Lord Zee
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Cyclone
Vec
Torack
KhoZee Productions & Partners. presents:
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in
They had been on the road for some twelve days when they spotted the caravanners on the horizon. Her idda-ta had assured her they would be seeing them soon - for there was a known caravanserai not far from here. “Are we headed for it?” She had asked, and he had nodded in the affirmative.
When they arrived, the people Rima found there were quite different from the townspeople of Miha-Rad. For one thing, they wore no headdresses - men and women wore their hair at different lengths and decorated with all kinds of beads and adornments. The men, in particular, seemed to wear copious jewellery - neck-chains, bracelets, anklets -, even more so than some of the women back at Miha-Rad. While the men wore their hair differently, Rima immediately noted that the girls and younger women wore it cropped short or even shaved completely, often wearing headbands intensively decorated with beads. The older the women, the longer was their hair - and when long enough it was braided tightly and entwined with beads and pearls.
Unlike the people of Miha-Rad, they did not flock to the kayhin on his arrival, clearly being more used to the likes of him than the townspeople were. They were, however, approached by an old woman who gave them a sing-song greeting. “It is good to hear your song anew, Zahna.” The kayhin spoke.
“It is good to see you too, Great Diviner. You have been gone a long time - I had thought you gone forever.”
“Not so, not yet. I had duties to attend to.” And here he gestured for Rima to come. “Come, my dear. Meet old Zahna.”
“Ah, now here’s a special song indeed. And what’s your name, little desert rose?” Zahna asked. Rima blinked in surprise then smiled.
“Rima-Tinrur of the Jungle-folk, idda-ti.”
“Ah, now no one’s called me that since Serrah and Rahma went off.” The old woman said with a smile, though there was perhaps the slightest sadness in her eyes. “From the jungle are you? I haven’t seen one of you in many, many years.” Rima’s eyes broadened with interest.
“I heard your song not long ago - you seemed distressed.” The kayhin continued.
“Oh yes, we had an unpleasant encounter with a little dreambeast. Serrah and Rahma dealt with it well enough.” The old woman said. “It awoke something in them - perhaps something that was always there.” She turned and they began walking towards her tent.
“Their song did always sound different.” The kayhin noted.
“Oh, that it did. That it did.” Zahna agreed. Rima looked from the woman to her idda-ta at a loss, but smiled anyhow. “Only the gods and the song know where they are now.” She sighed.
“You have come from Birba-Ida - how did you leave it?” Her idda-ta asked.
“Not too different from how we found it. The fishes bring their loads, and we bring ours, and the world of the oceans and that of the land meet. Their songs are always a delight to hear, of course - alien, but delightful. Far off lands and such odd people and creatures. And such kawnnisaj as causes the heart to tremble. But beyond their tales and merchandise, there is not much new. The many-limbed ones have kept their peace - the ward-shrines have made sure of that, at least.” She stooped into her small tent and the kayhin and Rima stepped in after her. It was sparsely furnished - some goatskin skins, a drum here or there, but little else beyond. It was clear that the old woman lived as lightly as she travelled.
“That is good. I am the last to turn to kawnnisaj to resolve such matters, but there seemed no other way.” The kayhin intoned.
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt.” She reached for a nearby goatskin bag and unstoppered it, extending it to Rima.
“Ah, thank you.” The woman accepted it and took a swig, finding it to be soured milk not dissimilar to what the townspeople of Miha-Rad had.
“Now I don’t know if you have heard it, but these last few nights here I have heard it every night - a certain deathsong on the breeze, the chanting of more bodytakers than I care to count. It is not near by any means, but near enough. It comes from the direction of the fahupki. They fight and kill each other, this we know, but I have never heard it on such a scale.” The old woman looked to the kayhin with furrowed brows.
“Yes, I have heard it on the song also. It is no fahupki song, that is for certain. In fact…” he paused for a few seconds, “you should not be surprised to find the perpetrator arriving here soon enough.” The old woman’s knotted brows seemed to knot even further.
“Do you know what it is?” She asked.
“It is not anything I have ever heard before. Its song is not a good song at all.” There was a certain gravity to his tone that caused Rima’s hairs to stand on edge.
“Ah,” the old woman sighed regretfully. “It is what it is.”
“That it is.” The kayhin agreed. “Now, I shall leave our little desert rose here with you, I can already hear her crooning to know all your tales.”
“Oh, I think I heard that too.” The old woman gave Rima a knowing smile. “I know what you are thinking - how does old Zahna know anything about the jungle people, eh?” Rima glanced at her idda-ta as he floated out of the tent, but then turned her attention back to the old woman.
“Well, I know that you caravanners travel all over the world, so that’s probably how isn’t it?”
“All over the world? My dear, the world is a great old place - I don’t think anyone has seen half of it! No no, it’s not because of the caravenners - I’ve never travelled east of the mountains with them.” Rima raised an eyebrow at this. “You see, I was born not too far from those jungles - in the great city of Qabar-Kirkanshir…”
True to his word, Malri awoke on the fourth day, having been left undisturbed. After eating and drinking his fill, he went down to the water’s edge. There he removed his armor, piece by piece and arranged them carefully on the bank. He then removed an old shirt and some worn leggings, woven by the Litus tribe and threw them in the water to wash.
He looked down at his unnaturally pale body, the heat of the sun almost burning him where he stood. He checked his pendant and took it off to wash, then placed it back on. He did the same with his sun stone and the mace. Then each piece of his armor was next, bit by bit until everything was as good as it was going to get. Malri left the bands upon his arms, for the looks of the bustling vesps were far too inquisitive for his liking. They were busy preparing their goods for travel, like little worker bees. Even still, he did not trust them.
Then at long last, Malri himself walked into the warm water, venturing chest deep to the cool. He dipped his wings in only slightly, not wanting to get rid of the oils that kept them dry. He then washed himself from the grime and sweat that the desert had encrusted him in. After an hour or so of this, he ventured back onto land and let the sun dry him. He then donned everything once more, a grueling task for one, but he did not want these creatures to help him. They were far too wrong looking. He couldn’t even tell them apart, nevertheless what gender they were. If they even had genders.
