Men of my profession? Against whom are you judging me? Lyksaes?"
With a creased brow, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"No, my Lord. Those who take a soldier's life, waging wars and learning the arts of combat. Nobility or common, it is not an easy life."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head back, craning it to look up to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's eyes.
Shaking his head softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I lead soldiers, but have never claimed to be one myself. I am a strategist... a tactician."
Walking to the northern door again, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You never met my cousin Lord Palimus. Now that was a noble soldier."
Fondness warming her crystal-like tone, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"As you wish, my Lord. How you spend your moments of celebration should always be in the manner you most desire, even if it is in quiet."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man smiles softly over at you.
Falling a step behind him, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I did not have the pleasure, it is true. A noble soldier?"
Gesturing to a tun of water, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Top off the skin I provided for you. Yes, Lord Palimus could not be defeated in single combat. He would personally slay many men on the battlefield. In truth, I am an exception to the rule in my family, leading from the back as I do."
As she dips the waterskin into the barrel of water, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... You have alluded to your family's military prowess - both in combat and tactically - in the past. It is a pleasure to hear of the stories that prove it."
Leveling a finger, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"But my victories are the cleanest. I lost not a single man in the eradication of the renegade mul outpost."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman presses a finger to her lips, drying the loose droplet of water there.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods at you.
Glancing to his finger, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Exceptional, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods at you.
Voice softening, after a pause, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Is there anything you would like me to know, during this journey, my Lord? Appropriate behavior, duties..."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Well... I had done well to keep you unaware of our destination. I shall have to reconsider some things now that you are."
Gesturing to the rotund, cheery-eyed cook, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Gather some rations for yourself. There is food and water on the wagon, but if you can sustain yourself without breaking open those supplies, all the better."
Inclining her head up to him, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord, and I understand your caution."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the rotund, cheery-eyed cook a polite smile as she crosses over to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The lizards are quite hardy, and keep well."
With a polite smile, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord. Thank you for the recommendation."
With a glance back to him, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... May I ask the anticipated length of this excursion?"
You put your small, roasted barakhan lizard into your sizeable leather backpack.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands at the agafari counter.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It is open-ended. The duration will be dictated by the completion of my objectives, and not by time spent away from Allanak."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman nods, closing her bag as she returns to her place at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's side.
Pausing thoughtfully, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I shall have someone feed your birds. Syure will be along, and probably best they not be."
With a soft murmur of agreement, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I would appreciate that, my Lord, deeply."
(And, again, they are off... but this time not back to the barracks as Aja expected. He takes her outside the Academy gates and, presumably, toward the wagonyard.)
You raise the hood of a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
From beneath the relative protection of her hood, the figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak tilts her head to glance through loose grains of sand to the sky.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"There are a number of newly transferred Templars, each trying to make a larger name for himself than his fellows."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Best, I think, if you are unobtrusive as we walk."
After a pause, her voice soft, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man glances over at the blockish, olive-drab dwarf, giving him a wordless signal with his eyes.
Your mood is now uneasy.
The blockish, olive-drab dwarf nods silently and takes a step back to walk near you.
(hemote) Tension lingers in the figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak's shoulders beneath your hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
You think:
"... Why did I wish for this?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks critically up and down the road, then sets off to the west.
You think:
"... Why am I doing this?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you.
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak watches the passing stones below her feet from beneath the shadows of her hood.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks along quietly beside the keg-bellied female dwarf.
You think:
"... I hate... this..."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man steps out onto the plaza and cuts a path across it.
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak walks in silence amidst the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's guards.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods over to the silver-haired, narrow-eyed man in passing.
The keg-bellied female dwarf uses her shield to clear a loitering group of peasants near the intersection of roads.
Jerking his chin at a mid-sized, dark-wood argosy, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Salarr."
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak glances to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man from beneath her hood and nods.
You think:
"... Please, let me go..."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks to the back of a small, black-hide and mekillot-rib wagon.
On a Boarding Plank [U Leave Quit Save]
This large semicircular deck allows for the boarding of this caravan wagon, and is equipped with a guardrail and a small alcove for a guard. A round trapdoor leads upward into the wagon, and a small extendable ramp eases the way off of the wagon. Tangles of casting lines and giant hair
ropes provide a netting for climbing upwards and also for securing the wagon against the vicious sandstorms which whip across the deserts.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak lets out an inaudible breath.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods firmly to the wiry, scar-laden man as he crosses the deck and approaches the portal.
Stopping at the back of the cargo hold and looking out over it, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Alright then..."
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak turns, craning her head back to look up to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man - her hood sliding back from her face in the process.
You lower the hood of a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
Your mood is now anxious.
Pointing to a padded cloth hammock, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That hammock and the chest beneath it comprise my personal space."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to a padded cloth hammock with a nod of acknowledgement.
You feel as though it would be easier to look at the Warlord without a slave's collar on.
Pointing to the chest by the table, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Food stuffs are stored there"
Following his hand, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Will a cook be responsible for preparing meals?"
Shaking his head, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"No. There is a grill there we can pull out onto the deck, but most of the food is already cooked and will keep a while."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman makes a soft murmur of agreement as she resumes her 'inspection' of the Cargo Hold.
Walking over to the chest near the back of the hold, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And here is the general supply chest."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman joins the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, keeping to his side as she looks through the contents of a bone sided chest.
Nodding to the chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You may use one of the bedrolls within"
With a flickering smile, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Thank you, my Lord."
Gesturing around, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Find a place to settle down for the night, and store it neatly during the day."
Again glancing over the room, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I'll keep out from underfoot, my Lord."
Nodding to the hulking, white-maned man, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Silver Scorpion Kabbot is in charge here. If you have a problem, ask him. And do not be shy to alert him when you need to pour out the chamber pot."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman greets the hulking, white-maned man with a respectful nod.
Looking back to him, her features untroubled, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a thumb along the hem of her cloak.
(He gives her lengthy instructions on caring for the supplies, materials, food, and various other stuffs left laying around.)
Offering you a smile as he walks to a padded cloth hammock, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Now then... I find I sleep better here than most places. You may get aquainted with your surroundings, quietly, while I rest."
You say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... If I may, I don't know how many will be accompanying you on this trip. Are there restrictions to my interactions with them? I have no desire to overstep my bounds, but I do not wish to leave a responsibility unfulfilled."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Only Erzsebet and one Cadet are expected."
A faint smile on her lips as she glides into an eloquent bow, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Thank you, my Lord. I bid you a pleasant rest."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The Cadet will have more restrictions than you, and should not even be in here without accompaniment."
Lifting a finger, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I will warn you."
As she straightens, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord?"
Rasping softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Luirs is not my only stop. If you have any ideas of leaping off the wagon when it stops, and making a dash, you may well find yourself in gith territory, or some other unknown and outlandish wasteland."
Her tone patient, calm, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I wouldn't dream of it, my Lord."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with thoughtful, pale eyes.
Removing his scabbards and pulling himself up into the hammock, speaking behind the wall created by the keg-bellied female dwarf and the blockish, olive-drab dwarf standing shoulder to shoulder in front of him, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I shall speak with you soon, dear Aja."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
You think:
"... Was this a mistake?"
It is before dawn on Abid, the 3rd day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 24 years, 2 months, and 138 days old,
Continue Reading...
Memoir #10 - The Man in the Ivory Mask (???)
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...
Continue Reading...Memoir #11 - The City Elf
Added on Oct 24, 2009Aja hasn't improved at managing elves - particularly the unusually intriging ones - since her days as an Apprentice,
You are Aja, of many people.
Objective: To persuade Muk to give her a child.
You are 36 years, 2 months, and 29 days old,
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den [NESW Quit]
A haze of sweet-smelling spice dominates this circular chamber, tantalizing your senses with its seductive allure. The room has been fashioned into a large circle, set halfway within the grasp of the hard packed earth. The walls are lined with long baobab planks, stained a rich, earthen hue that add to the relaxing atmosphere of the den. A line of plush, silken pillows and stuffed mattresses have been strewn about the entire room, providing welcome arms to any that would enjoy their purchase immediately.
A wooden ramp, covered in thick rugs of woven cloth, leads to an impressive circle of raised stone in the center of the room. In the middle of the circle stands a small area for a merchant to conduct their business from several stations about the stand.
Along the walls lay several dim, oil lamps marking the path along the ramp that leads up and out of the den. A small stage curves along the northeastern wall, a polished agafari pole affixed in the middle of it.
An empty dark red bottle lies here covered in dust.
A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on the wall.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You think:
"... Mm."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"And here I thought I would serve as a lure to your entrance."
Resting an elbow on the back of the couch, the ethereal, fair-haired woman closes her eyes, a soft breath escaping her.
contact morn
You contact the graceful, platinum-haired man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"Hm? Good day, Morn, I mean to say. Is all well?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes tighten.
Somebody brushes past you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a few fingers along the back of her neck before her free hand lifts to press a thumb and forefinger at her eyes.
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"That it is, Seeker Aja. The day finds you well also?"
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"Always, always. Busy, I suppose. New students and new lessons to give."
Opening her eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her attention wander over the crowded room, features untroubled.
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ah, good to know that the circle works diligently to liven the streets of the Ivory."
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"To liven the streets? Hm, we do, though I wonder if those are my particular brand of instruction."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a slow, calming breath.
You think:
"Please, don't find me. Please, don't find me."
The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak has arrived from the west, resolutely moving down the rampway.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman twists a few strands of hair around her fingers, pale eyes lost and distracted.
Sweeping deeper into the hazy den, the very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak slows his stride to pluck up the empty bottle before settling unto an empty pillow.
The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak picks up a dark red bottle.
The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak sits on a black silk pillow.
Closing her eyes, features practicedly tranquil, the ethereal, fair-haired woman shifts her hand to rub at the back of her neck, elbow propped on the back of the couch.
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"I did have a matter I wished to speak with you on. Aja, do you possess a flute?"
The sleek, dark male lowers the hood of a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"... A flute? Hm. Not at the moment, I... think. No."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, irritably.
You think:
"... For pity's sake."
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Well, isn't that fine news."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her head hang forward, a quiet groan escaping her lips.
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"... Is it?"
Touching a gloved thumb and forefinger to her eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head back, letting it rest against her arm.
Thrusting a slender index finger into its mouth, the sleek, dark male turns his dark red bottle upside down and idly contemplates it in his comfortable lounge.
(hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck sinks into her slender shoulders.
Shaking her head a few times, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lowers her hand, attention travelling over the room.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a deep, calming breath of the spice-scented air.
Chuckling in a self-amused baritone, the sleek, dark male swats at the bottle with his other hand, setting it to spinning upon his finger.
Fleetingly, through a gap in the crowds, you look up at the sleek, dark male.
Dark and sleek, this elf's taut physique mimics the lean, balanced proportions of some deep-waste hunting beast. Tell-tale marks of weather-wearing are found in the myriad tiny sand-speckling scars across his exposed skin and by the premature squint creases at the corners of his narrow, liquid-green eyes. Black-haired and dusky skinned, this elf displays the deliberate, spare efficiency and posture of someone who knows their own body well.
The sleek, dark male is in excellent condition.
The sleek, dark male is using:
<worn around neck> a tortoiseshell gorget
<worn across back> a rough canvas backpack
<worn on arms> a pair of gith-toothed armguards
<worn on hands> a pair of shell-backed gloves
<secondary hand> a curved agafari shield
<worn around body> a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak
<worn on legs> a pair of rough canvas pants
<worn on feet> a pair of grey hide boots
You think:
"Mm... welcome to the Tooth."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Lowering her hand, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets it drape over the instrument at her side, attention falling to an, oh, so interesting spot on the floor.
