Asychis awakened at the first light of dawn, toting his bag as he perched upon the ship's rails in anticipation of the sight of Isamanca's harbor.  The monks had generously given him a few gold pieces to board Yzharva, and the trip had been wonderful and smooth in general.  Although he preferred to keep his identity hidden by never removing the piece of cloth tied to the lower half of his face, even the young monk could not resist removing his face apparel to take a deep whiff of the calming scent of the salty waters and the refreshing breeze of the morning winds.  Then, Isamanca beckoned into view.  Its breath-taking architectures of azure that reached for the cerulean heavens above.  The walls, proud and mighty, gave the city its towering reputation as sparkling man-made waterfalls reflected the scattered rays of the early sun, causing beautiful, almost surreal beads of a myriad colors to cascade upon the waters.  Asychis had never been here before as he had spent almost half of his years residing in Ibzya.  The cool climate served as a welcome change to the blistering, scorching winds of the desert.  Tales of Isamanca wafted albeit in different versions among the lands of Ibzya, but from Dahshur to Qaithus to Aaru, every ibzyan dreamed of the opportunity to visit the alluring city of magnificence.  Even Asychis had promised to bring back some souvenirs for Amenmeit, the head monk of their group, as well as for the other monks.

However, as they made port, a sense of dread and excitement gnawed at the young lad's heart.  He was excited, no, jubilant and euphoric at the idea of meeting his old comrades from the order.  Surely, he never expected anyone to remember him, but he so ached for the chance to see them again.  But, alongside his joy, he also dreaded their expected scorns at an uninvited and expelled member to join them.  He would cite Lydic's dying wish in order to gain a moral leverage, but should they refuse his company, Asychis made up his mind to just go back to Ibzya, or to go on his own exploration instead.  As the ship halted upon the harbor, Asychis leaped out of the ship before now concealing his face with the cloth.

As it would seem, the Carnevalla in Isamanca sent the crowd into a jovial mood as everyone became too preoccupied to even notice a stray person from Ibzya.  He couldn't really see anyone from his nation, and it somewhat dampened his spirits.  Was Ibzya so poor that not one soul is able to leave its torrid grasp?  Was it because the riches of the people were in the hands of the elite only?  Asychis would never know, but as he witnessed the once mythical tales of such a celebration, even the young monk was entranced by the wild dancing, songs, and music.  The crowd swept Asychis with them as he took part in the celebration, listening to the tales of the bards and minstrels as the performers delighted the crowd with sweet odes and daring epics.  The crowd would often toss some pieces of silver or gold in the direction of the performers, apparently some sort of a donation for their efforts.  And, as far as Asychis knew the system, the better the performance, the more coin was thrown.  

So, it came as a gloomy feeling when he spotted a young, female performed who tried her hardest to sing a familiar epic from Ibzya:  the Thorn of the Desert Rose.  The story spoke of the tales of Anai Samira, a young female warrior who joined the great war against the Dryc the Bloody, the monstrous gnoll of the Maphdet Oases.  As the only woman in the war, Anai was not taken seriously by the male soldiers, and was not given any serious task.  However, in the end, Anai was the one who slew Dryc by slicing off his head, causing the severed appendage to roll towards the Tat-Kera plains, where the capital of Qaithus soon sprouted.  However, while the girl had a melodious although unrefined voice, no one was paying attention to her.  Maybe because no one knew of the great tales of Ibzya, or maybe because the noise of the Carnevalla drowned out her voice.  But, with his heart clenching, Asychis went over to the dark-skinned girl.  "You sing well,"  Asychis spoke before removing the cloth from his mouth.  "Where did you learn such a tale?"

"I read it in a book.  I now sing it to help my mother with food."  the girl answered in the most adorable voice imaginable.

"You brave, brave girl."  Asychis nodded before grabbing the ibzyan flute from his bag.  "I want you to sing it from the top."  the young monk instructed the girl who took a breath before singing the first verse.  In a split second, Asychis placed the flute's embouchure upon his lips before gently blowing on it, his fingers dancing over one note after the other.  As a result, a beautifully haunting melody accompanied the girl's singing as, one by one, people began to trickle to stand in front of their small space between a fruit stand and a tailoring.  The cloth the earthen jar that sat in front of the girl began to be filled with coins as Asychis and the girl heightened their performance.  Then, Asychis pulled away the flute before singing along with the woman in his rich, alto voice.

[center][I]"And the sand, the sands!
Though time beckoned so
A desert flower such as thee
Never again such sands shall see."[/I][/center]

"Until eternity."  Asychis sang the end as a few on-lookers clapped for them before going about their daily lives.  Asychis picked up the jar which was filled with silver coins before handing it to the child.  "Go,"  he urged the child.  "Your mother will need this."  The child smiled before dashing away, leaving Asychis to stand awkwardly alone.  But, strangely, fulfilled.