The Kavijama | the thing of ink & poetry | The Hibrach
Filled with inspiration by the Worldsong, Meghzaal goes on a semi-crazed aurora-esque storm of ink, song, and poetry the world over. He sweeps up many creations as he goes - alminaki men, celestial sheep, itztli, leeoli wisps, magnus pods, yetis, various trees (alder, hawthorne, lonethorn, are specifically mentioned), human women, and carries them all off to Kubrajzar. The yetis of Kubrajzar's mountains are without horns and rather than being white they are mottled black and white. They are not as crazed or ravenous as their counterparts in the anchor, and those who live nearby generally offer up their dead to the mountain. The trees are deposited across Kubrajzar, and the magnus pods are seen to explode like shooting stars, shedding spores and seeds across the landscape. The sheep and leeoli are deposited offscreen, but they are now present on the continent. The itztli go off on their own, probably to form their own community in the central marshy jungles of Kubrajzar, and the alminaki men and human women congregate around each other stay by the central inner sea, likely forming their own community (of eventual human-alminaki hybrids) there.
Might Expenditure: 0 DP - Streak the Sky with Colour: The heavens are no longer blue by day and black by night, but permanently aurora-esque. Clouds remain white/grey or orange/pink/purple/red by sunset. 1 MP - Grant Magic: Grant the new sapients of Kubrajzar the ability to hear the Worldsong and Spiritsing - they do not necessarily realise the latter yet (1 MP Towards Song portfolio)
Bookkeeping: 0 MP remaining / 5 DP remaining / 5/5 MP towards Song Portfolio
When the Worldsong burst the silence of creation and breathed life into all that was, the Hibrach wept for joy. And that great thing of ink - that effervescent spew of poetry and spattering of song - closed all senses bar the fervid need for art and went listening and sighing the world over. It swirled and sang with the singing of creation, and the many giants that dwelled on Kubrajzar and those singing trolls - ah, brother troll! - gazed upward as the many-coloured muse varnished the sky, and some swayed, and some reached forth and moaned (and why shouldn't they moan and sway with the song their voices and their spirits sang?)
Well then, that one birthed of ink and melded of the darkness of the deeps went moaning and hearing, across the worldwater in a great slow spiral - listen to the chorus of the waves calling to their inconstant celestial mistress (You beckon us daily, then rebuke only / Does't please your heart to leave us so lonely? / With rebukes you scatter us off to the deep / And dying, we rise for your harvester's sweep / Your strikes and your rebukes are better by far / Than the beckonings of creation are!) -, across the threescore or more isles, and across a continent that teemed with life. And as that raging, swirling, storming cloud of spattering colour and canorous sound bellowed hither and thither listening and sighing, breathing and crying, painting idly and deftly dyeing, there were caught up in it a myriad of beings and creations. Here a feather-haired desertman was entangled, and there a second - a third. A wooly leaper, having long surrendered the hope of reaching the coveted stars, leaps and flies. It flies and flies - and this time there is no return to land, but flight is destiny, and to baa is not to baa but is to pluck the cords of the heavens. A great lizard came screeching, torn from the safehaven of its godmaster - but if ironwilled you be little itztli, come let us set you free beyond your people's sea. And wisps of blinking light, their spirits huffing and puffing at all this exhilaration and excitement of light and sound. The great white stalker of the world's fortress gazed at the psychedelic delirium enveloping all above and all about, and it stood firm that stalwart beast as the inks whipped at him and tore his horns, and tore him too from his frosty home. Here a great flying pod went whirling off its decreed course, its spirit loosing songs of hysteria as it gave itself fully to the intoxicating celestial outflow of the great surging thing of ink & poetry. And oh! Do not think that the slumbering trees rooted to the depths of the earth did not wake - watch them stir! Watch their roots tremble! Watch their leaves rise and watch their branches sway to the cosmic song - here a root bursts, earth scatters, bark groans, trees fly when the cup wells over. And if thus the Alder, Hawthorne, Lonethorn, what then of that fleeting creature, man? Into the song she glides, hair whipping, soul gushing the universal anthem.
(Beside the stream HOLDER)
In that great maelstrom of visual and auditory liberation, all faded. In those swirling bodies there was not a single I to be seen or heard, only orgastic unity. And when at last that sudden and world-shattering thing of ink & poetry faded out and utterly disappeared the beneficiaries and victims of its global raid sat dazed and at a loss, bathing in a post-epiphanic stew, terrified of moving or even breathing so as not to lose whatever this was. Terrified to continue the banal life they had known before their minds and hearts were flung open and all the barricades and great mountains they had carefully built to keep this out were decimated and rent asunder.
A yeti moaned, a desertman sighed, a lizard hissed, a woman wiped away her tears and - ah, there it was. I, I, I. It had returned, that glorious I. They took in the new world - the coloured sky, the unfamiliar boggy terrain, the mountains that rose up not far, the seemingly endless expanse of water before them, the trees everywhere. Life was abuzz here too, insects were upon them almost immediately and the sounds (the roar of a distant river, the living forest, the gentle ebbing and flowing of the waves), oh the sounds - the whispering of the waters, the muttering of the trees, the bizarre tune of the strange insects that joyed to suck their blood, and more distant too - other songs, other tunes. Oh, it sent a shiver down their spines. No no, banal life there'd be no more. The god had torn open their hearts, the inner eye was unblinking and welcomed the eternal deluge. Their cups would overflow.
The yetis howled (a numbing sound), and the smaller folk looked up at them - any instinct to flee or fear was gone. A knowing glance, moments of understanding, and the lithe keepers of the mountains ambled off peaceably. In the distance great multi-coloured shooting stars zipped across the heavens, and even from here their great sound could be heard - pewww... pewwwwww... pewwwwwww. But the I had returned, and ah, what a terrible thing was the I, for even now the lizardfolk, those itztli, gathered one about the other and, with a glance to the other smallfolk, set out on their own into the jungles. The human women and the desertmen watched them go sadly.
A stomach rumbled. Somiti sighed and rubbed her tummy. The song of the world fed the soul and filled the cup, but oh! the glutt'nous stomach asked for more. And as though hearing her silent song, fish threw themselves upon the shore and the desertmen and the human women ate. And it seemed natural to them then that they should stay together - why yes, damn the I.
