[b]The Palace of Manyaa[/b]

It wasn't long after the arrival of Gopda that the rest of he and Agnimatra that the rest of their bretheren would arrive. One by one, they too came forth and partook in the energies of introductions. Drinking from their own goblets of ceramic or silver the wine that Balel had been invited to fetch. It wasn't long until the room filled with the fluid freedom of wine and free discussion was partook. Perhaps ignoring – if for the moment – why they were there.

Many of the other princes saw a considerable interested in Balel's tattoos and the Vosputhi mercenary found himself recounting the adventures to the for north-west very considerably. Again and again he told them about the hardy north men and their tattoos. Their thrones of furs and castle halls of wood. Of the land which they lived, where there were regular times of the year the sun hung low so that at its extremes, a afternoon behind castle walls was like walking the streets in late evening. And that further north at the same time of year, the sun disappeared from the sky. It's only mingling sign of existence being from an orange burning halo that perhaps shown beyond the cold horizons and the tree tops when the sky was clearest.

As he beguiled his stories, so too did the new princes in kind exchange their own.

There was Sathsvitra, a tall brooding half-stallion. He was much akin to a wide tree. His face and hands scarred by fighting. He was younger than Agnimatra, and no doubt born from a different mother given the differences in some of his features. He was hardly handsome, but nor was he as ruddy or unpleasant as a beggar. His hair was almost straight and lighter in shade than the straight tar-oil black of his brother. But he was a brother, as tall and wide; bearing the same complexion and smiling face.

He clapped his hoofed feat against the ground as he talked of tournaments and games. The emphasis it added like a thunder crack. The bright-red chalk blended into the fur there rained off from the long hairs at each gaveling hammer of a hoof, but he didn't seem to care.

“Do you remember that poor Dariad man that thought he could fight me?” Sathsvitra laughed as he looked at Agnimatra.

“I do.” his older brother smiled.

“He was a ruse bastard, I'll tell you.” Sathsvitra proclaimed, bringing a hoof down, “Some pompous merchant bastard. We were at the bar there, looking up the whores and this sailor-shit walks in with his long flowing robes and acting high and mighty and shit. I tell you, when I put his head against the ground he was hardly that.” he clapped his hands excitedly together. His tongue brushed the mustache on his upper lip.

“What did he do?” Balel asked, turning his glass of wine in his hands. An expectant smile was dawning on his face.

“He was a fucker, I'll say that.” Sathsvitra crooned, “Came up to me, thinking like I was some rope hauler who came in to help for a few extra coin. Demanded I get him a drink!

“I looked down at him and wondered, is he joking? I told him who I am and he looks up at me with this smarmy look and says, 'I don't give a rats ass if you're a Vishput Maharaj, I'm thirsty.'

“Oh that was a damn rude way to start a relationship. Stung me right in the heart.” he continued, placing his fingers over his heart for emphasis, “So I do the only thing I know to do when the need arises: I challenge him to a fight.

“Prudish cunt takes it right there and stands back with this prick of a blade, all curvy and gilded and shit. Strokes his cuntish beard and says it's on!

“He barely touched the skin before I had my hands on him and I threw him down. There's still a crater in the floor in that bar where he landed!” the prince boasted.

“It sounds like he had it coming.” Balel commented.

“You know that's not part true. His 'prick of a blade' did cut your shoulder before it was through. So you can't say he wasn't a total waste.” Agnimatra commented.

“Whichever.”  his brother responded dismissively, rolling his eyes. Whatever happened he got penned up at a surgeon's place for a few weeks before he no doubt climbed back aboard his ship, wasn't able to speak! So it was forever the harbor master's problem.

“And I don't care how it comes around to bite me in the ass, it felt damn good then.” he added, looking at Gopda with a look that merely spoke, 'don't say it'.

As well in the room came two who Balel was sure were twins. Identical in their spry appearance, lean and attractive in their appearance. Their hair lay down across the sides of their heads in frames of nearly identical coifs of night-sky. The hemmed and jeered between each other in some inherent rivalry and competition to keep up the games. They had boundless energy that shone from their dark-green eyes. The element that kept them from appearing as a reflection in of the other in a mirror, or the work of a doppelganger spirit was their facial hair.

The one with a the thin wiry mustache was Ralama. A thin veneer of oil polished the thin spin of hair on his lip to a wasp's needle. It clearly was not as flush or decorated as his brother's Palea's, whose full brushed mustache contained itself in beads of pearl. As Balel was told, it was on command of the Raj, their father, in an edict to do so; as to not cause undue confusion.

“Tell me my lord,” Ralama approached Balel when the two had finally finished exchanging snide remarks to one another, “do you dabble in poetry?”