The speaker vesp, at least he thought it was the speaker vesp, seemed to be waiting for him. She approached in haste, clacking her mandibles. Barely a few words were uttered, before Malri cut her off.
“Are you prepared?” He demanded, looking at her behind his fearsome gaze. It was difficult to read their facial expressions, he had also noted. Being so insect-like, how could the act so… So different but the same time as to what he was used to? The creature nodded it’s head and raised a finger to speak, but Malri did not wait and took to the skies with a few large gusts of his wings.
As if given a signal, the vesps ascended as well in a mighty drone that seemed to engulf the world. With them they brought their goods in great long nets, carried by dozens of them, if not hundreds. They worked in those large groups down to mere two’s and even one’s. All carrying something, or helping carry. Even Malri had to admit that it was an impressive sight, for an inferior species. Their sheer size seemed to blot out the skies, just like the swarm that had attacked him. Malri decided to fly higher up, carried by the warm currents of the air. He could vaguely see different colors and shapes upon the horizon but he was content to be a follower for now.
He knew for a fact that these vesps... they were not for him. He wanted to be away from these bugs and into the company of those that suited him better.
Far, far better…
The desert rolled away beneath them, and no matter how swiftly they seemed to move and no matter how distant the oasis grew, the desert seemed to go on forever. Yet these vesps clearly knew where they were headed, and it was a matter of hours before they started descending and below them a great encampment, made up of dozens if not hundreds of little black tents, emerged from the red wastes. What had at first seemed like a little rocky hill at the centre of the camp was not a hill at all, but some kind of stone-carved structure. The vesps made landfall just outside the camp’s perimetre, with the nets being the last to slowly be placed down.
They zipped here and there, clearing out space, erecting makeshift canopies and stalls and ordering all their wares according to type. “We stop here for trade.” The speaker told Malri. “After trade is done, I and some others will take you to the mountain - as agreed.” She paused for a few seconds. “Be nice to redmen - if you ask nicely, they might even give you information for free. They can be silly like that.”
“Very well.” He said, fixing his mace to a loop at his right side. He draped his wings and pressed them to his back then with little mind for caution, he made his way into the heart of the camp. He was not one for subtlety and laid himself bare for this new world to see, standing tall and proud. Why should he be afraid or nervous? If these beings were humans, they were inferior, after all.
To his satisfaction, the ‘redmen’ took note of him almost immediately. Some frowned in his direction, children and youths stared wide-eyed or curiously; in all cases there was a palatable layer of inexplicable terror lining their eyes. A few young men, the unnatural terror seeming to drive them into a foolish courage, shouted and raised sticks and leapt excitedly, coming near to him in groups before withdrawing. A few shouts from some nearby women, wearing their excessively long hair in beaded braids, swiftly but a stop to their antics. They glanced at him with unveiled fear and dislike, snapping at the children to stay away and not stare at him. One of these women was visibly quite old, and stood by her was a younger woman who stuck out like a sore thumb - wearing entirely different clothing and sporting strange hair. In her speckled eyes of amber-brown was fear also, but she wore a frown that seemed to know this was no natural fear. The redmen all watched Malri, now and again gesturing towards him as they spoke. Others were content to simply lean on their sticks or sit by their tents and stare at him, perhaps their fear of him preventing them from doing anything else.
Eventually, after what felt like a long time but was probably not so, a few lanky men approached, accompanied by a naked man dripping ink; on his head were great tied up dreadlocks and a seemingly endless beard cascaded from his face and was wrapped about one arm. The men stood before Malri, considering his odd attire and wings. After a few moments, one of them stepped forward, holding his visibly trembling hands behind him. “W- we greet you, stranger.” He spoke. “I am- uh. I’m Sipir-Khash of the Mirtaah. We welcome you among us.” He swallowed, licking his suddenly dry lips. “B- but in caution is some wisdom, they say, and so pardon me for asking,” he glanced at the painted naked man before returning his fearful gaze to Malri, “but what manner of creature are you, f- for I can see you are neither of the Hibbi-Fehsp nor are you humenaki, n- nor even of the seafolk.”
“Humenaki.” Malri said aloud, focusing on the men. “Not entirely human, are you? Something crossed between, as is the way of humans.” He paused, staring down the painted man. There was something odd about that one but he continued, “I am a Neiyari but you may call me Vespslayer, Sipir-Khash of the Mirtaah.”
Sipir-Khash seemed deeply discomfited by his voice, and cleared his throat before speaking again. “I am not sure what you mean, I don’t know what human is, only humenaki. And…” he paused, “so there are more like you? Nihari? Are you a people from the north?” He opened his mouth to continue, but abruptly stopped. “Ah, but I am being rude now. We can sit inside and eat and speak.” With that, Sipir turned and gestured for the Neiyari to follow. The painted man was approached by the oddly-dressed woman as they passed her and after a few words tagged along with them. Malri could almost feel her curious gaze boring into him from behind.
They approached the great stone structure - it was carved into what was once a large rock formation, and Sipir-Khas called it a caravanserai. “While we tribal traders like our tents and can even sleep on the camel, it is quite nice to have something like this. The mugahtir of Birba-Ida, being the most glorious and mighty of the mugahtirs, had it carved and pays for its upkeep and staffing. There is nothing like it anywhere else.” He seemed to be less afraid now that he was not looking directly at Malri, but one glance seemed to put that aright once more.
They walked through the impressive entrance of the caravanserai which quickly opened up into a great square hall carved into the heart of the rock. The walls of the hall were carved with smaller doorways which led into smaller chambers. “Sleeping quarters,” Sipir-Khas commented as he walked to the centre of the great chamber where cushions, furs, skins, and quilts had been placed. The man made himself comfortable and invited Malri to sit also. The painted man, for his part, crossed his legs and was suddenly hanging in the air.