The drighina have discovered the westernmost continent and dub it Kubrajzar (lit. the Great Land). The Worldsong comes about - essentially animism style spirits occupy everything that exists. Anything that exists now contains a soul/s. These souls can be heard by those who train themselves (i.e. become Spiritsingers). The spirits communicate in beautiful song, and are communed with in song too - hence the term Spiritsinger for those who are trained to hear and commune with them. Communing with spirits through Spiritsinging allows the singer to request the spirit do things for them. If the Spiritsinger is skilled in the poetic arts and has a beautiful voice, the spirit is more likely to carry out their request. Spirits everywhere love poetry and song, and so will actively protect a singing poet from harm (e.g. if people pelt a singing poet with stones, the stones will stop before hitting him unless the spirits are overpowered). This does not make singing poets completely invulnerable. This is a general thing that applies to anyone who is singing poetry beautifully, and the person doesn't need to be a spiritsinger or even magically attuned.
Might Expenditure: 1 MP - Create the Worldsong: Animism-style Spirits in all things, they communicate in song and are communed with in song. (1 MP towards Song portfolio). 1 MP - Create Song Magic: Spiritsinging, a learned ability that allows one to hear the Worldsong and communicate with spirits. (1 MP Towards Song portfolio)
And for all the singing and joy that accompanied the coming of the Hibrach into the world, and for all his unending lyrics and passion-infused verses, the world was awful empty and awful quiet. The poet flowed across the waters in the company of a troll singing in a westerly direction, who in time set foot upon a great land. That first possessor of the pioneering spark would be followed by many a wandering drighina in the days that came - and in their beauteous tongue they would call it Kubrajzar. They were not a race drawn to company, these drighina, neither their own nor that of others, but as they came - one by one, day by passing day - they could find no other name for it; and one after another they named it - Kubrajzar! - and each bethought himself the first to name it so and each bethought himself the first to behold its greatness and beauty in wonderment.
Before the tree of ink I prayed When I awoke to song And gloried long beneath its shade There the bless'd among There with the god I drank a while A drought of poetry And learned from him great art and style As none before did see- But standing on this wave-torn cliff An ant beneath the skies, See jungles strewn, I wonder if Among the poets wise There ever was a tongue or hand That rightly named one stone or strand That was not Kubrajzar!
The traveller, he travelled far He braved the wat'ry deep His heart with verses was ajar It climbed the cliff face steep Right out the lake from whence flesh sprang Arose the newborn art And with the stream he danced and sang The bidding of his heart: Oh kick the earth and kiss the star And show them what true passions are For you have seen the Kubrajzar Oh see the Kubrajzar!
The world, you ink-eyed, open-hearted ones, can only listen to so much song and view so much dance before it is ready to burst. Have pity on the stone, brother troll, for there too is a song waiting on a listener. The world trembles beneath the weight of its songs - hear the stone, hear the wind, brother troll, and hear the grasshopper. The world has songs aplenty for those versed in the listening arts - and the world, brother troll, is a teacher of the listening arts. Oh it has done nothing but listen, brother troll, it has listened till the cup filled to the brim; you hear only what spills over the rim. There is a lesson there, brother troll; sing only when your cup is full to overflowing - the World has song enough to fill the cups of present, past, and future bards.
The singing of a Draug awakens the Dirgelord. In the midst of the sea a tree of ink arises within which is formed the nascent poet of the gods. The soulsong comes into being, and the singing Draug is the first of a new species of troll, the Drighina. The Drighina have overflowing hair of seaweed that covers their faces, and the sound of their voice inspires immediate cathartic relief - the more burdened by worries and woe a person is, the more intense the experience. Naturally, those constantly exposed to Drighina singing will stop being affected with such intensity after some time, though hearing it again after a long time may bring about cathartic relief once more. The Drighina are by nature curious and, like their Draug cousins, good-natured. They are solitary, however, and extremely shy - even of one another. Unlike the Draug, they prefer watery habitats and may be found near rivers and the coast, or in bogs and other wet environments. They are capable of living both in water and on land. They are monogamous and will only reveal their faces to their life-partner. It is very rare to find a Drighina couple, as they retire to the ocean depths on finding their life-partner, and so it is even rarer to hear the song they sing to one another - known as the soulsong. The soulsong is said to heal all ailments in the listener, and one versed in the arts of ink can even capture it and use it in ink. The tongue of a Drighina who has sung the soulsong has many properties, though harvesting it is said to bring about great misfortune and the enmity of all Drighina.
Might Expenditure: 1 MP - Create Subspecies: The Drighina. (1 MP towards Song portfolio). 1 MP - Grant Drighina Special Ability: The Soulsong. (1 MP Towards Song portfolio)
The singing troll did not intend to make a god. But the song had spoken to a higher power, and the clouds had blackened and the depths of the oceans clenched as all about was foam and darkness. Foam and darkness, yes, and black skies and roiling earth and sand, but there was no silence. Oh there was a shaking in the heavens and a shaking in the earth and it was something mighty and it was something loud. But don't for a moment think that it was mere noise - oh no, this was a strumming of the strings of the earth, a blowing of the flutes of the piled-up firmaments, the seashells on the seafloors sprang and clapped in synchrony with those on the seashores.
Sing, sing brother troll, call on your beloved - your beloved hears. Oh she was not listening for you, but your singing awoke her and now she listens and now she hears and pines - oh brother troll, she yearns for you; sing! And don't think it strange if in euphoria you should walk on water or walk on air - don't think it strange if the mists should swirl about you and dance; oh don't think it strange if a great darkness should arise from the waters followed by great light, it is not strange, not strange at all, brother troll. Dance around the inky tree brother, dance and twirl, whirl - spin, brother, sing, chant, loose your soul; how will she come, brother, if you don't put your soul into the song? And if you spin around the tree you should not find it strange to wonder and to think (even as you sing and pine for her, brother) - is it you who spins and twirls or is it the tree? We're all spinning, brother troll, we're all singing; sing and the black tree of ink is black no more for you will see the heart that begins to grow when you put your soul into the song.
Twirling in a one-troll throng, basking in the nascent song
The singing troll did not intend to make a god, but stood on water, in mist, before the great tree of ink and darkness, within which was the creature of shifting colours and beauteous sound, he could not deny the divine Face. Oh and you shake, brother troll, you weep for joy and grief. It is glorious to sing and glorious to see as if after a lifetime's yearning - and oh, it is not a face of ink and darkness.
They taught me tears, I scarce knew them before I wish they taught me how to smile and soar They nourished me on childhood love for her Then weaned my soul and left me in her myrrh! Don't think I dance when I shake among you Don't think my trembling joy, that is not true: The slaughtered bird runs dancing out of view.
Amiable. Articulate. Benevolent. Calm. Captivating. Caring. Charismatic. Colourful. Compassionate. Contemplative. Creative. Dedicated. Dramatic (in the throes of poetic output). Eloquent. Forgiving. Generous. Idealistic. Imaginative. Incorruptible. Insightful. Observant. Passionate (in the throes of poetic output). Perceptive. Perfectionist. Protective. Reflective. Romantic. Sentimental. Serious. Ascetic. Enigmatic. Retiring. Melancholic. Secretive. Suspicious. Somewhat eccentric and mad.