The sleek, dark male stops holding his curved agafari shield.
You feel that you just want to be... inconspicuous.
The sleek, dark male swats at the spinning treasure of the vineyard a few more times building up speed to its rotations.
Save for the gloved hand that twists, periodically, through a few thin strands of hair, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the floor, motionless.
Shifting his narrow eyes for just a split-second, the sleek, dark male looks up at a human Tuluki soldier.
You begin watching the sleek, dark male.
At a black silk pillow, you overhear the sleek, dark male say in sirihish, murmuring:
"... ah... and now?"
(hemote) A garish red-violet bruise mars the skin beneath the ethereal, fair-haired woman's left jaw.
Grinning and leaning his head back to consider you upside down and his black hair streaming over the end of the pillow, the sleek, dark male looks down at you.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks an emotionless smile, only a hint of wryness to it.
Even inverted so, the sleek, dark male manages a pretty respectable tip of his sharp chin in pleasant acknowledgement to you before his spinning bottle requires a few more swats.
Stirring, recollecting herself and her surroundings, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her attention to watch over the room from her quieter corner with nary a blink in the sleek, dark male's direction.
You think:
"... I do wonder what he's doing, however."
In a pleasant sing-song, the sleek, dark male says, in sirihish:
"Purple Cross amidst rubies strewn.... tinkling bard's bells..."
(hemote) Briefly, through periodic gaps in the crowded room, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the motion of the sleek, dark male's bottle on the floor.
The sleek, dark male breaks off the end of a dark red bottle, leaving a dangerous looking piece.
In that same pleasant sing-song, the sleek, dark male says, in sirihish:
"... and so the exit must be soon."
l self
The ethereal, fair-haired woman is in excellent condition.
<worn in hair> a trailing glossy crimson ribbon
<face> a black rose tattoo
<worn in right ear> a coiling, emerald-adorned ivory ear cuff
<worn around neck> a necklace of glass bells
<throat> a purple cross tattoo
<worn across back> a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel
<worn on hands> a pair of long, ruby-adorned ebony gloves
<worn around body> an ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat
<worn on legs> a flowing white linen skirt
<worn on feet> a pair of soft, ruby-buckled boots
Features serene, untroubled, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches a nearby table, head leaning into her arm.
Rolling over to his side, the sleek, dark male tucks away the remaining fragment within on outer pocket.
You think:
"Finally... seclusion..."
(hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck melts away.
Continuing his roll to end up boots beneath himself, the sleek, dark male stands up from a black silk pillow.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rubs idly at her neck with one hand, a quirk of a content smile flitting across her features.
You think:
"No Morn... no Peli... How did I ever become so lucky in this?"
You think:
"Not even a Lindrick. My."
Stalking the long-way about the circular perimeter, the sleek, dark male makes a point of passing before your couch.
(hemote) Periodically, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her attention travel over the crowds and the sleek, dark male nearest her, attentive if untroubled.
With a flick of a glance up to him, you look up at the sleek, dark male.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman draws her legs closer to the couch, crossing them beneath your flowing white linen skirt.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand stills against your creamy white, leather instrument case, tensing.
Pausing, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"No... no. Your manners are marvelous. But misplaced."
With a long pause, pale eyes mirthless while she looks up at him, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"... Perhaps I should place them elsewhere, then."
You think:
"... So much for my peace."
You feel that there's a reason that you never come here.
His baritone gentled and polite, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"I was passing to find the source of the mint. Not, Circle Bard, to inconvenience you. Your graciousness, I am sure, will find a more worthy recipient."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's body stiffens, jaw working to one side.
Somebody brushes past you.
With a brief dip of her chin, attention travelling down to his side, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"... I'm sure."
After a single, obviously manufactured-for-effect step away before turning back to a plush, embroidered couch, the sleek, dark male exclaims to you, in sirihish:
"Oh!"
You think:
"He wouldn't try anything. Not here."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman jumps, starting, at the sudden shattering of glass.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances back up to the sleek, dark male, features impassive, only mildly at best curious.
The sleek, dark male asks you, in sirihish:
"COULD I ask for some guidance?"
With that still impassive look, voice coming on a quiet breath, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"I suppose that is up to you."
You feel that he's got you jittery.
(hemote) Sardonic humor flashes across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes.
Inclining the nod, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"May I ask -you- for guidance, then. To be more correct."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's mouth twists, sardonic humor lingering alongside consternation.
Linking gloved hands around one knee while she looks up to him, tone patient, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"You may, though I doubt I'm of use to you."
The sleek, dark male gets his whitened bone key from his desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes follow the movement of the sleek, dark male's hands with practiced indifference.
Your mood is now frustrated.
Producing and passing over his whitened bone key, careful to hold a polite distance, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"It is use to His City that interests me, today."
The sleek, dark male gives you his whitened bone key.
Lifting a gloved hand and retracting it as easily with the key, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"... With a lock to open?"
More to herself, looking at the key, you say, in sirihish:
"How novel."
The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:"Worth anyone's attention, do you imagine? A key to an annoying stronghold outside the Scaien Walls."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips part, a soft breath escaping them...
Turning the key in her hand before glancing to his shoulder, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:"An interesting find. I can keep it for the appropriate hands."
(hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck, so recently gone from her posture, sinks into her slender shoulders beneath your ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat.
You notice the sleek, dark male start watching you.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
You think:"He knows who I am..."
You feel frustrated.
You think:"... All I wanted was peace. A bit of seclusion. And a Krath-accursed -elf- finds me here!"
His empty hand still slightly before his body, the sleek, dark male asks you, in sirihish:
"And that, then is what becomes of my great find?"
With a mild lift of her forehead, while her pale eyes travel up his hand to his face without hurry, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:"... You had another plan in mind in giving it to me?"
A male whore disappears into a crowd of rugged looking men and women.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck has to crane back at an uncomfortable angle to look up at the sleek, dark male.The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"I did. I thought to gain understanding. Not lose property, Circle Bard."
With a slender curve of her warmthless smile, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"But this property can have no value to you if kept. My favor is better earned."
Smoothly, adding a velvet chuckle at the end, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"But, then... I suppose I will gain some understanding either way. "
You think:
"This... is... simply ghastly."
You feel that elves are the great joke played upon the Known World. Only slightly after tregils.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's smile doesn't reach her pale eyes, which watch over the sleek, dark male with attentive calm.
The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"You are wrong on at least one of those two statements you just made."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's thumb grazes the contours of the key.
You notice: The sleek, dark male resets his trim shoulders with a slight roll, recentering his balanced posture.
You notice: The sleek, dark male exhales slowly a moment.
With a still-patient, strained smile, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"... It has been known to happen from time to time."
You notice: The slightest twitch at the corners of the sleek, dark male's mouth hints that last statement tickled him.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's posture tenses, pale eyes narrowing with caution.
You think:
"I can't so easily let this go."
The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"A gift. A well-placed gift, where it really does have a better chance of doing the most good."
You think:
"You aren't His Legions, Aja. Don't get yourself killed."
Gracious and oily in about equal measures, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"So be it."
With a slight tilt of her head, pale eyes never truly leaving him, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"I'll see it delivered, then. But with whose compliments?"
(hemote) Though tension remains throughout her neck and shoulders, the ethereal, fair-haired woman relaxes marginally back into the couch, no longer ready to spring.
A male whore disappears into a crowd of rugged looking men and women.
The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"We'll both trust your wisdom, there. To explain the why, the how and who. I really -have- overextended any reasonable expectation of tolerance."
With a fleeting, faint twist of her smile up to him, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"Yes, by all means. Do enjoy your recovery."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman narrows her eyes, dryly and sardonically amused.
Twisting up another well-practiced, inoffensive smile, the sleek, dark male backs two steps further away from a plush, embroidered couch, before turning to continue his path around the perimeter.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances away from the sleek, dark male, attention falling to the key and then elsewhere in the room.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, wryly, irritably.
You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"My pardon, High Templar. Is there an opportunity to meet with you but for a minute at most? I may have something that belongs to you."
Reaching his hands up to grip the fabric of his cloak, and gaining a decidedly jaunty step upon exiting the den, the sleek, dark male walks west.
You are Aja, of many people.
Objective: To persuade Muk to give her a child.
You are 36 years, 2 months, and 29 days old,
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den [NESW Quit]
A haze of sweet-smelling spice dominates this circular chamber, tantalizing your senses with its...
Continue Reading...Memoir #5 - The Silver Scorpion (Iaelimar)
Added on Mar 16, 2009Now a servant-slave who tends to the Tor Academy barracks, Aja receives an unexpected visit from the Silver Scorpion overseeing her captivity.
It is dawn on Yochem, the 18th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 23 years, 0 months, and 153 days old,
A Large Work Room [NS Save]
Tall walls of red stone rise upwards proudly, proclaiming their protection of the entrance hall to a large building. The floor is made up of tightly fitted black stone slabs, carefully hewn into square tower shields. Upon each of the shields is a finely etched scorpion, the small grooves kept free of sand by constant vigilance. A long table of baobab runs north to south, before the western wall. Upon the table are a variety of tools for repairing armor and weapons. Before the eastern wall is a long counter, topped with grey slate acting as a work area. Positioned carefully along the east and western walls are jade sconces cupping small crystals, casting a pale green light across the chamber.
The immense, braid-bearded man has arrived from the north.
The sturdy, black-skinned dwarf closes the door from the other side.
Pausing her work, the ethereal, fair-haired woman straightens and casts the immense, braid-bearded man a polite smile.
The immense, braid-bearded man halts within the door, pulling off his ruby-red, scorpion-emblazoned plate helm and tucking it under his arm before running a gauntleted hand over his bald head that glistens with sweat.
The immense, braid-bearded man stops using his ruby-red, scorpion-emblazoned plate helm.
Her broom held loosely at her side, you ask the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"... Is all well?"
Glancing over the room, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Morning, Aja. Everything well?"
With a flicker of amusement in her pale eyes, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Yes, Silver. Thank you for asking."
Nodding once, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Good, good."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the immense, braid-bearded man with patient attention, her broom relaxed at her side and the barest hint of a smile toying at the corner of her mouth.
You notice: The immense, braid-bearded man looks you over carefully, thin lips pursing briefly.
As he moves forward with slow steps, the immense, braid-bearded man looks down at you.
(hemote) From beneath her collar, the ethereal, fair-haired woman swallows, a subtle waver to her flawless posture.
Moving around you slowly, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"How long have you been in confined space now, Aja? Two years? Three?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's head inclines back to keep her eyes on the immense, braid-bearded man's own, curiosity evident enough in them.
In her soft, crystal-like voice, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Yes, I believe so. Time passes strangely here."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns her head, keeping her eyes on the immense, braid-bearded man, although she doesn't move from her spot.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow knits ever so slightly.
Nodding his head lightly, shifting his grip on his ruby-red, scorpion-emblazoned plate helm, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I imagine. Seeing Suk-krath's light is not the same as being under it."
Coming to a halt directly beside you, turning his broad form to face your side, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"How do you feel about that confinement?"
Gaze flickering, just for a second, as she studies his features, you ask the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"I feel as I must, that it is a necessity. Why this line of questioning, Silver?"
(hemote) A subtle tension rests in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's shoulders.
Seemingly ignoring your question, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"All this time. Krath. I've heard of no attempts to escape. Have there been any?"
Her posture flawlessly correct, motionless save for the slight rise and fall of her chest, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"None."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
You notice: The immense, braid-bearded man's amber eyes flicker over you again, his weight shifting.
His voice and expression unchanged, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Why not?"
You notice: The immense, braid-bearded man leans forward the slightest bit, his attention unwavering on you.
Her voice crystalline, calm, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Because it would not be the right decision."
You feel warm. Very, very warm.