“Can I sit too, idda-ta?” The girl whispered, though Malri heard. The odd naked man, whose eyes - Malri now noticed - were closed, simply nodded. She took one of the cushions and sat awkwardly on it, clearly unused to these kinds of seating arrangements.
Malri gave no comment but did stare at the floating man for a few moments. His suspicions were right, there was something about that one that was different from the rest. His eyes fell upon the girl as he sat down on several cushions, sitting back as he pleased. She was of some importance, it seemed, to the floating man. She was younger then the others, he could see that in her facial features. Bah. Though, like the man, there was something special about her as well. He had a feeling he would find out soon enough.
Malri then stretched his arms and removed his helmet, letting his blanched hair fall down. He set his helmet next to him and eyed them all again then the great chamber. His gaze fell upon Sipir. “I am impressed that your kind was able to work the stone into a livable home. It seems that there is more to you than meets the eye.” His eyes glanced to the floating man and then the girl.
“Oh, this is not our work - the people of Birba-Ida are a wondrous folk and know just how to tame the elements. Rock is as clay in their hands.” A few youths - boys and girls - came by with bowls of food. They were salted meats and the iconic lebahr khan soured milk of the Mirtaah tribe, as their tehr bread. The youths seemed to be quite glad to put the bowls and platters down, dashing out of Malri’s terrible presence. Sipir watched them go then glanced at the Neiyari. He seemed to take note of the winged man’s interest in the strange man of ink and the young woman who had joined them. “This is the Great Diviner, a kayhin. And this here is- uh, his travelling companion.” He glanced at the woman.
“I am Rima-Tinrur of the Jungle-folk,” she said, her amber-green eyes on Malri. “So… are you from the north? Are there more Nihari people where you come from?” Sipir reached for some tehr and extended it to the Neiyari, who took it and gave a bite.
“Don’t deny yourself, please eat.” And then he extended some to Rima and ripped some of the lebahr khan for her.
“Kayhin… Rima…” Malri said, rolling his tongue to accentuate her name before taking a bowl of salted meats and tasting a piece. It was of a different texture than he was used to, but the gameyness of the meat was apparent. He wanted to wash it down with the drink but as soon as he tasted it he gagged and forced himself to swallow it. His face was full of disgust but he cleared his throat and eyed the girl again. “There are many Neiyari where I was made but as for where it is, who knows? This land is unfamiliar to me, after all. And I left that place so long ago.”
“And so you travel with the Hibbi-Fehsp now? Odd for someone who travels with them to be called Vespslayer.” Sipir noted, bringing a clay bowl of milk to his mouth.
“It is indeed odd - especially when the stench a thousand slain lines the verses of your song.” The kayhin intoned at last, his voice coming deep and melodious. The world seemed to ripple ever so slightly where his voice sounded. Sipir glanced at the kayhin, and then back at Malri, swallowing uneasily.
“Though, of course, not all fahupki are quite as friendly as the Hibbi-Fehsp.” The Mirtaah tribesman said with a nervous laugh.
Malri’s eyes became slits as he stared at the ink-covered man with a frown. “A swarm attacked me as I wandered the desert. Vicious little things. They died quickly, even as the skies darkened and the ground grew covered in their corpses.” His great figure sat up and forward, putting his hands together. “Strange to think one could tell such a thing.” He intoned.
“Stranger yet for one to go up against a fahupki horde… and run them off alone.” The kayhin responded. Sipir-Khash was now staring wide-eyed, lips pursed, at Malri. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and shifted in his place. “You are clearly no normal being, stranger. Your song comes wrathful and dark, it sings of terror and licks at the songs of all around you like an all-consuming black flame. You wear metals harder than rock, their song speaking of a higher creative hand, and possess weapons that sing the same. It does not seem to me that someone like you is here purposelessly, Vespslayer. What are you seeking on these shattered wastes?”
“You are very perceptive, old man.” Malri sneered. “I do not know what you speak with all these… Songs and verses but I can tell it is no power not gifted by the same higher hands that you see me wear and wield.” His lips curled into a thin smile. “Yes… It was not by luck did I survive that horde but by sheer will and rage.” He rolled his eyes, giving a small shrug. “And to be fair, I did not drive them off, but ask yourself this- when a thousand corpses of your brethren lay at your enemies feet, perhaps you think it best if not to flee? Something unkillable is hardly prey. But you are mistaken about one thing. I am purposeless in this place. Cast out of my old home and left to wander this forsaken land.” His eyes darted to Rima and then back to the Kayhin with a cruel smile on his lips. “But perhaps I will find purpose after all.” Rima frowned slightly at his words.
“If you have no purpose, then you will be swept up in the purposes of others.” The kayhin said simply. “Perhaps it would be good for you to do just that - I see no good in your song as of yet, perhaps you should see to its disciplining under the wing of those more accomplished before you set out on your own.” Sipir-Khash cleared his throat and laughed. The air had very suddenly grown quite tense.
“R- refinement of character is- ahem- a- a noble purpose in itself, of course. Wise words, I’m sure. S- so, great Vespslayer, how have you found life with the Hibbi-Fehsp? Will we be seeing you often with them? I’m sure you’ll make quite the trader in time.” It was clearly an attempt to lighten the conversation and steer it to safer waters.
A great silence came from Malri, his face gone blank, yet his eyes were fixated with hate upon the old man. “More… Accomplished…?” He uttered, “You dare…” Quite quickly his face erupted into anger. “Such insolence! To think there are those more accomplished than I? Here amongst these lowly creatures?” He rose to his feet, pointing at the kayhin. “Tell me old man, who amongst you has served an avatar? Been a king? A conqueror? One to whom the tribute flows? Who here has faced the true Divine and lived? Do not speak to me of those more accomplished than I, for there are none!” The inked man neither moved nor flinched, which naturally acted to infuriate Malri further.