Does not take too well to insults, and though unlikely to react immediately he will remember them. Is very generous to those he perceives as being in need. He is repulsed by the idea of betraying those who have placed their trust in him, though this revulsion is subject to a variety of other factors (particularly the power the person in question wields and their degree of vulnerability to betrayal). Generally respects those who have greater wisdom and knowledge. May not always declare his disapproval, but may certainly work silently against things he does disapprove of. Readily forgives those who sincerely seek forgiveness. Holds corruption by the powerful in the lowest regard. Actively keeps people at a distance. Would never insist on being repaid, but certainly respects those who do repay him - it is a show of gratitude, and gratitude is a good trait. Unlikely to be in constant communication with others, very likely to disappear for long periods unless sought out. Will actively contribute to the world - from a distance. If fellow gods were endangered by an external enemy, he would likely defend them unto death as a principle. Despite this, he likely does not trust other gods and likewise feels distrusted by them, and so would never expect them to aid him in his hour of need. Such would certainly surprise him. He only has a vague respect for the laws established by the gods and will only abide by them if it suits him. He readily expects to be shunned - that is the fate of artists. He would not seek positions of authority amongst the gods, as authority corrupts, unless thrust by others into it. In times of need, he is the self-sacrificing type. He has no great respect for those in authority generally speaking. When he feels he has done wrong, he will actively seek to make amends, though he would not make himself beholden to any kind of 'judge'. He has no issue expressing subversive and revolutionary sentiments. He strongly believes that wealth should be used to help the unfortunate. He has no qualms with cheating the wealthy. Meghzaal's ambition is to fill the world with ink, poetry, and inspiration, opening up the ability to express to mortals. He wants to be the ultimate muse, but in many ways, he is also in pursuit of a muse. For what muse does the muse himself have?
ＤＯＭＡＩＮ， ＰＯＲＴＦＯＬＩＯ ＆ ＲＥＡＬＭ
DOMAIN of INK. A substance used to mark out images, words, and meanings. Ink does not occur in a ready-for-use form naturally and must be combined with other materials to truly become ink. There is no particular recipe for ink production, with different kinds of inks and colours being made up of different substances. What makes ink into ink is its ultimate purpose and usage: marking surfaces, putting down meaning. In that sense, ink is a catalyst, much like spoken words, allowing for the transferral of thoughts and feelings into the physical world. Ink holds thought, it holds emotion, and it transfers it. A master of the ways of ink knows how to make use of ink to best convey the substance of an image or words - what colours to use, what type of ink, what substances to mix in. And when the correct ink is combined with the correct meanings, the result may seem magical to the uninitiated.
PORTFOLIO of POETRY. Poetry, it is said, is one of the ancient arts, and it begins as do all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the world. It emanates from the highest happiness or the deepest sorrow, from experiences with love, war, tragedy, and the myriad of occurrences individuals, societies, and civilisations go through. It may bolster the status quo and those who hold power, or it may act as the lifeblood of rebellion and revolution. Poetry may enlighten and uplift consciousness, or it may be such as to condemn individuals and peoples to darkness, willful ignorance, and cultural death. Meghzaal is the poetic spark and muse, the spirit which breathes into the hearts and minds of mortals so as to inspire them with words that form on their tongues but emanate from a higher plain; words that inspire action and passion and life, and words that may well kill for what they contain of misery.
REALM of GLOSSOLALIA. Glossolalia is the abode of grief and sorrow, of love and joy also, and of the beauties and horrors of life and death. It is the abode of potential and inspiration awaiting cataclysmic release. It is a formless inky space that carries all those within it off to a place beyond sight - indeed, the corporeal disappears - and awakens within them the spirit and the spark of inspiration. Only gods know it as Glossolalia, to the denizens of Galbar it is simply the Place of Laughter and of Tears. The Saxus Connection: Where Glossalalia and Saxus meet, ink cannot be distinguished from the eternal darkness of the deep, but those initiated in the ways of ink and poetry may see the smoky letters and verses that waft from the unknown chasms of the ocean's depths. The Thousand Rivers of Pain Connection: Ink and verses of lovelorn and fidelistic poetry form in the rivers of the love goddess' realm, and float off towards Glossalalia. The Dark Side of the Moon Connection: Ink and Night meet and become indistinguishable from one another, the horrors of the night giving rise to monsters of ink, only for the utter peace of it to settle them down again. Somewhere in the calm and fear of the night lies one of the secrets of inspiration, for many a poet and artist will find that the best of their writings and poetics are made under the blanket of the night.
ＦＯＲＭＳ ＆ ＡＶＡＴＡＲ
A man in white enrobed, crowned with a laurel wreath. The flesh is inky and amorphous, colours changing and facial age shifting from passionate youth to the zenith of the middle years, thence to wise old age.
An inky darkness that exhibits shapes and forms. To those initiated to the madness of poetry, the god appears in many glorious colours, and his Face - heart-rending in its sadness, enlightening in its wisdom, captivating in its beauty, frightful in its ugliness, elating in its ecstasy - is made to shine on them, and is the greatest poetic muse.
A shifting shade, formed from the darkness of the deeps hidden beneath the ocean waves, that descends upon the heads of men and causes to burst therefrom words locked away in their hidden depths.
Amiable. Articulate. Benevolent. Calm. Captivating. Caring. Charismatic. Colourful. Compassionate. Contemplative. Creative. Dedicated. Dramatic (in the throes of poetic output). Eloquent. Forgiving. Generous. Idealistic. Imaginative. Incorruptible. Insightful. Observant. Passionate (in the throes of poetic output). Perceptive. Perfectionist. Protective. Reflective. Romantic. Sentimental. Serious. Ascetic. Enigmatic. Retiring. Melancholic. Secretive. Suspicious. Somewhat eccentric and mad.