You think:
"What a foolish answer..."
Tilting his head to the side, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Why not?"
Voice softening a touch, patient, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Because I want to go home, and because I owe the Warlord my life. I would have no hope for life as a fugitive from this one."
A few distracting strands of hair fall across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes, but she makes no move to brush them away.
A gauntleted hand lifting to flick against your collar, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You hope for release, then?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's head jerks, ever so slightly, the immense, braid-bearded man's motion sparking a reaction from her.
Patient fascination in her pale eyes as she watches him, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Always."
Moving slowly around in front of you, then turning to face you again, head tilted forward for his amber eyes to blaze into your features, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Enslaved for spying, yes? What makes you so sure release will be coming?"
Her head craning back as far as it will permit to be able to meet his eyes, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"I have no assurance. No promise. I have only hope... and I was not enslaved for spying."
The last words of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's come at a crisper tone.
Squinting suddenly, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I was told differently. Educate me, if you will."
In her soft, crystal-like voice, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"I would not presume to do so. If I were a spy, Silver, it would have been death and not slavery that entrapped me. The accusation has been made often, but never substantuated, as I have insisted upon..."
Voice softening, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"... innocence."
Deep voice even as he remains still with attention set on you, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Often. Why should you be enslaved while every other northern worker and visitor remains free, here?"
(hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck spreads to her shoulders.
Pale eyes flickering down to his chin, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"I cannot speak to that."
You feel a flash of pain.
You notice: The immense, braid-bearded man's amber eyes shift subtly back and forth, looking directly into each of your own intently.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand tenses around her broom, knuckles growing a paler shade of white.
Your mood is now hurt and defensive.
Features turning slightly to the side before he leans in slightly, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Explain that. You can't, won't, or there is no answer?"
Crystalline voice fracturing, just a touch, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"I do not know the answer and I will not speculate as to my Lord's motivations."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's head cants the opposite direction to accomodate the immense, braid-bearded man's motion, her gaze meeting his own once again.
You feel your heart pounding.
Narrowing his gaze as he leans in further, his deep voice lowering with the proximity of his features to your own, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Do you know how release is even considered, Aja? What makes an owner feel it is earned? That..."
The immense, braid-bearded man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"...word, 'earned', is a clue."
Her gaze steady, serene, although her voice becomes forced, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"By good service, I believe is the answer."
Voice lowering, you whisper to the immense, braid-bearded man in sirihish:
"Why this line of questioning?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's posture is rigid now and still - although, her breathing is a shade faster than it was previously.
A hand lifting to your collar again, keeping your features in place as he straightens again, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Good service, and trust. Trust is earned in itself. Good service is recognized step by step."
Lowering his hand slightly, glancing down at the open palm before it returns to his side, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Soon, a page of the Warlord will be coming into contact with you. You will be accompanying the Warlord on a trip."
Amber eyes intent on you, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It is the first step, a first motion of true trust, on his part. I -will- be watching you like a verrin hawk of your plains watches its prey to insure it is not betrayed."
With the immense, braid-bearded man's hand away from your scorpion-emblazoned slave's collar, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gives only a shallow nod of acknowledgment, her pale eyes resuming an attentive polity.
With a slight lift to her brow, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"... Silver, a day may come when you no longer feel it necessary to intimidate me into good behavior. It is my sincere hope that it comes soon."
Lifting his ruby-red, scorpion-emblazoned plate helm back over his head, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The -possibility- of your release begins here. An attempt to escape results in less favorable consequences. Use the chances you're give-..."
The immense, braid-bearded man places his ruby-red, scorpion-emblazoned plate helm on his head.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's posture remains tensed, muscles rigid from her neck and down through her arms and shoulders.
Watching him still, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"... Thank you for the advice, Silver."
Attention unwavering, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"This is my investigation, Aja. This is my warning, my advice. This is me working for security. That statement does nothing to prevent further 'intimidation', only your actions will. Clear?"
A soft breath of air escaping her lips, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Silver, you speak of things I know well and will speak on them again, I have no doubt. But as I hope for release, I must also hope that you see me as something other than a woman trying to kill you."
Your mood is now wearied.
Glancing you over, the immense, braid-bearded man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"If I ignored possibilities that did not seem likely based on appearance, I would not be a Silver, nor would I likely be alive, Aja. Now...are we clear, that I -will- be observing you closely?"
Voice level as she inclines her head to him, you ask the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"I would have it no other way, Silver. If... I might ask, this trip - What is its destination?"
You think:
"Impossible southern soldiers."
His features impassive as he eyes you, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The Warlord's page will give you that information if he deems it necessary. You may resume your work, Aja."
As he turns back to the door, striding briskly, the immense, braid-bearded man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Good work."
The faintest hint of a smile crossing her lips, you say to the immense, braid-bearded man, in sirihish:
"... Be well, Silver. And thank you for your company."
The immense, braid-bearded man opens the door.
The immense, braid-bearded man walks north.
Features serene, the ethereal, fair-haired woman stares after the door before returning mechanically to her work.
It is dawn on Yochem, the 18th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 23 years, 0 months, and 153 days old,
A Large Work Room [NS Save]
...
Continue Reading...Memoir #4 - The Senior Lady (Ceylara)
Added on Mar 16, 2009The conclusion of an exercise in Stockholm Syndrome, a Senior Lady of Borsail demonstrates how to break a northern slave.
(Aja has spent more than two months locked in a single room, with company scarce and no sun or moons to tell day and night apart. At the last meeting with her Senior Lady, she broke into hysterics, mind crumbling at this timeless existence. She’d begged her new mistress for sunlight. That was four weeks ago.)
Servants' Quarters [E Quit Save]
In comparison with some of the other rooms onboard the wagon, this one would seem to have little in the way of accommodations. That comparison aside, these quarters are actually far from spartan. Ten moderately cushioned cots line the east wall, at the end of each is a simple wooden chest. Some wall-mounted torches flicker over two simple tables along the north wall. A thick gizhat-skin rug lines the middle of the floor, its crimson hue seeming darker in the torchlight.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks at the ceiling as she walks, her features serene.
You think:
"Flawless peace."
You think:
"How often I once wished for this."
You think:
"What will I do when it goes away?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman doesn't turn around when she reaches the opposite wall. She bends back, both hands pressing to the floor.
After executing a crisp handstand, the ethereal, fair-haired woman turns and lands on her feet, again, to continue her walk.
You feel strained.
The slight, silver-crowned woman has arrived from the east.
The feminine, smooth-featured man has arrived from the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pauses her 'stroll' to dip into an eloquent bow in the slight, silver-crowned woman's direction.
You think:
"Flawless."
Regarding the bow, the slight, silver-crowned woman looks at you.
Voice soft as she straightens, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"A pleasure to see you, my Lady."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are lined by dark cricles.
You feel nervous.
With a fond little smile, the slight, silver-crowned woman asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Of course it is. Exercise once again, hm?"
Amusement creeping into her eyes, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lady."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman touches your slave's collar, shifting it to the other side of her neck before folding her hands in front of her.
Glancing aside at the muscled man with a patchwork face for a moment, then back, the slight, silver-crowned woman asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Are you getting adequate rest?"
With practiced ease, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"It is more than peaceful here, my Lady. Thank you for the inquiry."
You think:
"She'll see through this like clear glass."
Your mood is now eager.
Recollecting herself as she gestures with one hand, you ask the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"My apologies. May I offer you a seat?"
Blinking suddenly, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I may have to cut this visit shorter than I intended. But come."
You now follow the slight, silver-crowned woman.
The slight, silver-crowned woman beckons the muscled man with a patchwork face.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes a step forward, caution as well as curiosity in her smile.
Moving to the door, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I gave my word to you on something, and so I shall keep it."
The slight, silver-crowned woman walks east.
You follow the slight, silver-crowned woman, and walk east.
(Walking... outside... through the arabet to the gardens...)
You feel hopelessly overjoyed.
Crystal-like voice too-level, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"How... kind of you to remember."
You think:
"... Pymlithe..."
Looking aside with a lifted brow, the slight, silver-crowned woman asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Don't you think?"
Cracking a smile, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"Only when you wish me to."
You feel deliriously happy.
Her expression souring a bit, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"This is hardly the attitude I would expect when receiving a gift."
With a glance to her, her tone gentle, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"My Lady, I hardly know how to thank you appropriately."
(hemote) A subtle tension rests in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the doorway a casual glance.
As she steps out into the light and off the boarding plank, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Humble respect is a good start."
The slight, silver-crowned woman leaves a massive, dark-crimson araba.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a deep breath.
In a soft voice, her attention torn between her and the wagon house, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"As you wish, my Lady."
You feel jittery.
Your mood is now deliriously happy.
It is a cool night.
The sky is clear.
A cool breeze blows from the east.
Jihae, the red moon, is high in the sky.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up at the sky, features serene.
Walking down the flagstone byway, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It will be dawn soon."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman swallows, the hands clasped behind her back holding tighter to each other.
After a pause, crystal-like voice tranquil, you ask the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"Of what day?"
Quietly, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
The ethereal, fair-haired woman nods, once, in acknowledgement as she looks back to the sky.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes narrow, her jaw clenched tight.
You feel overjoyed, miserable...
Stepping out toward the tiled courtyard, the slight, silver-crowned woman asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Before I took you into my grace, did you enjoy this city?"
Strain in her soft tone, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"I had little opportunity to experience it, my Lady."
Looking ahead, chin lifted as she watches the sky above, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"I spent most of my time in the compound."
Quietly, walking across the tiled courtyard, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Perhaps one day you shall see more from my side."
The Central Courtyard [NESW]
Leaping, cavorting waters dance in the light of Suk-krath before musically plunging back into a marble fountain. The random tessellations of the courtyard's flagstones seem to take on a mosaic pattern around its center, flaring out from the fountain circle like waves of flame from the disk of the sun. The entire Borsail estate is laid out before the eyes here. To the west is the central wing, the windows of its second story gazing down upon the courtyard from their point of vantage above the colonnade of a verandah. The estate's gates loom further to the east, between a guard house and wagon house, while the courtyard extends to the north and through the House gardens to the south, before reaching the two flanking wings.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale gaze wavers, the transluscent color shimmering.
After another pause, her steps timed to match her own, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"If you feel me an appropriate companion, I would be delighted to join you."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman swallows, taking in a deep breath through her nose.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the marble fountain, head turned away from the slight, silver-crowned woman.
With a small smile, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Not so much a companion, girl. But an attendant."
Gesturing toward a marble fountain, the slight, silver-crowned woman says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I thought you might find this a pleasing sight."
With an affirming noise, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"It is, my Lady. More than pleasing."
(hemote) Subtle creases line the ethereal, fair-haired woman's forehead.
You think:
"Sweet Krath..."
Recollecting herself, a slight hitch to her crystalline voice, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"The entire estate is very lovely, my Lady. You must be very proud."
You think:
"... It's beautiful..."
Looking towards you, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Out here, in the open.. this is your future, girl. Your old life is past. But you shall enjoy a new one. In the glow of my radiance, you might enjoy an existance few common souls could ever dream of."
Taking a few steps closer to the fountain and letting its mist blow across her face, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I take pride in my heritage, yes."
With soft anguish, never quite looking at her, you whisper to the slight, silver-crowned woman in sirihish:
"I don't..."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
Turning and looking at you with a lifted brow, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Go on."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns, arms folded over her waist as she takes in the rest of the estate.
In a firmer voice, the tension in it seeming to run down her neck and into her shoulders, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"... I am very... happy... to be able to see this, my Lady."
You think:
"Don't touch me."
Passing servants in crimson livery and collared slaves, some bare-skinned and others in silks, make wide circles as they pass around the slight, silver-crowned woman's entourage, pausing to bow low to her.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands motionless, wind tossing her hair about her face.