“Answer me this, Vespslayer: of what use are deeds if one does not temper one’s own self? Is he a master of any who is slave to every emotion? When I prod a redland lion, master of the desert and possessor of untold wives, it lashes out and destroys and rages - is the redland lion then accomplished? Restrain yourself and be calm, and answer me.” Though the kayhin somehow managed to float at ease before the fuming Neiyari, many others idling about the caravanserai had hurriedly made for the doorway. Sipir-Khash himself had leaned back and was now on his knees, a grimace on his face and his eyes flashing furtively towards the entranceway. Rima gripped the pillow beneath her, her eyes seeming to roil and shift. Malri could taste her fear, knew her tight grip hid her trembling hands.
Malri’s face twisted into one of rage. Who was this speck to demand of him answers? Who was this man to challenge his accomplishments? What did he know! What did any of them know? These people were weak! This floating fool! This inferior slave! He would show him who was a slave and who was the master! Malri gritted his teeth, “Only a fool prods a lion.” He then lunged forward in a burst of speed, swinging his right fist at the kayhin’s head.
His fist seemed to come up against a wall of rock for the briefest second, before whatever barrier stood against his power shattered and the blow exploded through like a thunderous wave. The brief pause, for whatever it was worth, allowed the insolent kayhin to move back, the deathblow swinging a hair’s breadth from his head. The very force of the blow seemed to char the air all around. The kayhin’s song sound, and around him a breeze swiftly gathered and he retreated far into the air of the chamber. “I- idda-ta!” Rima’s voice shout came, and she was already on her feet sparks flying all around her.
“Remember your calm, rosa.” Came his cascading song, and the sparks flying around the girl subsided, her roiling eyes returning to their previous amber-green. The kayhin’s song continued, its deluge pouring all about the Neiyari. It was a song of peace and calm, attempting to douse his fury. “The growling lion falls when the tranquil hunter leaps, Vespslayer. Is he any different from a beast who cannot take his anger by the neck and bend it to his will? What power has he who has no power over his very self? Think on it, stranger.”
He would do no such thing. For Malri’s mind was a simple one and he became singularly focused on that which drew the ire of his hate. He could feel the song begin to work it’s magic, like a soft rain over a fire, threatening to snuff it out. He did the only sensible thing that he knew, his wings unfurled, filling the room with shade and despair, then pushed them forward, sending Malri backwards. He stopped behind his mace and grabbed it in one swift motion, then held it high, towards the kayhin. Malri then brought the mace down, upon his armor. A great clang rang out as metal hit metal, and fire within him ignited into a blaze. He hit himself again, and it roared into an inferno. His vision going red as his gaze never left the kayhin.
In that moment of pause, Malri called forth a spear of light. Like the sword before, he channeled his innate abilities that were gifted to his race and in his off hand came a glowing red hot spear with what looked like molten fury. He hefted the spear up, then threw it at the kayhin before he himself took to the air towards him, beating his wings in a great gust that buffeted the pillows and those foolish enough to remain within the room. He would have that man’s head, no matter the cost.
As he sped towards the naked man, his spear came up against whatever unnatural barrier protected the man, and this time the spear was redirected up into the rock ceiling, burying itself there. Below them the people were all rushing for the exit, though the song of the kayhin seemed to lend them enough calm not to trample each other or be driven to madness by Malri’s terrible presence. The flying man spiralled higher into the chamber as Malri approached him, changing direction with flowing motions and circling around the entire breadth of the caravanserai as he rose, leaving the futile song of tranquility in his wake.
“Why are you angry, stranger?” His melody came. “Is it justified? If it is justified, then are these destructive acts? Is there no other, more amiable, way to release this fury and set things aright? Or do you perhaps view thoughtless living and action to be a sign of accomplishment?”
His only reply came in the form of the chase. Such words were wasted on him in his current state. All that existed now was the rage and the anger of a being scorned. He let the melody and the song fuel that anger and rage, compelling him forward after his quarry. He flew as the kayhin flew and changed direction as he changed direction. The kayhin was smaller than he, and did not need to beat wings to propel himself, and so like everything else, it only served to infuriate him further. In a fit, he threw his mace at the kayhin, hoping to knock him off course and into his clutches.
The kayhin’s song reverberated around the face and it slowed until it came to a halt before the naked man of ink. The mace thing began retreating, hurtling towards Malri. The kayhin’s song followed in its wake. “That nature alone is accomplished, Vespslayer, which refrains from doing to another what it would not have done to itself.” And the mace slowed in its descent towards Malri and instead hurtled downwards and struck the ground. “Have you attained some wisdom, and do roses bloom from the seedling of the weed?”
This sent Malri into a fury. His great wings beat harder, doubling his speed after the floating man, losing reason to madness. The red haze of his vision grew thick with the color of blood and Malri became something else entirely. The only thoughts he had were of death. Death. Death.
Death!
When the kayhin had ascended so that he could ascend no more and Malri knew that this was all over and that his vengeance was nigh, the inked man cocked his head towards him impassively, placed a hand on the rock above him, and it cracked and opened up for him. “Peace to you, warbringer. May it free your heart.” And with that he slipped through the crack and it closed up behind him.
Instead of coming to an abrupt halt, however, Malri slammed into the ceiling with a resounding boom. The brute recoiled, dazed, and his body fell like a great dark comet, wings whipping violently and great white hair everywhere. He landed with a thunderous crack against the stone below. Whatever gods had frowned on him today had decreed that his fate was not yet over, however, for the ceiling above moaned and shifted, and a large crack formed where he had impacted. His anger flared but it was too late; the roof began to give way and it collapsed, sending rock and stone to crush the Vespslayer.
The Mirtaah were naturally outraged by the destruction of the great caravanserai, and the hWebi-Vesp earned the brunt of their anger. “He came with you, and you must compensate us for this damage.” The hukkam insisted. There was much wrangling and debating, but eventually it was agreed that the hWebi-Vesp would aid the people of Birba-Ida in reconstructing the great thing.
Not wishing to stay much longer, the Mirtaah broke camp and soon moved out. Rima and her idda-ta said their farewells to old Zahna and, mounting her camel, the girl and the kayhin continued towards Birba-Ida without a backward glance.
“Is he dead, idda-ta?” She asked.