Does not take too well to insults, and though unlikely to react immediately he will remember them. Is very generous to those he perceives as being in need. He is repulsed by the idea of betraying those who have placed their trust in him, though this revulsion is subject to a variety of other factors (particularly the power the person in question wields and their degree of vulnerability to betrayal). Generally respects those who have greater wisdom and knowledge. May not always declare his disapproval, but may certainly work silently against things he does disapprove of. Readily forgives those who sincerely seek forgiveness. Holds corruption by the powerful in the lowest regard. Actively keeps people at a distance. Would never insist on being repaid, but certainly respects those who do repay him - it is a show of gratitude, and gratitude is a good trait. Unlikely to be in constant communication with others, very likely to disappear for long periods unless sought out. Will actively contribute to the world - from a distance. If fellow gods were endangered by an external enemy, he would likely defend them unto death as a principle. Despite this, he likely does not trust other gods and likewise feels distrusted by them, and so would never expect them to aid him in his hour of need. Such would certainly surprise him. He only has a vague respect for the laws established by the gods and will only abide by them if it suits him. He readily expects to be shunned - that is the fate of artists. He would not seek positions of authority amongst the gods, as authority corrupts, unless thrust by others into it. In times of need, he is the self-sacrificing type. He has no great respect for those in authority generally speaking. When he feels he has done wrong, he will actively seek to make amends, though he would not make himself beholden to any kind of 'judge'. He has no issue expressing subversive and revolutionary sentiments. He strongly believes that wealth should be used to help the unfortunate. He has no qualms with cheating the wealthy. Meghzaal's ambition is to fill the world with ink, poetry, and inspiration, opening up the ability to express to mortals. He wants to be the ultimate muse, but in many ways, he is also in pursuit of a muse. For what muse does the muse himself have?
ＤＯＭＡＩＮ， ＰＯＲＴＦＯＬＩＯ ＆ ＲＥＡＬＭ
DOMAIN of INK. A substance used to mark out images, words, and meanings. Ink does not occur in a ready-for-use form naturally and must be combined with other materials to truly become ink. There is no particular recipe for ink production, with different kinds of inks and colours being made up of different substances. What makes ink into ink is its ultimate purpose and usage: marking surfaces, putting down meaning. In that sense, ink is a catalyst, much like spoken words, allowing for the transferral of thoughts and feelings into the physical world. Ink holds thought, it holds emotion, and it transfers it. A master of the ways of ink knows how to make use of ink to best convey the substance of an image or words - what colours to use, what type of ink, what substances to mix in. And when the correct ink is combined with the correct meanings, the result may seem magical to the uninitiated.
PORTFOLIO of POETRY. Poetry, it is said, is one of the ancient arts, and it begins as do all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the world. It emanates from the highest happiness or the deepest sorrow, from experiences with love, war, tragedy, and the myriad of occurrences individuals, societies, and civilisations go through. It may bolster the status quo and those who hold power, or it may act as the lifeblood of rebellion and revolution. Poetry may enlighten and uplift consciousness, or it may be such as to condemn individuals and peoples to darkness, willful ignorance, and cultural death. Meghzaal is the poetic spark and muse, the spirit which breathes into the hearts and minds of mortals so as to inspire them with words that form on their tongues but emanate from a higher plain; words that inspire action and passion and life, and words that may well kill for what they contain of misery.
REALM of GLOSSOLALIA. Glossolalia is the abode of grief and sorrow, of love and joy also, and of the beauties and horrors of life and death. It is the abode of potential and inspiration awaiting cataclysmic release. It is a formless inky space that carries all those within it off to a place beyond sight - indeed, the corporeal disappears - and awakens within them the spirit and the spark of inspiration. Only gods know it as Glossolalia, to the denizens of Galbar it is simply the Place of Laughter and of Tears.
ＦＯＲＭＳ ＆ ＡＶＡＴＡＲ
A man in white enrobed, crowned with a laurel wreath. The flesh is inky and amorphous, colours changing and facial age shifting from passionate youth to the zenith of the middle years, thence to wise old age.
An inky darkness that exhibits shapes and forms. To those initiated to the madness of poetry, the god appears in many glorious colours, and his Face - heart-rending in its sadness, enlightening in its wisdom, captivating in its beauty, frightful in its ugliness, elating in its ecstasy - is made to shine on them, and is the greatest poetic muse.
A shifting shade, formed from the darkness of the deeps hidden beneath the ocean waves, that descends upon the heads of men and causes to burst therefrom words locked away in their hidden depths.
182 of the Azad Calendar - Year of the Dead Horse - 1 Post-Realta
A conclusion to Bulagutai's return arc, and likely the conclusion to the Rukban story. Bulagutai returns and is reunited with his people. The post covers aspects of his journey to Vetruvia and down the Mahd into the sea beyond. Mention is made of a near-death experience that acts as a catalyst for a sudden increase in his shamanistic powers. It ends on a note on kindness, a concept he learned of in Vetruvia.
When Bulagutai Spryte-friend first heard the drums of war and the baleful deathsong of the igilir, he knew beyond doubt that the time of the great bloodletting was at hand. It was from a distance beyond sight that he heard it, a deep rumbling that gently shook the earth at first, grew into tremors as one grew nearer and nearer yet, and then at last became all one could hear or feel. It did not vibrate through the earth and through his temporal form alone, for the gravity of these tremors echoed even through the fabric of all that was, and through the wide-eyed souls of mortalkind afar and nigh around. And scaling a final hilltop, through the sound of horses and screaming and drumming and shaking - noise so thick that one could not walk, but only wade, through -, the great scene came into full view. His sprytes circled about him, agitated by the noise and afraid of the enormous gathering of fleshly beings on the plain. The Spryte-friend brought one close and stroked an ethereal head that now formed up and now dissipated into an ephemeral mist.
His journey had been long, and the bond forged with these sprytes that now bound themselves to him and followed him was beyond anything other disciples of Y'Qar - in their impatience - could know. 'We have been gifted something great,' Zanshah had declared to him one day, 'and now is the time to return to our people with it, to teach this great knowledge.' But Bulagutai had been of an altogether differing inclination. 'How can they hope to teach who are in the shamanic arts as accomplished as a fish is in the ways of flight? No brother, we have much yet to learn - the spring flows into a stream, which worships at the foot of the great river, which flows into the great lake, beyond which are mountains on mountains stacked, beyond which is the sky from horizon to horizon drawn, above which are stars and moons and endless travails. If you wish it, then you may to our people now return; but as for me, the miles call, the miles of the mind, and the walk must of necessity go on.'
And so he had travelled. For a time he continued to follow Y'Qar in the hopes that he would divulge more of what he had been gifted, but the great shaman was suspicious and covetous, his vision transfixed on usurping his father and brother. Bulagutai saw Y'Qar for what he was then - a well of knowledge that had dried up. And so he had departed for Vetruvia where the people spoke of strange and dark arts being practised in the night, of unnatural beasts that twisted things beyond their naturally ordained forms and filled them with horror and pain and - ultimately - death. But if it were not natural, reasoned Bulagutai, then how could it be possible at all? Surely nature herself would not permit the universe the very faculty of comprehending that which was unnatural, let alone permit its production. Surely the very existence, the very reality, of a thing - even if it existed as a fleeting or imagined thought in the mind of the most obscure and evanescent of creatures - was proof enough of its being a natural part of the great tapestry? All that existed was by its very existence of nature, and so to say 'such and such a thing is most abhorrent and unnatural' was manifestly erroneous.