You think:
"I'm too..."
You feel ... overwhelmed.
Her tone soft and even somewhat gentle, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You seem too tense. I do not think that is what you began to say. Try again."
Chin lifting, further rigidity rising to her posture, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"Perhaps, my Lady, but the... meaning is the same. I'm... overwhelmed by your consideration."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman swallows before letting an inaudible breath escape her lips.
You feel like sobbing.
Stepping closer and looking into your eyes, the slight, silver-crowned woman asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I'm sure you are. But what was it you were going to say?"
Looking away, pale eyes disrupted by unfallen tears, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"I'm not certain. Some thoughts never have words... are never put to words."
Soft, pained, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"I don't... understand you. I don't... deserve this... So many I don'ts, my Lady. I don't think I know all of them."
Gently, in the tone a mother would speak to a child, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I would not expect you to know. Come with me."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inhales and nods, eyes turned again to the sky and away from the slight, silver-crowned woman.
Gazebo [NE]
A small gazebo, carved of pymlithe wood, its surface gracefully greyed by the touch of time, sits nestled among a cluster of blossoming trees, the clouds of flowers almost obscuring its roof. Two carved wooden benches, softened with a myriad of tiny overstuffed silk pillows, sit adjoining each other inside it. The air is sweet with the fragrance of the flowers, a heady almost intoxicating aroma which permeates the gazebo. Latticed sides allow glimpses of the garden to the north and east while still providing the occupants with a modicum of privacy. The softly rustling branches overhead are the only sound which competes with the glass wind chimes which hang from the eaves, singing softly.
A set of glass wind chimes sounds softly in the breeze.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns her head, recognition in her eyes.
You think:
"... pymlithe..."
The slight, silver-crowned woman makes her way over to a bench, waiting for the feminine, smooth-featured man to brush off its surface before she takes a seat.
The slight, silver-crowned woman sits on a carved cylini bench.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up at a set of glass wind chimes as she walks toward the slight, silver-crowned woman, but doesn't sit.
Nodding at a spot down the bench from herself, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You may sit."
After turning a cautious glance down to the slight, silver-crowned woman, you sit on a carved cylini bench.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a hand over the silk of the pillow at her side.
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, quietly:
"Confusion is natural for you. I imagine it may need to run its course."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a forced humor:
"My Lady, I suspect that this may be a... very long course to run here."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, with a soft chuckle:
"Perhaps. But I shall help it along as I can. Some things need to be broken down before they can be rebuilt."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman sits with flawless poise as she looks straight ahead, taking in the trees on the opposite side of the gazebo.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, wavering:
"Thank... you, my Lady."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, in a gentle, soothing voice:
"You need to let me help, though, sweet. Some things I cannot force. Others I cannot. Trust is in the latter."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, looking down at her hands, linked around one knee:
"... Why desire my trust, my Lady? It's yours if you desire it - it is already yours, in fact - but why desire it in the first?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman swallows, her breathing deep and level.
You feel overwhelmed.
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, leaning back and turning her own hazel gaze out towards the gardens:
"If I do not have it, I cannot give you much else than you have now. I cannot move this forward any farther, as I would like to."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, softly:
"I exist to be adored. That is why the Highlord brought me into being... to receive the adoration of all His city and the awe of the foreigners, in His name. How can I be what I am if I cannot hold the trust of my own slaves?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, brushing a regrowing strand of hair away from her cheek:
"... You have it, my Lady. How are you asking me to prove this?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman closes her eyes for a quiet moment, features never losing their accustomed serenity.
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, looking toward you:
"There is so much tension in you. So much stammering. You remind me of a crystal glass when I watch you... so close to simply breaking, but holding back, as if you are afraid to trust me to pick up the pieces."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, looking at the trees again when her eyes reopen:
"It is my place to carry burdens, my Lady, not share them. Your respect I desire, greatly."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, reaching out to rearrange the shortened strands of your hair behind your ear:
"Your burdens are of interest to me. Especially now, when you are so utterly dependent on my care."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, eyes closing at the slight, silver-crowned woman's touch, shoulders tensing, almost flinching back:
"I've... told... you, my Lady. I'm... happy..."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's steady breathing hitches, shuddering.
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, pausing the motion of her hand:
"Yet simple words are still so hard. Why?"
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, softly, her eyes locked on you:
"Have I not taken you in when you should have been executed? Have I not sheltered you, supported you? I have been your savior, yet you are still so frightened."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, faltering, one damaged hand holding lightly to the side of her face:
"Simplicity does not... mean ease, my Lady. You have... done all of these things and more, I know."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a sound like a groan, head bowing:
"It's not... fear that stills my voice..."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, tilting her head curiously:
"Then what?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, a heart-broken sound as she bends forward, arms folding on her knees as she buries her face into them.
In a voice of complete misery, you whisper to the slight, silver-crowned woman in sirihish:
"I'm... s-so... happy to be here..."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman shudders, back arching with quiet gasps for air as she sobs into her arms.
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, scooting down the bench and leaning down closer to you, her voice soothing, but probing:
"And it shames you. You're having trouble accepting it in the midst of what you knew before."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, body still bent as she presses fingers into her eyes, ineffectively pushing back tears:
"Worse... I'm not ashamed at all."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, no composure in her tear-stained, haunted face:
"I... don't... know how to serve you..."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, brushing a hand through your hair:
"Then.. why so sad? Serve me as I ask for it."
One of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands forms a tight fist, while the other continues to swat at the tears sliding down her face.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a helpless gasp of air, so very much like a laugh:
"I'm not... sad. I'm so... happy to be here..."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives another low noise, like a groan, and turns, pressing her forehead into the slight, silver-crowned woman's leg.
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, not shifting away, glancing down at you in curious sympathy:
"You should be, sweet. Keep talking. It will help us, knowing all this."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a feverish voice, broken by quieting sobs:
"It's so... perfect..."
Her voice rough, you whisper to the slight, silver-crowned woman in sirihish:
"The wind... the sky... the flowers in the air..."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's tears are hot, sinking into the material covering the slight, silver-crowned woman's leg.
You whisper to the slight, silver-crowned woman in sirihish:
"Thank you..."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, patting your shoulder gently:
"I did tell you I would show you."
A tragic smile lingers on the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips as she sits up, keeping flushed features and swollen eyes averted from the slight, silver-crowned woman.
The slight, silver-crowned woman gives the wet stain on her pair of silver-stitched, crimson-silk pants a brief glance, then reaches out to brush your tears away.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft, lyrical laugh, one hand reaching to still the slight, silver-crowned woman's hand:
"I'm... sorry... I... tried to not."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, with an amused laugh:
"It's just silk."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, rolling her reddened eyes skyward for a moment, knuckles wiping at them as she smiles:
"I meant the tears, my Lady. I'm not hysterical by nature."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, shaking her head:
"I understand. I think.. you needed it."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quirk of a smile hand lowering to gesture to the gardens:
"I needed this. There are so few things... but I needed this."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, casting the slight, silver-crowned woman a side-long, tear-streaked glance:
"... Thank you."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, dipping her head a bit as she smiles at you:
"I gave my word. Trust in me. Enjoy what you have here."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman relaxes back, reclining with casual elegance as her drying eyes look over the gardens.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, in a soft, gentle tone:
"As you wish, my Lady."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, amusement warming her voice:
"I've... been tasked with harder trials than that..."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, perking her sculpted brows:
"Oh? Such as?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, looking back to the slight, silver-crowned woman, her smile warm if still weak from tears:
"Harder than being asked to savor kindness, charm, and beauty? I believe the majority of my adult education has been less... pleasantly phrased."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, to you, tilting her head:
"I would have you tell me of that education, actually."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious inclination of her head:
"... Of the Circle?"
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, shrugging:
"All of it. Tell me the story of before."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, a rueful touch to her smile as one hand rubs the back of her neck, beneath your slave's collar:
""The story of before." That almost sounds like a song."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, in her soft, crystal-like voice:
"I don't know how much you know, my Lady. There are six Circles among my kin, and I am of the Driamusek."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, with a small smile:
"It almost does, doesn't it? Perhaps I shall have you sing for me one day."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a nod to the slight, silver-crowned woman:
"If you desire it, but singing was never my strongest virtue."
You think:
"... song bird..."
You think:
"... "A perfect pitch...""
(hemote) A shadow crosses the ethereal, fair-haired woman's thoughtful eyes and fades away again.
You think:
"Never again."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, with a shrug:
"For now the story shall suffice."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, hand brushing the silk pillow at her side:
"My mother was a Driamusek, and she decided that I would follow her. My entire life has been spent a bard, my Lady."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, in a patient tone:
"We all have our strengths and weaknesses, but there are six main areas of study. We call them "Arcs"."
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"Music, Song... Words, Acting, Lore, and Blades.."
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"A Master excels at all of them."
The slight, silver-crowned woman listens with thoughtful attentiveness, her gaze straying between you and the rest of the garden.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, arms folding over her waist without a drop of rigidity in them:
"Each of the Circles has their preferences... the Elkinhym, for example, do everything with a humorous bent."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a tragically lovely smile:
"My kin are much less... entertaining. We are the... teachers, in many respects. Tutors of the Chosen - ah, my pardon, of the nobility there."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, her brows lifting quickly at that:
"Really? Did you tutor any yourself?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a shake of her head:
"Oh, certainly not. Not as an Apprentice, no, but I did have the opportunity to teach some of the younger bards."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, with a blink, holding up a hand:
"Wait.. wait. You mean to tell me that the fake nobles have themselves tutored by commoners... and not even common servants of their own family?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, turning to address the slight, silver-crowned woman now, with a polite confusion:
"Yes, my Lady. In matters of etiquette, diplomacy... dance and music, many have had my kin as instructors."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, trying to restrain her amusement, though a few giggles bubble out anyway:
"Etiquette? Diplomacy? -Commoners-?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with evident mirth in her pale eyes:
"... Have you found my company so distasteful that the mere thought of being tutored by one of my superiors is unbelievable?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, shaking her head, smiling to herself:
"This place is so strange. In ways you, my Lady, are closer to your commoners than they would ever dream, and in others... It's challenging to navigate the boundaries of polite interaction."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, biting back a grin:
"The taste of your company has nothing to do with it at all. Think of what you're saying. That a common, lesser form of being would actually... actually be able to -instruct- a supposed noble.."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, shaking her head in sheer amusement:
"It's unthinkable. It's such a blatant contradiction. How could a superior caste take instruction from something beneath them?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a great deal of fondness and no sign of offense:
"And yet, I do not lie, my Lady. We cannot teach them how to lead, but for the lesser parts - those we can teach, while our leaders focus on other affairs."
You think:
"Such an incredibly strange place I've found."
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish:
"And even... about politics? Etiquette? What would a commoner know of such things, and how they apply to the life of supposed nobility?"
At your seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says in southern-accented sirihish, turning her focus back to you:
"I know you speak the truth. But surely you see the contradiction, the silliness of it."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a gentle, if apologetic, smile:
"I can see the... point you make, but I think I would have more to learn here - about how you live - before I'll be able to understand, I think."
Rising from her seat, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You'll tell me more about this later. And we shall help you to understand the fallacies and contradictions."
Pacing out of the gazebo, the slight, silver-crowned woman says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"For now... I have other business."
Falling into step at her side, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"I'll... look forward to it."
Servants' Quarters [E Quit Save]
In comparison with some of the other rooms onboard the wagon, this one would seem to have little in the way of accommodations. That comparison aside, these quarters are actually far from spartan. Ten moderately cushioned cots line the east wall, at the end of each is a simple wooden chest. Some wall-mounted torches flicker over two simple tables along the north wall. A thick gizhat-skin rug lines the middle of the floor, its crimson hue seeming darker in the torchlight.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman sighs as she steps back into the room.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns, dropping into a polite bow before the slight, silver-crowned woman.