“His heart beats yet.” The inked man stated flatly.
&
MALRI
in
Shattered Perceptions
They had been on the road for some twelve days when they spotted the caravanners on the horizon. Her idda-ta had assured her they would be seeing them soon - for there was a known caravanserai not far from here. “Are we headed for it?” She had asked, and he had nodded in the affirmative.
When they arrived, the people Rima found there were quite different from the townspeople of Miha-Rad. For one thing, they wore no headdresses - men and women wore their hair at different lengths and decorated with all kinds of beads and adornments. The men, in particular, seemed to wear copious jewellery - neck-chains, bracelets, anklets -, even more so than some of the women back at Miha-Rad. While the men wore their hair differently, Rima immediately noted that the girls and younger women wore it cropped short or even shaved completely, often wearing headbands intensively decorated with beads. The older the women, the longer was their hair - and when long enough it was braided tightly and entwined with beads and pearls.
Unlike the people of Miha-Rad, they did not flock to the kayhin on his arrival, clearly being more used to the likes of him than the townspeople were. They were, however, approached by an old woman who gave them a sing-song greeting. “It is good to hear your song anew, Zahna.” The kayhin spoke.
“It is good to see you too, Great Diviner. You have been gone a long time - I had thought you gone forever.”
“Not so, not yet. I had duties to attend to.” And here he gestured for Rima to come. “Come, my dear. Meet old Zahna.”
“Ah, now here’s a special song indeed. And what’s your name, little desert rose?” Zahna asked. Rima blinked in surprise then smiled.
“Rima-Tinrur of the Jungle-folk, idda-ti.”
“Ah, now no one’s called me that since Serrah and Rahma went off.” The old woman said with a smile, though there was perhaps the slightest sadness in her eyes. “From the jungle are you? I haven’t seen one of you in many, many years.” Rima’s eyes broadened with interest.
“I heard your song not long ago - you seemed distressed.” The kayhin continued.
“Oh yes, we had an unpleasant encounter with a little dreambeast. Serrah and Rahma dealt with it well enough.” The old woman said. “It awoke something in them - perhaps something that was always there.” She turned and they began walking towards her tent.
“Their song did always sound different.” The kayhin noted.
“Oh, that it did. That it did.” Zahna agreed. Rima looked from the woman to her idda-ta at a loss, but smiled anyhow. “Only the gods and the song know where they are now.” She sighed.
“You have come from Birba-Ida - how did you leave it?” Her idda-ta asked.
“Not too different from how we found it. The fishes bring their loads, and we bring ours, and the world of the oceans and that of the land meet. Their songs are always a delight to hear, of course - alien, but delightful. Far off lands and such odd people and creatures. And such kawnnisaj as causes the heart to tremble. But beyond their tales and merchandise, there is not much new. The many-limbed ones have kept their peace - the ward-shrines have made sure of that, at least.” She stooped into her small tent and the kayhin and Rima stepped in after her. It was sparsely furnished - some goatskin skins, a drum here or there, but little else beyond. It was clear that the old woman lived as lightly as she travelled.
“That is good. I am the last to turn to kawnnisaj to resolve such matters, but there seemed no other way.” The kayhin intoned.
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt.” She reached for a nearby goatskin bag and unstoppered it, extending it to Rima.
“Ah, thank you.” The woman accepted it and took a swig, finding it to be soured milk not dissimilar to what the townspeople of Miha-Rad had.
“Now I don’t know if you have heard it, but these last few nights here I have heard it every night - a certain deathsong on the breeze, the chanting of more bodytakers than I care to count. It is not near by any means, but near enough. It comes from the direction of the fahupki. They fight and kill each other, this we know, but I have never heard it on such a scale.” The old woman looked to the kayhin with furrowed brows.
“Yes, I have heard it on the song also. It is no fahupki song, that is for certain. In fact…” he paused for a few seconds, “you should not be surprised to find the perpetrator arriving here soon enough.” The old woman’s knotted brows seemed to knot even further.
“Do you know what it is?” She asked.
“It is not anything I have ever heard before. Its song is not a good song at all.” There was a certain gravity to his tone that caused Rima’s hairs to stand on edge.
“Ah,” the old woman sighed regretfully. “It is what it is.”
“That it is.” The kayhin agreed. “Now, I shall leave our little desert rose here with you, I can already hear her crooning to know all your tales.”
“Oh, I think I heard that too.” The old woman gave Rima a knowing smile. “I know what you are thinking - how does old Zahna know anything about the jungle people, eh?” Rima glanced at her idda-ta as he floated out of the tent, but then turned her attention back to the old woman.
“Well, I know that you caravanners travel all over the world, so that’s probably how isn’t it?”
“All over the world? My dear, the world is a great old place - I don’t think anyone has seen half of it! No no, it’s not because of the caravenners - I’ve never travelled east of the mountains with them.” Rima raised an eyebrow at this. “You see, I was born not too far from those jungles - in the great city of Qabar-Kirkanshir…”
True to his word, Malri awoke on the fourth day, having been left undisturbed. After eating and drinking his fill, he went down to the water’s edge. There he removed his armor, piece by piece and arranged them carefully on the bank. He then removed an old shirt and some worn leggings, woven by the Litus tribe and threw them in the water to wash.
He looked down at his unnaturally pale body, the heat of the sun almost burning him where he stood. He checked his pendant and took it off to wash, then placed it back on. He did the same with his sun stone and the mace. Then each piece of his armor was next, bit by bit until everything was as good as it was going to get. Malri left the bands upon his arms, for the looks of the bustling vesps were far too inquisitive for his liking. They were busy preparing their goods for travel, like little worker bees. Even still, he did not trust them.
Then at long last, Malri himself walked into the warm water, venturing chest deep to the cool. He dipped his wings in only slightly, not wanting to get rid of the oils that kept them dry. He then washed himself from the grime and sweat that the desert had encrusted him in. After an hour or so of this, he ventured back onto land and let the sun dry him. He then donned everything once more, a grueling task for one, but he did not want these creatures to help him. They were far too wrong looking. He couldn’t even tell them apart, nevertheless what gender they were. If they even had genders.