The single spryte who followed him at that time disagreed, screeching in its unhearable voice of the evils of Djivin and reprimanding him and warning him against such ideas and thoughts -
Mind the path oh fleshly kinsman; do not stray See you not these thoughts are hunted nightly and by dawn of day?
It had a tongue for poetry, and of surety there was to be found in poetry pearls of wisdom. But Bulagutai was a creature of the mind and of reason, and he saw with an eye and struck with a blade that reason alone could hope to defy. In that great city, Bulagutai came upon a hidden gem - a temple that was no mere temple, but an archive of knowledge. He had travelled from temple to temple, asking the priests of Vetruvia what they knew of the shamanic arts, and at every door and gateway he had been rebuffed with harsh words and turned away with suspicion, neither fare was afforded him nor the welcome owed to guests and wayfarers. Some had even thought to report this stranger to the so-called Priest-King - and many did not just think it but acted on such thoughts. Yet this Priest-King seemed unconcerned with a travelling stranger.
In the bazaar one day he saw a great crowd following a scraggly-haired preacher, chanting such things as, 'down with the Witch!' and, 'out with the heretic!' Made curious by this talk of witches, he followed them and soon came to know that this was not the first time an itinerant preacher had come forth from the Vetruvian desert to try and cast out the Witch-Priestess of the Temple of the Bond. Many had come before and, as Bulagutai would come to know, many would come after.
He watched as the Witch-Priestess - the one called Mother Iehra - brought low this one who thought to cast her out, with the swiftness of her tongue and piercing insight. And so he was drawn to her - or to be more precise, to the knowledge that lay hidden behind her eyes, to the compelling mind that lay beneath that crown. He never did speak with the Witch-Priestess - he avoided her and cast his eyes low whenever she passed him by. But in the library he befriended a young Priestess named Lowza who was at first happy to read the manuscripts for him. Dissatisfied with this, for she was not always available, he had set his time and energy to deciphering the language of the Vetruvians. It had been a lengthy endeavour, and Sister Lowza aided him, even affording him a place to stay with her brother who dwelled but a short distance from the temple. It became common to see the Azad sat in the far corner of the library, poring over one tome or another in his efforts. When Mother Iehra walked into the library, on the occasions that she did, he seemed to bend over double as though getting low enough would allow him to disappear into the book or tome or scroll. For her part she never approached him, and - for no reason that he could fathom - he was glad for it.
As it became clear that his stay in Vetruvia was to be too lengthy to continue living as a guest, he began to seek out a way to be self-sufficient, or some way to recompense Sister Lowza and her brother, Urb, for providing him with accommodation. He was a Rukban, and so knew his way around a sword and bow, though he openly admitted that he had never dedicated himself to the twain in the manner his brother Shaqmar had done - for Shaqmar was the glorious warrior of the Azad, a creature closer to divinity, granted boundless prowess and piercing sight. Bulagutai's path was of a more humble and scholarly bent, but even the scholarly Rukban knew well the sword, the bow, the spear, and knew well the horse. The Vetruvians knew nothing of the horse and treated it with suspicion, the bow was foreign to them also for they preferred the sling, and they knew nothing of the sword and knew much of the spear. These were the things the Rukbans knew, and these all had to do with war. Even their mastery over words found its greatest application in war - the word was a weapon too, and the Rukbans knew well how to hone it and knew well how to strike their enemies with it and to hurt them in their hearts. And so Bulagutai found that of little use were those things of his people here.
One day, some months into his stay, with Sister Lowza sat across him, he let it be known that he wished after some kind of work, that he may earn a living and pay both her and her brother back for permitting his continued stay with them. She had smiled and waved his words off. 'Think nothing of it, kindness is its own payment.' Bulagutai had looked at her impassively. 'Kindness?' He had heard the priestesses preach of it before, but had never really paused to consider it. It seemed absurd to him that hospitality and kindness should be conflated. 'I do not know what you mean, but I have never heard of those who barter for kindness.' She looked at him quizzically. 'Kindness itself is its own payment is what I mean to say. To see you at comfort and ease and to know that I have contributed to that, to see you reading while before you could not make out even the letters. It gives me joy and that joy is payment enough.' Bulagutai frowned. 'You are spending time to teach me, you feed me of the food you grow tired to provide, you house me in your brother's house freely. You lose by this arrangement and do not gain, and it irks me. I am neither a cheat nor a beggar and will not conduct myself or be treated as such.' She blinked in confusion, taken aback by words that, though spoken softly, held a subtle barb. 'Do your people not have the concept of hospitality?' She asked. 'Of course we do.' Came his simple response. 'That is kindness! You are generous to the guest and treat them well, better than your own. That comes from kindness.' 'No, kindness is rooted in weakness, in submission, in fear. Hospitality is honourable. Kindness brings dishonour. Hospitality is a sign of wealth, it displays to all that one is able to care and provide for, and protect, those who seek shelter at one's door. It shows you to be a man of your word and trustworthy, for the guest has no need to fear the treacherous knife or the subtle poisonous drought when you are the host. It is not a matter of kindness, it is a matter of honour.' Lowza considered his words for a few moments. 'Well, I mean... that is somewhat odd. It is a matter of honour here too, I guess - but not... not quite as you describe. Is it not rooted in doing unto others as one would like done unto them? And isn't that in itself the very definition of kindness?' Bulagutai frowned as he considered this concept, and then shook his head. 'You speak oddly - what is this doing unto others as you would have done unto you? No one does this. People kill and maim, steal, loot, rob. We do unto others much that we would not like done unto ourselves.' 'Ah! But should the ideal not be that we do unto others as we would like done unto us?' 'No, that is mere foolishness - it is to willingly throw yourself to ruination. We must do as done unto us. If we did unto others as we do unto ourselves, then we would find our goodness recompensated with evil, our generosity with miserliness, our mercy with cruelty.' 'So what would your response be if a beggar were to ask your help?' Lowza asked testingly. 'There are no beggars in Rukbany, and he who begs is dishonoured. It is better far that one die dignified than that he should eat and drink of dishonour.' 'And what if your father asked your help?' She asked quizzically. 'We owe our kindred a duty. Their wellbeing is our wellbeing, their strength our strength. Those who treat their kin badly are in our view most vile and are worthy indeed of contempt.' 'But those who treat other people badly are truly virtuous in your eyes?' 'I owe other people no duty. As for my kin, I owe it them. In turning on them I strike down my own horse which carries and provides for me in war and peace alike.' 'So you care for your kin because it serves you and is to your benefit, and you care for the guest because it is a display of your power. Where in all this is basic morality - do you not claim to worship the same God as we?' 