“I am afraid I haven't.” responded the warrior, giving the pretense a dismissive wave of his hand as he sipped his wind. The fruity cocktail buzzed about his head, lifting it and giving it air. The sensation was as bitter as it was sweet, and as empty.

“I have heard of great warrior poets from across the southern sea, beyond the island of Emerald Palms to the south of the land.” Ralama began excitedly, “As I hear from merchants who have sailed that far north the men of that realm partake in a tradition of poetry for their death. I haven't yet read or heard a stanza of their work, but I have had it mentioned that these poems dictate the very nature of how these men wish to die, or how they prefer to be remembered.

“I heard it said from a Uwanid merchant.” the prince chimed, “You are well traveled, what do you think of the world beyond the mountains and the sea?”

“Depends my lord.” responded Balel, scratching his head. He turned to lay on his back, the chatter of the room danced in his head, “What do you think?”

“I and my brother both agree that the wider world seems magnificent.” Ralama beamed, “It's full of adventures and epics to hear, and ourselves write. If we do not go out to snatch it and act it, what value is anything for would-be-bards such as us?” he laughed.

“Besides, the many women to bead on wide adventure must be a fine prize.” Palea commented enthusiastically, “Lip-titted barman's daughters and shaggy ape-women aside.

“I bet you've seduced many, with your tattoos.” Palea smiled.

“Oh, plenty have.” Balel lustfully smiled. The memories of sex in the dry hot sands of the interior to the warmth of a naked partner in the cold of the north flashed bright before him. And for a moment he felt a groan of longing from his groin.

“Aye, and men?” Palea teased. 'You fool!' Balel thought he heard Ralama mutter in agitation alongside him.

“Many have tried to kill me. I would not say look to bed me.”

The conversation webbed and wove between the men in the room. Closing abruptly when at a sudden drop of a hat the princes shut their mouths as a door on the far-side of the room opened. Heavy mahogany paneling pushed aside the velvet curtains as a new figure stepped in. Washed in wine, Balel rose his glass and welcomed the stranger. “Welcome.” he said, ignorant to the satyr standing in the door. Thrown over his shoulders lay a heavy woolen gray shawl, a orange robe emblazoned with golden flowers ran across his shoulders, tying itself in a thick knot at his hip where it wrapped about his yellow legs.

“Good afternoon.” the new comer replied, giving a courteous bow as he stepped into the room. He looked up at Gopda, smiled, and nodded.

“Sivishthra.” Gopda greeted, “You're alone. Is there something we should know?” the prince asked.

Sivisthra was thin, much like his brother Agnimatra. His head was shaved clean bald and shone in the crimson and golden torchlight of the room. His bright blue eyes though burned through the light, giving a light of their own off. A cold light. Like that of the moon. Not terrifying or cruel. He walked carefully over the pillows. Bowing his shoulders as he went.

“There is a complication to bringing Sahnkour with us.” he merely and simply stated, “I visited him in his monastery. The abbot passed away the day before I arrived.”

“For God's sake.” Palea groaned.

“We all have our time of passing.” Sivisthra reminded the prince, “But whatever the case, our guide-man is shut away for mourning and electing a new abbot. He can't leave his monastery out of grace and respect. I could hardly get in, my own vows keeping me outside.”

“It's a damnable shame.” Agnimatra passingly commented, “My respects to Shuptura all the same.”

“Indeed, I passed along my blessings while I was there.” Sivisthra said, sitting down at the central fruit table. But much unlike his brothers he did not lounge. Taking on instead the meditative poise of any monk, opening and crossing his legs. Balel could not help but wonder how uncomfortable it was for the satyrs.

“We can wait for him, if we so choose.” Sivisthra continued, “But it'll be nearly a month.”

“Damn waiting, I would rather we move.”  Sathsvitra boomed boisterously.

“I have to agree with Sathsvitra.” Gopda said with a nod, “The sooner we go in the better. Mid-summers rains should be on the way soon I imagine. And I wouldn't want to wait the month before sending for him. We may find ourselves caught waiting for a monsoon and a doubly sunken city.”

“Sunken city?” Balel asked.

“Samana – where you're going – is situated near the Manyaa river's edge.” Agnimatra spoke, “During hard rains when the river over flows its banks the over flow rushes into the city's open crater, filling its void like a cup. One that may never fill up again.”

“Oh... I see...” nodded Balel.

“We shouldn't be underground for too long, we can beat the Monsoon rains.” Gopda pointed out, “But we are on a schedule.”

“Mostly mine and my supply line's.” Agnimatra pointed out in a nonchalant tone.

“Those too. But if our monk won't come to us. We'll go to them. How long until the cremation ceremony?”

“A week and a half.” Sivisthra assured, “After which elections begin. But if you can talk him into it, he can leave the monastery. Cast an early vote and not partake in the usual deliberations and theological debate.”

“Then we'll sail north tomorrow.”