The speaker vesp, at least he thought it was the speaker vesp, seemed to be waiting for him. She approached in haste, clacking her mandibles. Barely a few words were uttered, before Malri cut her off.
“Are you prepared?” He demanded, looking at her behind his fearsome gaze. It was difficult to read their facial expressions, he had also noted. Being so insect-like, how could the act so… So different but the same time as to what he was used to? The creature nodded it’s head and raised a finger to speak, but Malri did not wait and took to the skies with a few large gusts of his wings.
As if given a signal, the vesps ascended as well in a mighty drone that seemed to engulf the world. With them they brought their goods in great long nets, carried by dozens of them, if not hundreds. They worked in those large groups down to mere two’s and even one’s. All carrying something, or helping carry. Even Malri had to admit that it was an impressive sight, for an inferior species. Their sheer size seemed to blot out the skies, just like the swarm that had attacked him. Malri decided to fly higher up, carried by the warm currents of the air. He could vaguely see different colors and shapes upon the horizon but he was content to be a follower for now.
He knew for a fact that these vesps... they were not for him. He wanted to be away from these bugs and into the company of those that suited him better.
Far, far better…
The desert rolled away beneath them, and no matter how swiftly they seemed to move and no matter how distant the oasis grew, the desert seemed to go on forever. Yet these vesps clearly knew where they were headed, and it was a matter of hours before they started descending and below them a great encampment, made up of dozens if not hundreds of little black tents, emerged from the red wastes. What had at first seemed like a little rocky hill at the centre of the camp was not a hill at all, but some kind of stone-carved structure. The vesps made landfall just outside the camp’s perimetre, with the nets being the last to slowly be placed down.
They zipped here and there, clearing out space, erecting makeshift canopies and stalls and ordering all their wares according to type. “We stop here for trade.” The speaker told Malri. “After trade is done, I and some others will take you to the mountain - as agreed.” She paused for a few seconds. “Be nice to redmen - if you ask nicely, they might even give you information for free. They can be silly like that.”
“Very well.” He said, fixing his mace to a loop at his right side. He draped his wings and pressed them to his back then with little mind for caution, he made his way into the heart of the camp. He was not one for subtlety and laid himself bare for this new world to see, standing tall and proud. Why should he be afraid or nervous? If these beings were humans, they were inferior, after all.
To his satisfaction, the ‘redmen’ took note of him almost immediately. Some frowned in his direction, children and youths stared wide-eyed or curiously; in all cases there was a palatable layer of inexplicable terror lining their eyes. A few young men, the unnatural terror seeming to drive them into a foolish courage, shouted and raised sticks and leapt excitedly, coming near to him in groups before withdrawing. A few shouts from some nearby women, wearing their excessively long hair in beaded braids, swiftly but a stop to their antics. They glanced at him with unveiled fear and dislike, snapping at the children to stay away and not stare at him. One of these women was visibly quite old, and stood by her was a younger woman who stuck out like a sore thumb - wearing entirely different clothing and sporting strange hair. In her speckled eyes of amber-brown was fear also, but she wore a frown that seemed to know this was no natural fear. The redmen all watched Malri, now and again gesturing towards him as they spoke. Others were content to simply lean on their sticks or sit by their tents and stare at him, perhaps their fear of him preventing them from doing anything else.
Eventually, after what felt like a long time but was probably not so, a few lanky men approached, accompanied by a naked man dripping ink; on his head were great tied up dreadlocks and a seemingly endless beard cascaded from his face and was wrapped about one arm. The men stood before Malri, considering his odd attire and wings. After a few moments, one of them stepped forward, holding his visibly trembling hands behind him. “W- we greet you, stranger.” He spoke. “I am- uh. I’m Sipir-Khash of the Mirtaah. We welcome you among us.” He swallowed, licking his suddenly dry lips. “B- but in caution is some wisdom, they say, and so pardon me for asking,” he glanced at the painted naked man before returning his fearful gaze to Malri, “but what manner of creature are you, f- for I can see you are neither of the Hibbi-Fehsp nor are you humenaki, n- nor even of the seafolk.”
“Humenaki.” Malri said aloud, focusing on the men. “Not entirely human, are you? Something crossed between, as is the way of humans.” He paused, staring down the painted man. There was something odd about that one but he continued, “I am a Neiyari but you may call me Vespslayer, Sipir-Khash of the Mirtaah.”
Sipir-Khash seemed deeply discomfited by his voice, and cleared his throat before speaking again. “I am not sure what you mean, I don’t know what human is, only humenaki. And…” he paused, “so there are more like you? Nihari? Are you a people from the north?” He opened his mouth to continue, but abruptly stopped. “Ah, but I am being rude now. We can sit inside and eat and speak.” With that, Sipir turned and gestured for the Neiyari to follow. The painted man was approached by the oddly-dressed woman as they passed her and after a few words tagged along with them. Malri could almost feel her curious gaze boring into him from behind.
They approached the great stone structure - it was carved into what was once a large rock formation, and Sipir-Khas called it a caravanserai. “While we tribal traders like our tents and can even sleep on the camel, it is quite nice to have something like this. The mugahtir of Birba-Ida, being the most glorious and mighty of the mugahtirs, had it carved and pays for its upkeep and staffing. There is nothing like it anywhere else.” He seemed to be less afraid now that he was not looking directly at Malri, but one glance seemed to put that aright once more.
They walked through the impressive entrance of the caravanserai which quickly opened up into a great square hall carved into the heart of the rock. The walls of the hall were carved with smaller doorways which led into smaller chambers. “Sleeping quarters,” Sipir-Khas commented as he walked to the centre of the great chamber where cushions, furs, skins, and quilts had been placed. The man made himself comfortable and invited Malri to sit also. The painted man, for his part, crossed his legs and was suddenly hanging in the air.