'The Eternal Sky is a glorious and majestic sovereign, and we are all his vassals. Those who adhere to the Law are honoured and those who defy it shame us before him and incur his wrath, and we punish them a severe punishment. That is all there is to it.' 'So you obey the Master only because you fear the punishment of your people?' 'In part. It is only natural for the weak to be submissive before the mighty. None is mightier than the qa'id, and the greatest of qa'ids is the Eternal Sky. But worship of him does not only keep punishment at bay, it also brings honour.' 'So why do you worship him here, right now? Your people can neither punish you here nor can they honour you.' 'You are right in that, but the wrath of the Eternal Sky is not connected to my people. Wherever I may be, his wrath may strike me down. And wherever I am his pleasure empowers me. He is the wellspring of the shamanic arts practised by the Witch-Priestess, and he is the well-spring of the knowledge that I seek to harness. How should I harness it if I have incurred his wrath?' Lowza frowned. 'So tell me this, why are you good to anyone in this city. Why do you not treat me and my brother and the people of this Temple with the contempt you would treat anyone who is not of your kin?' 'Ah, but it is not so simple. You have given me no cause to mistreat you, and have only treated me with the hospitality that is due a guest. You are good hosts, you fulfil your duties, and so I fulfil my duties as a guest. I shall praise you wherever my foot lands, for that is the duty of the good guest to the good host.' 'And yet that same guest, under different circumstances, may slight and insult the host. If the host came to him for help one day, for instance, you say he has no duty to him at all. Isn't that warped?' 'The host has a duty to his guest, and he is dishonoured if he does not carry it out. The guest owes a duty to his host, but that duty expires once he departs. The host's reward comes in the form of his enhanced reputation and honour. It does not come in the form of that particular guest or those particular guests being indebted to him. So a man may be a guest one day, and he may depart the next, and on the third the host may raid that former guest's herd and the former guest may retaliate as he pleases. The former guest may curse and take the former host as his enemy, but there would be no question about his honourable conduct as a host, and even should the former guest strike the former host down, still would he praise his conduct as a host. These are entirely different matters and are not to be conflated.' Lowza frowned deeply. 'That makes no sense. It is contradictory.' 'And even if it were contradictory, and I do not see any such thing, what does it matter? It works and serves us well.' 'I imagine it works somehow, but I doubt it serves you well.' Was her retort. 'It is practical. It takes into consideration the nature and predilections of men. Would you have us ignore the evil that all people are capable of? - nay, naturally predisposed towards. Would you have us deny the natural desire for power and prestige? Replace it all with the foolishness of this kindness of yours?' Lowza pursed her lips in irritation. 'It is not foolishness. It is about discipline. We are all capable of great evil, we are all vulnerable to primal emotions. But to become elevated, to become truly human and not a mere animal, we must tame these primal emotions and discipline them. By disciplining them we are made purer and more perfect, closer to that which is divine. Otherwise we can sink to be even as base as - and baser yet than - the creatures of Y'Vahn. See, you are tied down by this tribalism and this terrible understanding of honour and you allow it to forge you and dictate your morality. But one must rise above these all and seek, above all else, to be the finest person they can be - just, generous, brave, altruistic, wise, temperate, dignified, forgiving, disciplined, and much else! In sum, it is a duty you owe yourself to be the most excellent person you can possibly be. And in carrying out that duty to yourself you are well-placed to carry out a wider duty you owe all: the alleviation of suffering, however and whenever you can as though all the world were your kin.' Bulagutai scrutinised the Priestess. There was much he could say in protest against this absurd conception of the world, but he allowed himself pause and considered seriously what she was saying for a few moments. 'I cannot say, Lowza,' he at last spoke, 'that I see eye to eye with you on this. But what I can say is that it is of interest and I can, mayhaps, understand it given what I have seen of this city and of this Temple. I will think often on your words.' The Priestess beamed, and many were the occasions thereafter that they sat together in thrall to ideas and philosophies, the priestess leaning forward and whispering excitedly over the table as the Rukban sat back and calmly gave response. She would at times force him from the table and the endless scrolls and tomes, into the courtyard where trees grew and there was life. And they would walk sometimes to the bazaar or along the bank of the river. He had not considered it at the time, but thinking back Bulagutai found himself inclined to believe that Lowza may well have been smitten with him.
As it were his stay in the great city would not carry on into perpetuity and when he had exhausted his energies and found that he tired of staring at tomes and scrolls he bid farewell to Lowza and Urb and took a Vetruvian sailship down the Mahd. These constructions were wondrous things indeed. They were hewn from cedar wood, if the sailor Bulagutai spoke to was to be believed, and sported one great mast and a square-shaped sail. Both the wind and oars powered it, and at the back was a great steering oar greater than all the rest which controlled the direction of the ship. It was a work of genius and a testament to the ultimate power of the innovative mind.
Horrorborn Beauty of the Waters
On occasion a passing djinni would descend and playfully blow into the sail, so granting the ship speed on its journey downstream. They stopped by various port towns where Bulagutai had opportunity to speak to merchants who had sailed beyond the Mahd. The Mahd, they told him, fed a grand forest that sat in the waters, and beyond it was saline water as far as the eye could ever hope to see. Bulagutai looked on impassively. 'You have seen the eyes that hope to see,' he had whispered. The merchant did not hear him, and even if he did Bulagutai was already lost in thought, his gaze fixed on something neither here nor there - and maybe not truly anywhere at all. The companionship of Y'Qar, Vetruvia, this port town; these were but the beginnings of his odyssey, and what lay before him was greater yet.
The shaman shook away the entangling web of memories and looked before him at the enormous Azad encampment. Aye, he had returned home now after long years and could see as clear as the unforgiving orb of day that much had changed. Atop the hill he stood a shadow for some time, the threads of his travel-worn garments the plaything of sprytes, his hair uncovered to wind and sand and the beating rays and to the kisses and protective embraces of his divine companions. He stood a watchful shade, his face as stone and his heart enveloping his people, their pain and suffering a glaring wound to all who knew well how to see. He had returned now as a balm and soft breeze. And so Bulagutai descended from his perch, walking slow as sprytes trailed in his wake and heavenward all about him.
When the first riders spotted him their horses reared and snorted and kicked the earth, turning and turning, churning up mud and causing dust clouds to rise. They approached and hailed, but their horses did not stop and they went by and then returned and hailed again but their horses could not - would not - stop. They hailed him who was silent and the riders about him grew many and still their horses did not stop, much as each skilled rider willed, so that all about him was a circle of horse and man flesh going and going and raising up the dust. But all around the Spryte-friend was clear and no dust approached or landed on him, the airborne dirt parted before him or came swiftly and gently passed.