Remaining in the doorway, the slight, silver-crowned woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Rest well."
Straightening, you say to the slight, silver-crowned woman, in sirihish:
"Be well, my Lady."
With a small smile, the slight, silver-crowned woman says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Always."
The slight, silver-crowned woman turns, motioning her guards to follow as she steps out.
(Aja has spent more than two months locked in a single room, with company scarce and no sun or moons to tell day and night apart. At the last meeting with her Senior Lady, she broke into hysterics, mind crumbling at this timeless existence. She’d begged her new mistress for sunlight. That was...
Continue Reading...Memoir #3 - The Conflicted Slave (Lao)
Added on Mar 16, 2009Exiled and captured in the south, Aja awaits her fate in her make-shift, windowless cell aboard the Borsail argosy.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 20 years, 2 months, and 60 days old.
It is dusk on Ocandra, the 155th day of the Ascending Sun,
In the Year of Suk-Krath's Slumber, year 32 of the 21st Age.
Servants' Quarters [E Quit Save]
In comparison with some of the other rooms onboard the wagon, this one would seem to have little in the way of accommodations. That comparison aside, these quarters are actually far from spartan. Ten moderately cushioned cots line the east wall, at the end of each is a simple wooden chest. Some wall-mounted torches flicker over two simple tables along the north wall. A thick gizhat-skin rug lines the middle of the floor, its crimson hue seeming darker in the torchlight.
The muscled man with a patchwork face looms here, features impassive.The ethereal, fair-haired woman sits up at the sound of the door, sliding out of the cot in a smooth motion.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman has half dropped into a bow before noticing the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man.
With a small smile, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Good morning, Aja."
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man looks down at you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman straightens, pulling down on the hem of your trim black linen vest as she inclines her head to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man with a polite smile.
You ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"Good... morning, Lao. How do you do?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat softly.
You think:
“Of all the underhanded ways to find out what time it is...”
As he looks about the room, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Hmm, thus far, thus good, I do suppose. And how about you?"
Regarding him with her quiet thoughtfulness, you ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"Good, I suppose, as well. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
As he moves to one of the tables, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I said I would come to visit, did I not?"
Taking a step after him, a hint of a smile in her tone, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"You did, but that does not mean that you would."
As he pulls a chair out, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I've often found in life that false promises oft come back to bite you, in the end."
Settling on a chair, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man sits down.
Taking a seat opposite the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, you sit down.
As she crosses her legs, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"Mm. I've been told many things for why people would seek my company, but... never... out of fear that I might bite them."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man a mirthful glance.
You feel like screaming.
With a mournful shake of his head, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Never fun getting bitten."
With a soft click of her tongue, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"I can't say I've had the experi - Oh, wait. No. My sister did once. I believe you may be right."
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man drums fingers against a sold shape beneath his aba.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I've an answer, to a concern of yours."
Voice softening, you ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... Oh?"
With a light nod, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It would see that you have pleased the great Lady thus far. She has chosen for you to live."
With a hint of a smile, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"For now, at least. Thank you for looking into this for me."
Reaching into the folds of his aba, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"She has also decided to make you her own."
Brow creasing, you ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... I beg your pardon?"
Her gaze both thoughtful and appraising, you look at the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man.
A slender form wrapped in swarthy skin, this young man appears more frail than hearty. Standing a bit taller than most at around five cords, a bow of his rangy shoulders shortens him some. His thick auburn hair is kept tied back with a leather thong and falls to his shoulder blades. Sunken eyes of a deep blue shade stand in contrast of the otherwise angular features of his face and high forehead. The point of his chin can be made out beneath long beard that covers just his lower jaw, through the three braids it has been parted in to. Thin lines of dark red and blue whorl across his cheeks, dipping down to his neck and curling around to the small of his back.
Removing the ring from within his aba, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man sets it down atop the table. He looks down at it for a long moment, with a slight furrow of brow and purse of lips.
Running a finger along his slave's collar, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"A personal slave, of the great Lady."
Watching the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man's hands, with practiced calm, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"I... see."
Looking back up to him, you ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"Like you?"
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man stares at his slave's collar for a long moment, before slowly lifting his gaze, looking at you with that same small furrow of brow.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Like me."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's gaze softens, just for a moment.
(And then he changes the subject, the conversation ranging from gardens to Tuluk to philosophy. They banter for hours, or what she guesses to be hours, with that ring of bone laying unmentioned between them, until, finally...)
In a smooth motion, her hip coming to rest against the side of the small table, you stand up.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man watches you with a touch of curiosity in his expression.
You notice: The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man frowns, just a bit, as his eyes float down to the collar set atop the table.
"Will you pardon me? Your... wit exhausts my mental reserves."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman trails off, as she glances down to the top of the table.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man takes in a slow breath, fingers closing around the collar as his gaze slowly lifts to you.
You ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... I suppose we should take care of that bit of business, hm?"
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man's face seems to drain of expression as he nods slowly, his chair easing back.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances from the ring, up his hands to his face.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man stands up.
You contact the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man:
"Don't look so forlorn. It's... nothing. A triviality."
The collar held rather tightly in his right hand, the fingers of his left slowly flexing and relaxing, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man approaches you, then steps around you, turning to stand behind you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands motionless, save for the slight rise and fall of her chest, head turned to one side to look over her shoulder at the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man's jaw sets, the movents of his hand stiff as his thumb flips the catch, opening the collar.
(hemote) The fingers of one of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands press into the table enough to turn her skin white at the fingertips.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man avoids your eyes as he raises his slave's collar. With an efficiency of movements, he brings the collar to your neck, and with the faintest of flinches, snaps it shut.
You bow your head, placing your slave's collar about your neck.
Voice fragile, even soothing, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... See? No matter at all."
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man's hand lingers for a moment, palm brushing against your shoulder, before it lowers to his side.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman swallows, the soft skin of her throat rising and falling.
This collar is the type normally worn by a slave. It is made of heavy bone, to serve as a constant reminder to the slave of the weight of their responsibility to the master. It has a sturdy clasp on the rear of the collar, reminding the slave that they are in service until released.
His own voice somewhat hoarse, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"No matter at all."
Shifting her weight to no longer lean against the table, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... I thought you were the one who said we were all slaves."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns, looking up to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man.
"It's heavy. You've carried this for too long."
His voice brusk as he turns, still avoiding you gaze, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"All all have weights that we must bare. I hope that your sleep is restful."
In her soft, crystal-like voice as she remains motionless, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... Let it go, Lao. And... enjoy a peaceful rest."
You notice: The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man stiffens at the gentleness of your tone.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw is tensed, the rigidity extending down her neck and into her shoulders.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man starts to lift a hand, perhaps to your shoulder. But then, without a word, he finishes his turn, and crosses the room to the door, his abnormally jerky movements filled with tension.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man walks east.
You think:
"... Some mountains are harder to understand than others."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the door with a thoughtful tranquility.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 20 years, 2 months, and 60 days old.
It is dusk on Ocandra, the 155th day of the Ascending Sun,
In the Year of Suk-Krath's Slumber, year 32 of the 21st Age.
Servants' Quarters [E...
Continue Reading...Memoir #2 - The Stranger in the Storm (Sand)
Added on Mar 16, 2009A stormy evening in a long week of wind-swept skies makes friends out of the most unlikely of people.
It is dusk on Barani, the 21st day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Suk-Krath's Slumber, year 32 of the 21st Age.
It is a warm night.
The sky is clear.
A mighty gale wind screams out of the south.
(On the streets near the Sanctuary...)
The twiggy, vividly-inked man wanders north along the road.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman walks, a hand along the wall for support as the winds push her forward.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man chuckles and shakes his head.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man exclaims to you, in sirihish:
"Ya'll make it lass, just keep goin'!"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, clearly having trouble standing as she smiles.
Sighing briefly, the twiggy, vividly-inked man asks you, in sirihish:
"Ya need a hand?"
Voice lifting to be heard above the winds, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"Oh, laugh it up, my friend..."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man walks across the road towards you, offering a hand as the wind blows his hair and cloak about him.
Resting her back against wall as she smiles to him, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"I live in the Circle... I couldn't take you so far away."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stumbles, righting herself with a brief flicker of annoyance.
Raising his voice as he nears, the twiggy, vividly-inked man asks you, in sirihish:
"Oh, bother, I could spare an hour or two. And if I don't..ya'd never tell me another story, yeah?"
You now follow the twiggy, vividly-inked man.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man offers his arm to you for support, his other holding his cloak.
With what seems like laughter, although its too soft to hear, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"Perhaps..."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes the twiggy, vividly-inked man's arm, wrapping both hands around it.
You contact the twiggy, vividly-inked man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the twiggy, vividly-inked man:
"I'll owe you a great debt for this."
Though not really a whisper as he raises his voice, the twiggy, vividly-inked man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Come now, think nothin' of it."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man pats your hand with a smile befoe walking eastward.
(The walk back to the Circle...)
The twiggy, vividly-inked man pushes along though the wind threatens to push him into one of the northern walls.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hair is flung about her face as she clings to the twiggy, vividly-inked man's arm like a lost reed.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man sends you a telepathic message:
"As I said, think nothing of it. You gave me good company, so this is me paying -my- debt in return."
You send a telepathic message to the twiggy, vividly-inked man:
"I think... my conversation comes easier than this walk. You do a good service to a bardess, my friend."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man sends you a telepathic message:
"Then remember me, and way my sorry sweat stained ass when you next perform so that I may watch."
You send a telepathic message to the twiggy, vividly-inked man:
"You have my word."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man peers to the east but instead turns northward with the wind whipping heavily against his back.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman drags her heels to keep from being flung forward by the winds.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's arms tighten around the twiggy, vividly-inked man's own.
You notice: The twiggy, vividly-inked man pulls his arm close, and thereby pulls you towards him.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man sends you a telepathic message:
"Keep close, or the winds will carry you off, like some loreshi reed, lass."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man squints as some sand and debris are blown down the road then proceeds to the east.
You send a telepathic message to the twiggy, vividly-inked man:
"... I'm lucky I can bear burdens with grace, or this would be mortifying, I think - although better than when I'm dropped to my knees from a sudden gust."
You notice: The twiggy, vividly-inked man tightens his lanky arm against the wind as he walks along.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man sends you a telepathic message:
"To your knees, lass? Now that's... hmm, nevermind that."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man chuckles to himself, though the sound is lost in the wind.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman walks with her head lowered, face half-turned to use the twiggy, vividly-inked man's shoulder as a shield.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man peers about as his shocks of hair are blown awry by the heavy winds.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man looks to the east then to the north and nods to himself brusquely.
(hemote) A brief, flickering, relieved smile crosses the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips.
Looking around quietly, the twiggy, vividly-inked man asks you, in sirihish:
"Almost...there...ya holdin' up?"
Voice blurring with the winds, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"Onl... ... cause of you."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man chuckles to himself then turns to the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman shakes her head a few times.
Stepping out of the gusting winds, the twiggy, vividly-inked man walks south.
You follow the twiggy, vividly-inked man, and walk south.
A Gated Entry [NS]
This small entrance is dominated by a large wooden gate. The gate was devised of long turned cylindrical posts. Painted white, there are no clues as to which type of wood was used, but each post is thick and strong. A bone panel is home to an oddly shaped keyhole. A small bush stands on either side of the gate, bracketing it.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man relaxes visibly and shakes his clothing lightly with his hands.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lets out a soft breath as she loosens her grip on the twiggy, vividly-inked man's arm.