“Can I sit too, idda-ta?” The girl whispered, though Malri heard. The odd naked man, whose eyes - Malri now noticed - were closed, simply nodded. She took one of the cushions and sat awkwardly on it, clearly unused to these kinds of seating arrangements.
Malri gave no comment but did stare at the floating man for a few moments. His suspicions were right, there was something about that one that was different from the rest. His eyes fell upon the girl as he sat down on several cushions, sitting back as he pleased. She was of some importance, it seemed, to the floating man. She was younger then the others, he could see that in her facial features. Bah. Though, like the man, there was something special about her as well. He had a feeling he would find out soon enough.
Malri then stretched his arms and removed his helmet, letting his blanched hair fall down. He set his helmet next to him and eyed them all again then the great chamber. His gaze fell upon Sipir. “I am impressed that your kind was able to work the stone into a livable home. It seems that there is more to you than meets the eye.” His eyes glanced to the floating man and then the girl.
“Oh, this is not our work - the people of Birba-Ida are a wondrous folk and know just how to tame the elements. Rock is as clay in their hands.” A few youths - boys and girls - came by with bowls of food. They were salted meats and the iconic lebahr khan soured milk of the Mirtaah tribe, as their tehr bread. The youths seemed to be quite glad to put the bowls and platters down, dashing out of Malri’s terrible presence. Sipir watched them go then glanced at the Neiyari. He seemed to take note of the winged man’s interest in the strange man of ink and the young woman who had joined them. “This is the Great Diviner, a kayhin. And this here is- uh, his travelling companion.” He glanced at the woman.
“I am Rima-Tinrur of the Jungle-folk,” she said, her amber-green eyes on Malri. “So… are you from the north? Are there more Nihari people where you come from?” Sipir reached for some tehr and extended it to the Neiyari, who took it and gave a bite.
“Don’t deny yourself, please eat.” And then he extended some to Rima and ripped some of the lebahr khan for her.
“Kayhin… Rima…” Malri said, rolling his tongue to accentuate her name before taking a bowl of salted meats and tasting a piece. It was of a different texture than he was used to, but the gameyness of the meat was apparent. He wanted to wash it down with the drink but as soon as he tasted it he gagged and forced himself to swallow it. His face was full of disgust but he cleared his throat and eyed the girl again. “There are many Neiyari where I was made but as for where it is, who knows? This land is unfamiliar to me, after all. And I left that place so long ago.”
“And so you travel with the Hibbi-Fehsp now? Odd for someone who travels with them to be called Vespslayer.” Sipir noted, bringing a clay bowl of milk to his mouth.
“It is indeed odd - especially when the stench a thousand slain lines the verses of your song.” The kayhin intoned at last, his voice coming deep and melodious. The world seemed to ripple ever so slightly where his voice sounded. Sipir glanced at the kayhin, and then back at Malri, swallowing uneasily.
“Though, of course, not all fahupki are quite as friendly as the Hibbi-Fehsp.” The Mirtaah tribesman said with a nervous laugh.
Malri’s eyes became slits as he stared at the ink-covered man with a frown. “A swarm attacked me as I wandered the desert. Vicious little things. They died quickly, even as the skies darkened and the ground grew covered in their corpses.” His great figure sat up and forward, putting his hands together. “Strange to think one could tell such a thing.” He intoned.
“Stranger yet for one to go up against a fahupki horde… and run them off alone.” The kayhin responded. Sipir-Khash was now staring wide-eyed, lips pursed, at Malri. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and shifted in his place. “You are clearly no normal being, stranger. Your song comes wrathful and dark, it sings of terror and licks at the songs of all around you like an all-consuming black flame. You wear metals harder than rock, their song speaking of a higher creative hand, and possess weapons that sing the same. It does not seem to me that someone like you is here purposelessly, Vespslayer. What are you seeking on these shattered wastes?”
“You are very perceptive, old man.” Malri sneered. “I do not know what you speak with all these… Songs and verses but I can tell it is no power not gifted by the same higher hands that you see me wear and wield.” His lips curled into a thin smile. “Yes… It was not by luck did I survive that horde but by sheer will and rage.” He rolled his eyes, giving a small shrug. “And to be fair, I did not drive them off, but ask yourself this- when a thousand corpses of your brethren lay at your enemies feet, perhaps you think it best if not to flee? Something unkillable is hardly prey. But you are mistaken about one thing. I am purposeless in this place. Cast out of my old home and left to wander this forsaken land.” His eyes darted to Rima and then back to the Kayhin with a cruel smile on his lips. “But perhaps I will find purpose after all.” Rima frowned slightly at his words.
“If you have no purpose, then you will be swept up in the purposes of others.” The kayhin said simply. “Perhaps it would be good for you to do just that - I see no good in your song as of yet, perhaps you should see to its disciplining under the wing of those more accomplished before you set out on your own.” Sipir-Khash cleared his throat and laughed. The air had very suddenly grown quite tense.
“R- refinement of character is- ahem- a- a noble purpose in itself, of course. Wise words, I’m sure. S- so, great Vespslayer, how have you found life with the Hibbi-Fehsp? Will we be seeing you often with them? I’m sure you’ll make quite the trader in time.” It was clearly an attempt to lighten the conversation and steer it to safer waters.
A great silence came from Malri, his face gone blank, yet his eyes were fixated with hate upon the old man. “More… Accomplished…?” He uttered, “You dare…” Quite quickly his face erupted into anger. “Such insolence! To think there are those more accomplished than I? Here amongst these lowly creatures?” He rose to his feet, pointing at the kayhin. “Tell me old man, who amongst you has served an avatar? Been a king? A conqueror? One to whom the tribute flows? Who here has faced the true Divine and lived? Do not speak to me of those more accomplished than I, for there are none!” The inked man neither moved nor flinched, which naturally acted to infuriate Malri further.