'It is Bulagutai! It is Bulagutai!' The cry at last went up and was taken up as a fire in a land of endless dry bushes. 'It is Bulagutai!' Was the unified cry. The women came out and sent forth ululations of joy and others beat at their chests and tore at their hair and cried for joy and for all the pain that would soon break the heart of the son and brother of noble qa'id after noble qa'id born. Old women came out with bowls of kymis and, placing their hands within, sprayed it above the head of the returned son of the Azad and sent forth praise and blessings on the Eternal Sky that had watched over him and brought him safely back to the bosom of his people after long absence.
The Qa'id Adheem stepped forth flanked by Zanshah, Bulagutai's eldest brother, as well as Alqama the Chief Shaman and other elders beside. Silence fell as the returned son stood before the Qa'id Adheem and the elders. Then Zanshah stepped forth and his face lit up with his characteristic smile - though even that could not hide the well of sadness in his eyes - and he extended his hands towards his brother. Bulagutai stepped forward and they both gripped one another's arms in silent greeting. Qaseer the Qa'id Adheem eyed him for a few moments then he too smiled and they gripped one another's arms.
'My Qa'id,' spoke Bulagutai. Qaseer grinned and brought him close. 'None of that between us, cousin! I had wondered who it was that saved me from that strange fiend. I see now that it could have only been you.' Bulagutai smiled thinly at Qaseer's words. 'You should not have been out so far all on your own, Qa'id. Your death would have added only more woe to our many woes.' Qaseer's brows dropped at this words, as if they had suddenly remembered the weight of responsibilities and troubles. 'Your words testify that you have already come to know what I fear to tell you.' Bulagutai nodded. 'I know that my brother has gone ahead of us to where we all are headed.' Qaseer nodded and allowed his head to fall. 'Aye, he has. But he has left us a will, and his will is blood. And no Azad am I if the will of Shaqmar is not done!' Bulagutai's eyes softened and there was sadness there. 'Honour and duty demand it.' Spoke the shaman, causing Qaseer to smile and grip the other man's shoulder. 'Your travels have not stripped you bare, Bulagutai! You are the brother of Shaqmar. Come, let us wash you and dress you, and let us bring forth food and drink. Tonight we shall take joy and solace in your return, and tomorrow we shall deliver death to Toqidae and his people and all his confederates!' Bulagutai did not speak but allowed himself to be led away.
When the sun had been extinguished and the fires awakened all over the camp, and when all had gathered to hear from Bulagutai, the Spryte-friend spoke. He spoke of his going forth with Zanshah in pursuit of godly knowledge, spoke of how they had found themselves with a company of wandering outcasts - lowly escaped slaves some of them, criminals, and then there was Y'Qar the Vetruvian nobleman in self-exile. He spoke of the blessings granted Y'Qar by the Eternal Sky and the command to share it. But Y'Qar was jealous and covetous and hid more than he shared, and so Zanshah had departed after feeling satisfied that no more could be gained from the man. Bulagutai, however, was more persistent. 'But in due time I too saw that Y'Qar was to us nothing more than a dried-up well, the creative energies had shrivelled up within him and all that remained was hatred and bitterness. He was a ruin within, and a ruin cannot hope to create but can only bring about ruin. And so I departed from him and travelled in pursuit of that which I had first left home and kin for.'
He spoke of his stay in Vetruvia and the Temple of the Bond, spoke of Iehra, the greatest of the shamans of the world, who was mistress over that Temple and who - so it was said - was descended of the Prophet; nay, descended of the Eternal Sky or herself an aspect of it! He spoke of the secrets of shamanic knowledge that lay written in the tomes and scrolls of her Temple's great library. 'What is a library, son of our first mother, and what are tomes and scrolls?' Came the question, and Bulagutai smiled and explained that a library was a place where books and scrolls were kept, and then he presented them with a book he carried on his person and wherein he had written much knowledge he had seen.
'And what is hidden,' he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tapped the side of his head, 'is greater yet!' He told them then of his journey down the Mahd, told them that the Mahd poured itself into a great forest that grew out of the water. 'The people of those strange lands live perpetually on boats, and they have homes built on sticks above the water. And to travel from one home to another you must either jump so as not to get wet, or you must swim, or you must row a boat.' And he spoke of how he had managed to convince the master of the ship he had boarded to carry on beyond the mangrove into the great endless water. They had kept land ever in sight as they journeyed and many of those who had come with them refused to go beyond and so it fell to Bulagutai to summon forth sprytes to aid their journey. 'We travelled until we came to the lands of the merchants who bring us metal from the far mountains. I was amongst them for a time and saw terrible shamanic arts - there it is not the spryte and the djinni that hold power, but the word.' And he opened his tome and leafed through it until he came to one particular sign, which he replicated on the ground so that a small spring erupted before them.
The people were shocked and even Alqama stared in amazement at this miraculous magick. 'They do not worship the Eternal Sky in those far mountains, they worship others beside the Eternal Sky - in fact, some do not know the Eternal Sky at all. Their gods have granted them these arts and many are they who use them for evil. But I am a son of yours and a brother, and I have brought you only what is good.' Then he invited them and many were they who drank water fresh and pure from the spring, and it was thereafter known as the Great Spring.
'But my journey, may the Eternal Sky preserve you, did not end there. Again I set out with my trusted companion the shipmaster - it was him only now, and me. He was forlorn and yearning for home, but I thirsted yet for wandering.' So, Bulagutai told them, he had convinced his companion to journey from the coast. He had alleviated the other man's fears and assured him that so long as he, Bulagutai, was a friend to sprytes then no harm would come them. 'But I spoke in arrogance and forgot to praise the Eternal Sky - no power or might have we, only through his grace can we be empowered by the shamanic arts,' and so, when land was far from sight, why then earth's foundation fled, nor sky nor land nor sea at all were found, and they were set upon by those dark raging waters and terrible storms rocked them and took them hither and thither. Utterly helpless before nature's wrath, their ship was smashed and both men were swallowed into the burgeoning darkness of the endless waters. 'And even that shipmaster, who I had seen swim in and out of water with ease, was overpowered and perished. I survived only due to the loyalty and efforts of these sprytes who - in the desperation only death can bring - I gained mastery over.' Bulagutai then stopped and looked into the dark night. The people were still, staring wide-eyed as his tale unraveled.
'Ah,' he said, 'but the hour grows late and on the morrow we shall meet with death and mete it.' And with those words the people rose and began to disperse each to his own tent. But though they dispersed, and though the Azad were at war, the only talk that night was of Bulagutai and his fantastic journey. Many were those who came to him, kissing his fingers to gain blessing by touching one so blessed by the Eternal Sky. When Bulagutai retired with his brother Zanshah, and with his sisters also and with Qaseer and other close kin, he looked about and frowned. 'Why is it that I do not see Surayka, or is she also amongst those who went on ahead?'