His hair all sorts of wild as he casts a bright smile, the twiggy, vividly-inked man says to you, in sirihish:
"There! We survived! A tale to tell of things to be told...as tales...and...told, yeah."
Softly, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"This isn't my House, but... it does well enough."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man asks, in sirihish:
"Wait...not?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman runs a hand through her hair, pulling the tangled strands away from her face.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man says, in sirihish:
"Oooooh, oh oh yes."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man bites his lower lip then looks to the north.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man asks, in sirihish:
"Onward then?"
With amused confusion, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"No, I rent an apartment in the Driamusek House... and you have remarkable patience."
With a grand gesture, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"... If we must."
Looking back at you as he raises his eyebrows, the twiggy, vividly-inked man says to you, in sirihish:
"Patience? This? I walked to Luir's, half-ran, and back a few days later. This? This is nothin'."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man waves his hand at the door as though at a buzzing kankfly and chuckles.
With soft amusement to herself, you say, in sirihish:
"Well, I'm glad I rate better than a trip to Luir's."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man winks at you then cocks his head to the north.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man says, in sirihish:
"Let's be off, lass."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman restrings her arms around the twiggy, vividly-inked man's own.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man pulls you close as he gazes about the circle.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man glances at his hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak in passing then continues on his way.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man looks about then nods to himself before turning west.
Pulling herself up on his arm to speak near his ear, you whisper to the twiggy, vividly-inked man in sirihish:
"South side... near the Ghaati."
Raising his hand to point a finger with due diligence and regality, the twiggy, vividly-inked man shouts, in sirihish:
"TO THE GHATTI!"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman flinches, lowering her face again at a sharp wind, even as she laughs.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man nods firmly then continues on through the circle.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man pushes through the garden as the grass blows through the trees.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man squints his eyes, though lessening that as the wind dies a bit.
Close to the twiggy, vividly-inked man's side, the ethereal, fair-haired woman does her best to avoid scattered debris tossed by the winds.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman smiles, with evident relief.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man moves towards a purple brick building, giving a sharp, loud noise of finding.
The Courtyard of Driamusek Circle [Leave]
Lavender and amethyst marble pavestones form the flooring of this small but crowded courtyard, lined with small, silver-barked saplings, their leaves adrift with pale white blossoms. Servants rush to and fro on errands while a few bards sit on the steps leading up to the entrance, competing with their instruments. Unlike most of the other buildings of Poets' Circle, this building is made solely of claybrick, making its architecture short and squat, although sturdier than most. Above the wide front door, glazed onto a white ceramic plate, is the symbol of Driamusek Circle: a purple cross.
The austere, stiff-necked man is here, disdainfully watching his surroundings.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lets out a deep breath - and then inclines her head to the austere, stiff-necked man with a respectful motion.
Stepping into the courtyard, the wind a bit shielded, the twiggy, vividly-inked man says, in sirihish:
"There..here..and yes."
You whisper to the twiggy, vividly-inked man in sirihish:
"Master Olide..."
Tipping his head politely , the twiggy, vividly-inked man says to the austere, stiff-necked man, in sirihish:
"Master Olide, let me thank ya for allowin' such a lass as this to give me such wonderful company"
You notice: The twiggy, vividly-inked man winks faintly at you as he grins.
Not releasing her firm grip on his arm as she pulls him -away- from the austere, stiff-necked man, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"Ah... thank you, my friend. I do owe you greatly."
Hair scattered about her face, you ask the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"Will you be well to get to work, or did you need to rest a moment?"
Turning into you and shaking his head, the twiggy, vividly-inked man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Nah, not at all, ya paid any debt with yer wit, lass."
Looking back to the outside and blowing air out of his cheeks, the twiggy, vividly-inked man asks you, in sirihish:
"I think I should work...or starve and die without water, lass. But perhaps another time, yeah?"
With soft amusement, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"Not at all. Driamusek are born witless. We've no talent for humor."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man chuckles as he looks back at you.
With a deep nod, you say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"It would be a pleasure. Please be safe."
Nodding in return, the twiggy, vividly-inked man says to you, in sirihish:
"Take care, and until next time, lass, be safe in His Light."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman smiles, brushing a few of the tangled strands of hair away from her face as she nods to the twiggy, vividly-inked man.
You say to the twiggy, vividly-inked man, in sirihish:
"His Light guard you, friend."
The twiggy, vividly-inked man nods, pulling his arm back and smiling as he backs away to the entrance.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man winks at you then turns to walk out, pulling his cloak about his body tightly.
The twiggy, vividly-inked man leaves a purple brick building.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns, straightening your laced lavender silk blouse as she slips inside the House.
You think:
"What a day..."
It is dusk on Barani, the 21st day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Suk-Krath's Slumber, year 32 of the 21st Age.
It is a warm night.
The sky is clear.
A mighty gale wind screams out of the south.
(On the streets near the Sanctuary...)
The twiggy, vividly-inked man wanders north...
Continue Reading...Memoir #1 - The Elven Seeker (Tuha)
Added on Mar 16, 2009A chance encounter on the streets of Tuluk leads a Circle Apprentice to challenge an uncomfortable question: What do you do when an elf outranks you?
It is dusk on Huegel, the 74th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Suk-Krath's Slumber, year 32 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To become the Heart and Soul of Tuluk
You are 19 years, 2 months, and 210 days old.
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 slender, fine-featured elf has arrived from the north.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stops just before crashing into the slender, fine-featured elf.
You look up at the slender, fine-featured elf.
Standing a little over five cords in height, this male elf's presence is by no means imposing. Fine features adorn his prominently elvish facade, framed by a sleek mane of sand-hued hair. His build complements his lissome effigy, his form seemingly composed of little more than sparsely fleshed-out bone. His curious eyes are ever so slightly mismatched. One remains an amber hue, whilst the other bears a subtle hint of green. Tattoos common to Gol Krathu are apparent upon this elf's copper-toned skin, almost lost in the myriad of colorful inks that mark his flesh.
Voice soft, you say, in sirihish:
"Oh... pardon."
The slender, fine-featured elf steps out from the tavern, pausing as he passes you.
To you with an easy smile, the slender, fine-featured elf asks, in sirihish:
"Everything alright there, Aja?"
A few drops of sweat glistening at her collarbone, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Of course, Seeker. Thank you for asking."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up at the slender, fine-featured elf with a patient expression, a flush at her neck and cheeks.
Steping to one side to circle you closely, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"You seem a little, worried..."
Looking up to him without moving, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"If I do, I apologize for it."
The slender, fine-featured elf appears at your left shoulder.
Posture straightening, you ask the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"A prank, Seeker?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
To you, taking a step back, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"Oh no, I wouldn't be -that- obvious, Aja. Plus there are far more interesting targets that yourself. You'd probably apologise afterwards..."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up at the slender, fine-featured elf, over her shoulder now, with a quiet smile.
You say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"If you say so, Seeker. I would hate to ruin your jokes."
The slender, fine-featured elf pipes a brief chuckle.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns, resting her back against the wall of the Sanctuary.
Her expression patient, once again, you ask the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"... Did I distract you from your business?"
The slender, fine-featured elf looks down at you.
(hemote) A subtle tension rests in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman folds her hands in front of herself.
(hemote) A few strands of hair, sticky with sweat, cling to the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck.
Smirking, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"My business varies, I doubt you could distract me for long if I had something important to do."
Inclining her head in agreement, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Of course, Seeker."
A grin creeping between his lips, baring his narrow teeth, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"You agree with most things I say, it seems."
Returning the slender, fine-featured elf's grin with a faint smile, you ask the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Should I disagree with them?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to one side, pale eyes still watching the slender, fine-featured elf.
His mismatched eyes lighting up for a second, the slender, fine-featured elf asks, in sirihish:
"Perhaps, but then you would have to apologise for all our disagreements, hmm?"
With a correct nod, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Yes, of course. It would be a source of conversation."
(hemote) The crisp aroma of mint still clings to the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
You think:
"I will survive this and be stronger for it."
After a short pause, tilting his head a touch, the slender, fine-featured elf asks, in sirihish:
"No... it wouldn't be a good source of conversation...?"
Blinking, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"I said it would be a source of conversation. Not that it would be a good one."
To you, pouting his lips curiously, the slender, fine-featured elf asks, in sirihish:
"A terrible one?"
Pale gaze dropping to the slender, fine-featured elf's lips, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"I don't know. I could find a conversation with you terrible."
You say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Could... not find, I mean."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman frowns.
To you, snapping his fingers with an edgy grin, the slender, fine-featured elf asks, in sirihish:
"Aha! You have said something I might deem as offensive, hmm? You'd better apologise, or should you?"
Forehead creasing, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Do you need me to apologize? I thought you found it terrible."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the slender, fine-featured elf's hand and then back up to his face.
The slender, fine-featured elf tilts his head a moment, rubbing his cheek.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head in the opposite direction.
Suddenly, with a bright smile, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"A most interesting thing, you are. I am hungry."
The slender, fine-featured elf turns elegantly on his heel.
A smile crossing her lips, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Thank you, Seeker."
The slender, fine-featured elf walks north.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman exhales, relief in her expression.
You think:
"I wonder if that means he'll kill me."
You think:
"... I really can't do this to myself."
North Salt Road [NSW]
Rows of pale stones form the backbone for this broad avenue, settled
into the ground with graceful fervor. Decorating the edge of the street,
the buildings and storefronts are universally adorned with garish and tawdry sculptures, bas reliefs, and murals. The road is filled with a continual throng of humans and demi-humans alike as they scurry about the bustle of daily life.
The sounds of a rowdy commotion spills out onto the streets from the
building to the west. A trio of humanoid sculptures are caught before the junction between two roads, the crowds passing around them. An odd-looking sculpture surrounds a stone bench off to one side of the road.
Sitting on the bench, the ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs at the ankle and stretches them in front of her.
The slender, fine-featured elf has arrived from the west.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up at the sky from her seat.
Lowering her gaze, you look up at the slender, fine-featured elf.
Approaching a small white stone bench, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"Well if you aren't just everywhere..."
Mirth in her eyes for just a moment, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"No, I'm only here. I give my word."
The slender, fine-featured elf narrows his eyes with a thin smile.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the slender, fine-featured elf a lovely smile, her expression attentive.
Glancing left, then right with a grin, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"That'd be the right answer, my dear. Any other and we had a witch's execution..."
With a sage nod, you say to the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Yes, I know."
Crossing her legs as she clasps her hands over one knee, you ask the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"... Is all well, Seeker?"
The slender, fine-featured elf casts a puzzled expression, jutting a long, thin arm out to one side.
(hemote) The wind causes strands of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hair to brush against her face and shoulders.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down the length of the slender, fine-featured elf's arm.
With a flick the slender, fine-featured elf turns his hand, producing his red bone flute.
You notice: The slender, fine-featured elf bites his lip.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks back to the slender, fine-featured elf with the appropriate degree of admiration.
To you, giving his red bone flute a short twirl, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"Yet this is not a foul practice... but an artful one. My, sometimes I confuse even myself..."
The slender, fine-featured elf smirks.
With a polite smile, you ask the slender, fine-featured elf, in sirihish:
"Should I be confused as well?"
You think:
"... Oh, he should be very careful."
The slender, fine-featured elf sits on a small white stone bench.
You think:
"And so should I, thinking of it."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, turning her head to look at the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Do you wish me to go, Seeker?"
At your seat, the slender, fine-featured elf says in sirihish, grinning as he quirks a thin, sandy eyebrow:
"Would you if I asked?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, also lifting a slender eyebrow:
"Yes, of course - unless you wish me to ignore you, of course."
At your seat, the slender, fine-featured elf says in sirihish, to you, his eyes blazing a moment:
"Wrong, see. The correct reply would be "Naff off, neck!"."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight nod as she looks back to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"I'll try to remember that."