“Answer me this, Vespslayer: of what use are deeds if one does not temper one’s own self? Is he a master of any who is slave to every emotion? When I prod a redland lion, master of the desert and possessor of untold wives, it lashes out and destroys and rages - is the redland lion then accomplished? Restrain yourself and be calm, and answer me.” Though the kayhin somehow managed to float at ease before the fuming Neiyari, many others idling about the caravanserai had hurriedly made for the doorway. Sipir-Khash himself had leaned back and was now on his knees, a grimace on his face and his eyes flashing furtively towards the entranceway. Rima gripped the pillow beneath her, her eyes seeming to roil and shift. Malri could taste her fear, knew her tight grip hid her trembling hands.
Malri’s face twisted into one of rage. Who was this speck to demand of him answers? Who was this man to challenge his accomplishments? What did he know! What did any of them know? These people were weak! This floating fool! This inferior slave! He would show him who was a slave and who was the master! Malri gritted his teeth, “Only a fool prods a lion.” He then lunged forward in a burst of speed, swinging his right fist at the kayhin’s head.
His fist seemed to come up against a wall of rock for the briefest second, before whatever barrier stood against his power shattered and the blow exploded through like a thunderous wave. The brief pause, for whatever it was worth, allowed the insolent kayhin to move back, the deathblow swinging a hair’s breadth from his head. The very force of the blow seemed to char the air all around. The kayhin’s song sound, and around him a breeze swiftly gathered and he retreated far into the air of the chamber. “I- idda-ta!” Rima’s voice shout came, and she was already on her feet sparks flying all around her.
“Remember your calm, rosa.” Came his cascading song, and the sparks flying around the girl subsided, her roiling eyes returning to their previous amber-green. The kayhin’s song continued, its deluge pouring all about the Neiyari. It was a song of peace and calm, attempting to douse his fury. “The growling lion falls when the tranquil hunter leaps, Vespslayer. Is he any different from a beast who cannot take his anger by the neck and bend it to his will? What power has he who has no power over his very self? Think on it, stranger.”
He would do no such thing. For Malri’s mind was a simple one and he became singularly focused on that which drew the ire of his hate. He could feel the song begin to work it’s magic, like a soft rain over a fire, threatening to snuff it out. He did the only sensible thing that he knew, his wings unfurled, filling the room with shade and despair, then pushed them forward, sending Malri backwards. He stopped behind his mace and grabbed it in one swift motion, then held it high, towards the kayhin. Malri then brought the mace down, upon his armor. A great clang rang out as metal hit metal, and fire within him ignited into a blaze. He hit himself again, and it roared into an inferno. His vision going red as his gaze never left the kayhin.
In that moment of pause, Malri called forth a spear of light. Like the sword before, he channeled his innate abilities that were gifted to his race and in his off hand came a glowing red hot spear with what looked like molten fury. He hefted the spear up, then threw it at the kayhin before he himself took to the air towards him, beating his wings in a great gust that buffeted the pillows and those foolish enough to remain within the room. He would have that man’s head, no matter the cost.
As he sped towards the naked man, his spear came up against whatever unnatural barrier protected the man, and this time the spear was redirected up into the rock ceiling, burying itself there. Below them the people were all rushing for the exit, though the song of the kayhin seemed to lend them enough calm not to trample each other or be driven to madness by Malri’s terrible presence. The flying man spiralled higher into the chamber as Malri approached him, changing direction with flowing motions and circling around the entire breadth of the caravanserai as he rose, leaving the futile song of tranquility in his wake.
“Why are you angry, stranger?” His melody came. “Is it justified? If it is justified, then are these destructive acts? Is there no other, more amiable, way to release this fury and set things aright? Or do you perhaps view thoughtless living and action to be a sign of accomplishment?”
His only reply came in the form of the chase. Such words were wasted on him in his current state. All that existed now was the rage and the anger of a being scorned. He let the melody and the song fuel that anger and rage, compelling him forward after his quarry. He flew as the kayhin flew and changed direction as he changed direction. The kayhin was smaller than he, and did not need to beat wings to propel himself, and so like everything else, it only served to infuriate him further. In a fit, he threw his mace at the kayhin, hoping to knock him off course and into his clutches.
The kayhin’s song reverberated around the face and it slowed until it came to a halt before the naked man of ink. The mace thing began retreating, hurtling towards Malri. The kayhin’s song followed in its wake. “That nature alone is accomplished, Vespslayer, which refrains from doing to another what it would not have done to itself.” And the mace slowed in its descent towards Malri and instead hurtled downwards and struck the ground. “Have you attained some wisdom, and do roses bloom from the seedling of the weed?”
This sent Malri into a fury. His great wings beat harder, doubling his speed after the floating man, losing reason to madness. The red haze of his vision grew thick with the color of blood and Malri became something else entirely. The only thoughts he had were of death. Death. Death.
Death!
When the kayhin had ascended so that he could ascend no more and Malri knew that this was all over and that his vengeance was nigh, the inked man cocked his head towards him impassively, placed a hand on the rock above him, and it cracked and opened up for him. “Peace to you, warbringer. May it free your heart.” And with that he slipped through the crack and it closed up behind him.
Instead of coming to an abrupt halt, however, Malri slammed into the ceiling with a resounding boom. The brute recoiled, dazed, and his body fell like a great dark comet, wings whipping violently and great white hair everywhere. He landed with a thunderous crack against the stone below. Whatever gods had frowned on him today had decreed that his fate was not yet over, however, for the ceiling above moaned and shifted, and a large crack formed where he had impacted. His anger flared but it was too late; the roof began to give way and it collapsed, sending rock and stone to crush the Vespslayer.
The Mirtaah were naturally outraged by the destruction of the great caravanserai, and the hWebi-Vesp earned the brunt of their anger. “He came with you, and you must compensate us for this damage.” The hukkam insisted. There was much wrangling and debating, but eventually it was agreed that the hWebi-Vesp would aid the people of Birba-Ida in reconstructing the great thing.
Not wishing to stay much longer, the Mirtaah broke camp and soon moved out. Rima and her idda-ta said their farewells to old Zahna and, mounting her camel, the girl and the kayhin continued towards Birba-Ida without a backward glance.
“Is he dead, idda-ta?” She asked.
“His heart beats yet.” The inked man stated flatly.