Qaseer shook his head in response. 'No, she has not gone ahead but she may as well have. Ever since Shaqmar's death she has donned the red and black and has been as a shadow or a ghost haunting the camp.' Hearing this Bulagutai rose and excused himself, and then he gestured for his sister Wanun to lead him to Surayka's tent. Standing outside it he could hear his grief-stricken kinswoman chanting a poem.
Peace to the world and all on it, for it is not peace If the heartstrings of your life are cleft from the heartstrings of mine
It is as though we were created in error and it is as though It was forbidden upon the world that we should be united
I collected the memories of yesterday's meeting in my lashes, And I went reigniting them, one by one, on the tired horizons.
There are none so confused as I: the eye runs wet and dry, Weeping and laughing in the depths of my secret heart...
I forgot from his hand to take back my hand, Lost my very mind after a brief kiss.
There are none so confused as I: I collapse exhausted Behind the curtains of my roundtent in illness and heartache.
I love this love if it comes to visit us with its fragrance Oh perfumes make your nest at the door and spill everywhere.
Entering the roundtent, he looked down at her and smiled sympathetically. 'Many things you are, Surayka, but not a poet. You have the heart for it, not the tongue.' She looked at him with wet eyes and then looked away again. 'What is it to me, son of our first mother? What comes from the heart will land, at long last, in the heart.' He did not disagree and approached her, sitting before her. After a few moments of thought, he began reciting her verses back to her altered and changed.
I have wished peace on creation, But 'tis not peace If great God deems to apportion For us heartache, And if our bound heartstrings should break.
Oh pain so great God must have erred In making us, Or while pairing us slipped and glared, And so forbade The world to shelter us or shade:
I have gathered the memories That sing the tale Of past meetings, in my lashes, Lighting them all On the horizon of my soul.
None are confused as unto me - A slave yet not; The eye runs wet and dry and free Laughing, weeping, So my heart is leaping, creeping,
Shedding tears for long-gone kisses, Carving rivers That are healed by past embraces; From his hand I Failed to draw mine: so take, oh sky!
None are confused as unto me - So I collapse, Exhausted with this misery, In my roundtent With the curtain drawn and back bent -
I love this love when it visits With its fragrance; Come, enter with scented spirits, You perfumes nest And spill through my curtain to rest.
Surayka did not look at him, but her tears fell heavy. At last she sniffed and cleared her throat and spoke. 'You don't have Shaqmar's tongue, and took the heart from it too.' This caused Bulagutai to chuckle and nod in agreement, and Surayka too smiled ever so slightly and looked at him. 'But you are his image...' she sighed, 'except for the eyes; and the eyes hold much. His were alight with two suns, but yours are simmering coals.' Bulagutai cocked his head. 'Are my eyes so dark? I thought them brown.' 'Simmmering,' Surayka murmured. Then she began chanting again verses that were neither hers nor his, but theirs.
I have wished peace on creation, for there is no peace If the Sky apportions for us heartache and separation And if the bound heartstrings of our lives should break
Oh pain so great that it is as though We were created in error, and it is as though 'Twere forbidden on the world that we should unite
I have gathered the memories of yesterday's meetings on my lashes, And reignited them all, one by one, on the tired horizons.
What ails the birds that they approach and then question me 'You have neglected your hair, gone is the knot of shoots!' Their flocks, and the gleam in their glances Incite in me towards them something of reproach
None are confused as me: the eye runs wet and dry, Laughing and weeping in the depths of my secret heart...
I love him, who claims I had never smiled for him; He grew near so their embraced me a longing for escape: I forgot from his hand to take back my hand
None are confused as me: I collapse exhausted Behind the drawn curtains of my roundtent, with back bent
I love this love when it comes visiting with its fragrance Come in on scented spirits burning incense; Oh perfume make your nest at the door and spill everywhere!
He nodded in acknowledgement. 'It is imperfect, unbalanced, distorted and contorted; but it has heart. And what comes from the heart,' he looked at her, 'lands in the heart.' She stared at him with distance in her eyes, and then one of her hands was at his cheek. 'You are his likeness, except for the eyes. Just as words can be spoken though the tongue utters naught, eyes hide meanings for eyes with true sight.' He removed her hand from his cheek and pressed his lips to her fingers.
And I questioned her, but without speaking a word So she spoke to me, though her tongue struck not a chord
She looked away and was quiet for a time. Then she lowered her gaze to the ground and spoke. 'In all your travelling, did you ever have occasion to give yourself to another's embrace?' Bulagutai shook his head. 'I was pursuing a different kind of embrace.' She turned back to him with eyes brimming with tears and closed the distance between. 'Then for tonight - just tonight - embrace me.'
And he did. And when she fell asleep he brought her near and covered both her and him in the furs, and his eyes did not sleep as he watched over her. In the dark depths of the night, his eyes of simmering coal yet open, she turned over and buried her head into his beard and sighed and muttered. And her sighs and mutters were, 'Shaqmar...' He stroked her face and brought her near. 'Yes, sun of my night,' he whispered. She giggled in sleep, childlike joy and innocence, and all tension left her as she breathed deep. The image of her lost Shaqmar held her close, and all around them sprytes streamed and wafted in silent, eternal vigil. On the morrow there would be blood and war, and death would dance across Rukbany as it had danced and reaved before. Great warriors and qa'ids would be brought low, tribes would be shattered and others would rise, for that was the Rukban way. But for tonight, a burdened soul and broken heart at last found release. Perhaps kindness was not quite so terrible after all.
@BBeast I will ensure Teknall and Gadar/Belru-Vowzra meet. I imagine Teknall is currently quite busy with Xos, I'm not quite caught up, so perhaps sometime after all that. I will remember the Temple of the Bond and the trade school, and will seek to involve you in that post (not necessary for their to be any direction from Teknall or Yara, just a purely collaborative aspect to the post) so we can ensure the trade school in particular is done justice.
@Double Capybara I think the idea of summation posts is good. I'm going to do a summation and wrap up post for the Eskandars as we are moving the RP towards endgame, and I will also do a summation and wrap up post for my southern Rukban stuff as I think the culture of people there has been delved into enough. I will also do a general overview of the Vetros plot, and then a wrap up and skip with regards to any Vetros plots I'm involved in so Cyclone can take that over and delve into any long-term stories he has for the Vetruvians. Once that's done I'll focus on the endgame plot for Gadar/Belru-Vowzra, beginning with the Tira collabs, and resolve the matter of Mafie somewhere in all that. I'm not completely caught up on the posts though, still need to read page 31 and 32. Will get to that soon and make a note of anything I need to get responding to.
Lord Zee
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Cyclone
Vec
Torack