To you, scooching back on the bench, the slender, fine-featured elf says, in sirihish:
"Don't bother, eh? You'll save yourself an apology."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a shrug of her slender shoulders:
"As you wish, of course, Seeker."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's cloak brushes against the slender, fine-featured elf's back.
At your seat, the slender, fine-featured elf says in sirihish, musing:
""As you wish.".... Sands, if all the apprentices said that I'd have Krath on a stick."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with flickering mirth:
"An interesting wish."
You think:
"I will not die."
You think:
"I will not fail."
You think:
"I will not lose."
At your seat, the slender, fine-featured elf says in sirihish, to you, lowering his gaze:
"So, what were you planning to do all alone on this bench, hmm?"
(The pesky thing evidently having no plans of leaving her be, Aja continues speaking with him. Noticing discomfort for the first time in his cool demeanor, she takes a different tact, using the Way.)
You notice: The slender, fine-featured elf swallows briefly.
You contact the slender, fine-featured elf with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"... Have I done something wrong, Tuha?"
The slender, fine-featured elf narrows his eyes curiously at you.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"What are you doing in my head?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman continues to look at the slender, fine-featured elf, a slight crease to her forehead.
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Displeasing you, it seems."
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"*with a hint of mirth* Better apologise, hmm? That'd be Seeker, and all."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"*sharing your amusement* If you wish. Do you?"
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"No. Perhaps... It doesn't matter."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"... Why doesn't it matter?"
The slender, fine-featured elf glances off for a second, appearing distracted.
You notice: The slender, fine-featured elf peeps back at you a moment.
You notice the slender, fine-featured elf start watching you.
(hemote) With the slender, fine-featured elf's gaze turned, the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lets out a long, soft breath.
(hemote) The crisp aroma of mint surrounds the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
(hemote) A few strands of hair cling to the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck and the side of her face.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"Beacause it's in my head, Master What-his-face Driamusek can't hear you..."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Do you believe Master Olide would approve of my behavior?"
You notice: The slender, fine-featured elf's nostrils flare briefly.
(hemote) A subtle tension rests in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck.
The slender, fine-featured elf's eyes fall half-closed with a faint smile.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman continues to regard the slender, fine-featured elf with a patient expression, her hands folded on her lap.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"He'd hate it. Chattering away with a Rusarla elf. It'd drive them all mad."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"It is possible. Why are you doing it?"
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"Doing what?"
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Chattering away at a Driamusek bardess, Seeker."
The slender, fine-featured elf sways his head elegntly from one side to the other.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"Because I wish to."
(hemote) A brief, slender smile toys at the corner of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's mouth.
You notice: The slender, fine-featured elf lips twitch.
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Very well."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Do I cause you discomfort, Tuha?"
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"Being chased by seven gortoks caused me discomfort once. You are far from it."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"*mirth crossing her thoughts* Far from seven?"
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"... Six?"
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps one, though it'd have to be a rather dazzling gortok."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the slender, fine-featured elf in a polite, respectful gesture.
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Thank you, Seeker."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"We've talked for hours and said almost nothing. A remarkable accomplishment, even for two bards."
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm the best at talking in circles by far, my dear Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"So I'm discovering. Why?"
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"*with a soft mental giggle* Because that's how I work, Aja. Circles avoid a direction."
(hemote) A few drops of sweat glisten at the ethereal, fair-haired woman's collarbone.
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Don't you get dizzy?"
The slender, fine-featured elf gaze lingers on your neck.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"Sometimes."
Brow creasing, the ethereal, fair-haired woman breaks her attentive regard of the slender, fine-featured elf to glance down at your laced lavender silk blouse.
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Circles never end, do they, no matter what might cross their path."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman adjusts the clasp of your airy, white cotton cloak as she returns to regarding the slender, fine-featured elf attentively.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, circles can be broken, that I'm sure of. I'm just not to clued up on how."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Nor I, Seeker."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Nor have I particular desire to learn."
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"True. But you have desire to break circles, perhaps. Though perhaps I just have the desire to continue along them..."
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"No, Seeker. I have no interest breaking circles. It is not in my nature."
Gaze growing more intent, you look up at the slender, fine-featured elf.
You notice: The slender, fine-featured elf breathing grows a touch deeper.
You think:
"Yes... you hear me..."
The slender, fine-featured elf returns your gaze for a brief moment.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"It was never my nature..."
Before moving on, the coffee-tressed young woman looks down at the slender, fine-featured elf.
The slender, fine-featured elf glances up with a wary eye.
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"You understand. I could try to discover what breaks a circle, what causes it fear, what brings it joy... but I will not. It has no purpose for me."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman swallows, the hollow of her throat deepening with the motion.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"And I. Though I do not worry about purpose. Little we do has purpose. We do things because we have to, not because we want to."
The slender, fine-featured elf feigns adjusting his elegant white velvet hat, his eyes flicking to you every so often.
(What do you do when an elf outranks you? You show composure, enough sardonic humility to entice, and establish a rule that poses no threat to the pointy-eared bastard.
Perhaps the more interesting question, however, is how did the conversation end…)
The ethereal, fair-haired woman returns the tall, aquiline-faced elf's gaze before looking over to the slender, fine-featured elf.
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"He says he'll trade these mushrooms for you."
The tall, aquiline-faced elf eyes you a moment.
You send a telepathic message to the slender, fine-featured elf:
"Why, I wonder where he would get the idea that you would have the right to make such a trade."
The slender, fine-featured elf sends you a telepathic message:
"Sand hoppers think I'm some kind of king elf, I suppose. It's the hat."
You think:
“Damn all elves.”
(… But that’s an entirely other story.)
It is dusk on Huegel, the 74th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Suk-Krath's Slumber, year 32 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To become the Heart and Soul of Tuluk
You are 19 years, 2 months, and 210 days old.
North Road...
Continue Reading...A Tuluki Play
Added on Mar 16, 2009Four bards reopen the Uaptal Theater.
It is dusk on Dzeda, the 218th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Reverence, year 48 of the 21st Age.
On A Broad, Sweeping Stage [NESW]
A great deal of labor appears to have gone into making this stage appear to resemble a picturesque scene in the middle of a rolling, grass-filled plain. The backdrop has been painted with vibrant tones, the grasses a russet red and dusky green. The sky glows a subdued red above the portrait of rolling grasses, with a faint smudge or two against the sky suggesting some bird of prey or kylori, aloft in the distance. The stage planks have been covered with broad strips of red and green canvas, rocks, and potted plants native to the region. From slender, silvery ropes, seperate from the backdrop itself, vibrant depictions of Lirathu and Jihae hang from the catwalks above the stage, huge against the painted sky.
Standing to the side, the vigorous, maroon-haired man silently whispers to a couple of nearby tribal-clad men and women.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man walks to the center of the stage, sitting with two men in tribal armor. One hand lifts finger pointed at another man's chest, his mouth open as if to speak.
Moving to the center of the stage, the immense, rune-inked man crosses his legs and settles down to his ankles, attention focused on the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
Stilling at one side of the stage, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches as men and women - nine in all - follow onto the stage, all armed to the teeth, and fall motionless.
Turning to the audience, voice crisp in the clear air of the theater, you say, in sirihish:
"Many ages ago, the north called itself the home of twelve peoples, twelve tribes, divided in rivalry, ancient hatreds, and war."
With a sweeping gesture over the silent stage toward the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, you say, in sirihish:
"The leader of the most powerful of these tribes, a man of the Twin Warlocks, called a gathering, a summit, the first such meeting within living memory."
Archness carrying across her firm tone, you say, in sirihish:
"His enemies came, they all came to see one another in the flesh and to talk on the fragile balance of power - and on rumors, whispered on the winds, of foreign threats."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns to survey the stage and, when she does so, the people on it come to life, muttering and sneering, while the sound of creaking armor fills the air.
The vigorous, maroon-haired man looks slowly from side to side, steady gaze drifting across the faces of the nearby men and women.
With a sneer turned into a proud expression, the vigorous, maroon-haired man whispers something to the bearded, six-fingered man, followed by a slow, confident shrug.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man's lips move harshly, his finger jabbing towards the chest of the man across from him.
In a mock-whisper to the sallow, watery-eyed young man, the vigorous, maroon-haired man says, in sirihish:
"This news from the northwest.. They say people flock to him."
Turning to the blonde-haired, lanky human, eyes narrowed, the vigorous, maroon-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Can you believe his demands?"
The immense, rune-inked man warms his hand-and-a-half over an imaginary flame, gaze flickering in purse-lipped silence around the stage.
Breaking from his conversation, his tone one of absolute authority, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"The Twin Warlocks do not submit to faceless warlords."
Tilting his chin upwards, the immense, rune-inked man appears to listen with a stern and intent frown. He wrinkles his hand within his leather, spike-covered cestus, the leather creaking like an old door.
Decisively speaking over the murmuring of the other armed men and women, his voice a warning growl, the immense, rune-inked man says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"The Dawn Watchers do not submit."
Fist clenching atop a knee as his booming bassitone barks out a warning, the immense, rune-inked man exclaims to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"I will take three hundred blades and sever his head for this insolence, for the glory and honor of my people!"
Chin held high, the vigorous, maroon-haired man sweeps in from the side of the stage to the center, his gait confident in the midst of the group.
Half-turning to the immense, rune-inked man, the vigorous, maroon-haired man says, in sirihish:
"So much honor for such a little pup? Before you start chasing bones, you should learn to catch your tail first."
His tattooed visage recoiling into a defensive look of disdain, the immense, rune-inked man's narrowed gaze trails over the vigorous, maroon-haired man.
Fully turning to the immense, rune-inked man, voice a mock-whisper, the vigorous, maroon-haired man says, in sirihish:
"For I know the Arrows mean to threaten you when you go. Do not let them..."
At the vigorous, maroon-haired man's words, the immense, rune-inked man's posture relaxes; suddenly seeming distracted, he inhales deeply as his gaze falls to the floor - considering.
Gaze sweeping across the gathering of people, a lingering smile on his lips, the vigorous, maroon-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Friends, it takes but a single, steady hand to swat a fly. You can raise your armies, but the Elves of Mallok will stop this by raising a finger."
The vigorous, maroon-haired man draws a dujat-tooth longknife.
His smile sly, the vigorous, maroon-haired man wraps his fingers around the hilt of his longknife, adjusting his grip.
His voice barreling into the conversation remorselessly, his tone cold and disdainful, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Let it be done, if you mean to do it. You talk too much, but know that when your scheme fails, the Twin Warlocks will be there to finish what you could not."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man smiles fiercely at the vigorous, maroon-haired man, a harsh laugh barking from his lips as he sneers.
The vigorous, maroon-haired man stands defiantly as several of the tribal men and women laugh and shout out in agreement with the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man's remarks.
From the stage, men and women cry out cheers, shoving forward, fists raised - and freeze, motionless save for the ethereal, fair-haired woman who steps away from her tranquil corner.
Idly, unhurried, you say, in sirihish:
"They left that day, twelve tribes under twelve banners. They saw to crops, to hunting, to old wars and rivalries that extended across generations."
Pausing at the side of the roughened, dark-featured man, studying him, picking at one of his sleeves, you say, in sirihish:
"And still, word of this man from the northwest continued, as people whispered of his growing strength, of the armies that followed him."
Touching a gloved hand to the shoulder of the roughened, dark-featured man, you say, in sirihish:
"And then, one day, the sentries of the furthest reaches of the western lands were heard from no more."
At the ethereal, fair-haired woman's touch, the roughened, dark-featured man crumples to the floor at her feet.
Already moving past the roughened, dark-featured man, weaving through the frozen warlords, you say, in sirihish:
"The defeat was swift, unyielding... and soon, two tribes - cousins to that already lost - fell under the sunlight banner of the man of the northwest."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands brush across the shoulders of two others as she passes. They collapse to the floor behind her, and the helmet of one comes loose, skidding across the stage, stopping just at the edge.
Slowing beside the short, athletic woman and tracing the back of a finger along her face, you say, in sirihish:
"An emissary from a fourth tribe came distraught to the halls of the Twin Warlocks, covered in blood."
Gently, shaking her head, you say, in sirihish:
"With her last breath, she recounted how her people had fallen, swept aside by the armies of the north."
Eyes drifting closed, the short, athletic woman drops to the stage, falling away from the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand.
Stepping over the short, athletic woman and speaking conversationally, you say, in sirihish:
"It was later that the tribal leaders remaining met again under the roof of the Twin Warlocks."
Pausing astride the slender, dark-eyed woman and the blonde-haired, lanky human, you say, in sirihish:
"The talk was of a truce, an end to a brutal, relentless skirmish between two rivals that encompassed the remaining tribes..."
Trailing off to glance, amusedly, between the two warlords who remain locked in a fierce, frozen snarl, you say, in sirihish:
"... but the specter of these armies from the north lingered throughout the negotiations."
Smirking, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gives an impatient, dismissive wave of her hand when she turns her back to the others on her way toward an empty edge of the stage. Behind her, once-motionless warlords slouch into wary glares, weight shifting without ease.
His hands clasped firmly on his belt as he regards blonde-haired, lanky human and the slender, dark-eyed woman, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"... Is this at an end, then, or do we bring our swords to this fight and bring you both to your knees?"
Glancing at one another first, blonde-haired, lanky human and the slender, dark-eyed woman turn to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man and nod, their eyes lowering submissively.
His voice a growling sigh, chin tilted down as he speaks to the vigorous, maroon-haired man, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Your swatted fly has bested four tribes. That is some finger you point."
With a coy smile, the vigorous, maroon-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Time, old friend. All things take time. It is no failure, when all he has taken from those tribes is land as fertile as stone. When all he has taken from us is a lot of scheming, plotting idiots we are better off without."
The immense, rune-inked man crosses his massive, rune adorned arms over each other, dull gaze on the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man. His armor clatters as he shifts his weight.
All around the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the other leaders laugh and snort at kyrith words, many shaking their heads or turning their backs on him.
Chin lifting with a note of pride, offering a dismissive wave of his hand, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"It is no matter. The madman's forces are extending. Tiring. They will be easy to pick apart now that he has wasted his time on fools."
Placing a half-hand to his chest and resting the other reassuringly on his shoulder as he speaks solemnly, the immense, rune-inked man says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"Let my strength join with yours. We can conquer him together and divide those lands for our people."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man opens his mouth as if to speak, one hand lifting.
Before the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man can speak, the vigorous, maroon-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Do you hear that? The pup wishes to fight with the kiyet lion. I suppose, though, that as the lion turns gray, so do its armies, too..."
The immense, rune-inked man's mountain of a body quakes for a moment in almost tangible rage. He turns his head slowly to glare at the vigorous, maroon-haired man.
His words coming only after a long moment's stare, a sneer in both eyes and tone, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"You will hold your tongue before I slice it out. You are in my home, and my gray forces have kept yours at bay for many ages, elf of Mallok. We will stop him."
Clasping his hand over his heart with a nod to the immense, rune-inked man, voice like a grim rasp of sand against stone, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"And you will see to your own people. The winds say that your southern fields burn and your tribe flees to the east."
Slamming his leather, spike-covered cestus into his chest, raising it as if to hit the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the immense, rune-inked man shouts, in sirihish:
"Lies! And I will cut the throat of them who says such!"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man rocks back, his head craning up to look at the immense, rune-inked man.
Pounding his leather, spike-covered cestus into his chest repeatedly and speaking bitterly after a quick gulp, nostrils flaring, the immense, rune-inked man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Let the northman come to -me- first, and I will show you how pups fight!"
At the sight of the immense, rune-inked man's threatening move, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man's leaders step forward, their weapons drawing.
One hand grasping a longknife, the other on his hip, the vigorous, maroon-haired man stands silent with a smug expression plastered across his features as he watches the others.
Even after everything goes still, the ethereal, fair-haired woman's laughter rings across the stage.
Holding her sides, the laughter melting away into a too-chipper voice, you say, in sirihish:
"There was blood shed that day, and the young leader of the Dawn Watchers left in disgrace."
Moving forward, the humor to her eyes gone as if it had never been, you say, in sirihish:
"And, still, the invading army marched south, sweeping over the tribes until its mysterious leader turned his gaze east."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman snaps her fingers, and five people fall to the ground behind her.
Waiting for the clatter of fallen weaponry to fade before speaking in a crisp voice, you say, in sirihish:
"Word reaches the leader of the Twin Warlocks of the movements of the northern army, of its unending victories, of the people who pledge themselves to its leader."
Pointing a finger at the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, you say, in sirihish:
"He leaves his lands, crossing into those owned by the Dawn Watchers and pays call to their young leader, locked in preparations for war and in counsel with the Elves of Mallok..."
The immense, rune-inked man's cestus lowers, his back turns to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man and he stares off past the stage, his gaze contemplative and thought-stricken.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man walks towards the immense, rune-inked man, frustration evident on his features as he regards him. His bootfalls fall heavily on the stage, his hands clasped behind his back.
Voice quietly neutral, though his eyes speak of legions of accusations, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Your people are surrounded on three sides."
His visage heavy and subdued as he tilts his chin towards his shoulder, though not enough to lift his gaze, the immense, rune-inked man asks the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"Yes. Why do you darken my door and bring your armies to my border, Warlock?"
Crossing his arms over his chest resolutely, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"We march on him, while his army is extended."
With long, slow shakes of his head, the vigorous, maroon-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You plan to march -against- him? He is too powerful, old man. You should be raising defenses."
Snapping a snort of barely contained fury and loathing, eyes flashing dangerously, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"What would you know of battle, elf? You cannot even kill a single man."
With languid ease, the vigorous, maroon-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Pieces take time to be put into place. He is vulnerable now and more exposed. He will fall. It is as sure as the setting of the sun he marches under."
Glaring darkly at the ground, his broken chin staunchly craned to the side as his fist tightens within his leather, spike-covered cestus, the leather cracking loudly, the immense, rune-inked man says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"I knew of your coming, Warlock. You will not take these lands from us."
His voice nearly a shout, imploring with mad reasoning, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Don't you see what is happening? People go to him, would die for him. He has stone and wood for weapons. -I- must face him."
Turning now to face the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man cautiously, his gaze unwavering as it meets his, the immense, rune-inked man says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"As you said, I should see to my people. And so help me... If I must fight he and you -both-...I will."
Shaking his head faintly, the immense, rune-inked man says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"You will not fight him through my lands, Warlock."
His tone a defeated husk as his head dips down, braids and beads clattering against his breastplate, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"You can't win. I've lead my people since before you were born. You are not strong enough. Do not... die for this."
Narrowing his gaze, the immense, rune-inked man makes a dismissive and derisive swipe of his hand, pointing the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man to the exit.
With the three players standing frozen on the stage, a triangle of ill-will and dark looks, the ethereal, fair-haired woman steps away from the stage, striding for the vigorous, maroon-haired man.
Encircling him, you say to the vigorous, maroon-haired man, in sirihish:
"So clever, you were, false counselor. Filling the tribes with lies, causing chaos and division."
Stopping at his side, moving her mouth close to his pointed ear, you say to the vigorous, maroon-haired man, in sirihish:
"Hoping... yearning... that this man from the north might conquer your rivals, and that then you in turn could defeat him."
Lifting a gloved hand, turning his face to look at her, at her arrogant snarl of a smile, you say to the vigorous, maroon-haired man, in sirihish:
"No, he would not die at your hand... and he has no place for treachery in his dominion."
Leaning in, pale eyes sardonic, arch, the ethereal, fair-haired woman presses her lips to the corner of the vigorous, maroon-haired man's mouth.
Legs collapsing beneath him, the vigorous, maroon-haired man falls to the ground, dagger still tightly clasped in his hand.
Already moving past the vigorous, maroon-haired man, her stride quick and sure toward the immense, rune-inked man, you say, in sirihish:
"They could not understand you, young one. But he did, this man from the north."
Words coming faster as she cups his face in both hands, you say to the immense, rune-inked man, in sirihish:
"He understood your mind, your skill... and when you fought, it was with respect."
Expression softening, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the immense, rune-inked man's nose a light tap with the back of a finger; the smile she gives him is a solemn one, an assuring one.
His eyes filled with defeat and emotion the immense, rune-inked man falls to his knees, his leather, spike-covered cestus slipping from his hand and falling to the stage in a loud *WHAP*.
Her steps silent on the stage littered with the fallen, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her hand fall away from the immense, rune-inked man, alone on his knees, and takes up quiet watch over the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man in solitude.
With the grace of a warrior of many years, though his face betrays that he is surrounded on all sides, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man walks through the fallen, nearly without noticing them.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man reaches for a carved drinking horn, embossed with ivory at the open end, and pulls it into his grasp meditatively.
Thoughtfully, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"It is quiet, now, before the dawn. What are you thinking, man of the north, as you sleep tonight? You are not in your own bed, not in the hall that was built by your forebearers and their forebearers before them."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man paces slowly among the bodies of the fallen, eyes unseeing as he speaks to himself, the drinking horn nearly forgotten in his hands.
Looking down at the fallen and seemingly noticing them for the first time, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Your ancestors don't watch over this battlefield. You don't fear."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man stops, his heavy tread ceasing and leaving only ominous silence as he cranes his head back, looking upwards, a tiny mote of life against the backdrop of the dead.
A harsh, bitter laugh eminating from his throat, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"No, you don't do that. Your armies are camped on the horizon. I can hear them. I can hear their joy."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man nods to himself, as though to some great and insidious wisdom, his brows coming together like knotted cords.
Clasping the drinking horn to his chest as he looks upwards, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"We should have spoken. Tonight, before the dawn. I should have looked on your face and known what you were. Known what I should have been."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man makes a move to half-raise the drinking horn, then stops, shaking his head. His eyes close, the hand at his side clenching into a fist.
You feel your heart beginning to beat again. To pound.
His voice a hoarse rasp, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Come, share a drink with me. While your armies toast tales of bloodshed and valor, drink to your conquest. I should salute your triumph, the age of peace to come - long may you preserve it."
Drinking horn held in his hand as his spreads his arms plaintively, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks up into the farthest rows of the audience.
His voice so light, it might only be a thought, though it rings through the air, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Don't fail them, these people I have loved. They will look to you for strength, for solace, for security. End this as you began."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man lifts the horn over his head, his voice the dusty, terrible growl of approaching doom, and speaks softly into the stillness.
With an almost false cheer, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"In farewell, then, I propose a toast. A toast of endings. To the lesser one. To the last to face you, the last of my time."
Nearly without pause, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drains the horn and wipes the froth from his beard, snarling a warcry as he yanks his saber-bladed agafari bardiche from his back, eyes glaring defiantly.
As the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man walks towards the edge of the stage, the butt-end of his weapon strikes the wood with a sharp -thunk- with every pace. As he nears the edge, he sags against its haft, stumbling to the ground before going still.
Silence reigns over the stage, everything still and at peace. Only then, is it broken by muted applause from the the ethereal, fair-haired woman, gloves softening the accolade she offers to the fallen players.
It is dusk on Dzeda, the 218th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Reverence, year 48 of the 21st Age.
On A Broad, Sweeping Stage [NESW]
A great deal of labor appears to have gone into making this stage appear to resemble a picturesque scene in the middle of a rolling,...
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