Their little band crested a hill one day to find two great hosts stood in the valley below. They were dressed in many colours and held spears and great flat clubs of wood, some studded with metal or some made entirely of metal. Rinaas sat down on a nearby boulder and watched how things unravelled below.
Two figures were stood between the hosts, their clubs raised as they moved around each other in great exaggerated movements, gesturing here and there and puffing their chests out. They beat at the earth with their feet and sped up now and again like two great tigers circling and thrashing at one another. Their movements were full of power and violent intent, their gestures threatening and hostile, and yet they did not strike out at each other. The display continued for some time, now one causing the other to back away and now the other gaining ground as he swung his great club around with energy and ululations.
The hosts shouted and beat at the earth with their warrior, ululating as he ululated and crying out and cheering when his power manifested itself or when he carried out an impressive movement or manoeuvre. As the excitement and shouting increased, the hosts began to inch towards one another, hurling insults and boasting, swinging their weapons and raising their spears, drums sounding aggressively and giving each host the impression of having gods amongst them.
Here and there individual warriors stepped forth and engaged others in the display of duelling, like the original warriors, and before long both hosts had come together and pushed and shoved and boasted and insulted. Here and there were chaotic clashes as two warriors met and one managed to hurl the other to the ground, and it was soon becoming apparent that one of the hosts was gaining the upper ground.
A shout rose up somewhere and a ripple of fear ran through the losing host, and its men began to slip away and were soon disappearing over the far hill. The victorious host had gathered around what appeared to be a fallen warrior, circling around him with spears raised, gathering wood and piling it up around him as they circled and pounded the earth and howled in victory.
Soon ghouls began to emerge, lumbering towards the dead body, and the warriors beat at the earth and retreated slowly, shouting and boasting as the viney monstrosities of death found their target and began tearing and eating and destroying.
“For these warriors of the forests and plains, this is viewed as the only way to sate the Dead-eye and prevent him from setting the itralla on the living.” Rinaas explained.
“What are these itralla, adi?” Ganisundur asked.
“Have you not heard their song, my Ganisundur?” She asked.
“They are like no song of plant I have known. They hunger – but only for the dead. And it is not a hunger that seeks to stave off death. I don’t know if it can rightly be called hunger – it is merely consumption given form, consumption is its own end.” Ganisundur glanced at the songstress, who merely nodded. Beside him, the handsome Girgaah strummed at his instrument and sent a sigh towards the humelven Fihnoom.
“The people all fear feeding death “But in my chest is no such fear “I only weep with every breath “And call on her with every tear “If she would come feast on my flesh “I am restored and rise afresh!”
Fihnoom shook her head and glanced at him with a small smirk, then moved away and sat by Rinaas. “What I have never understood, adi is why the tribes on these southern plains wage war like this. Everywhere else war brings death and great bloodshed and it is a terrible sight, but here there is dance and boastful song and witful abuses, and the warriors dress as though they are going to a festival. Death only arises unintentionally.”
“Ah yes, these clans of the Hjinka are often feuding, often fighting. Perhaps it was the case long ago too, and perhaps they killed one another so much that they could kill no more. And perhaps there was a wise one amongst them who taught them how to make war without shedding blood. But perhaps by asking them you would know better, or if you listen to the rocks or the streams or the trees they may know a song or two.”
“It would be beautiful if all the world would fight as the Hjinka do,” Fihnoom sighed, “even if it is loud and horrible on the ears. I can only imagine my old man would frown severely at all that noise and think it worse than even death.”
“Oh, but there’s nothing worse than death!” Sinhuldo piped. “Nothing is worse than that Death-eye.”
“Then praise Hulaiya, Sinhuldo, and do not fear death so much that you stop enjoying life.” Rinaas spoke to the fearful man.
“Oh, never! I enjoy life, may the goddess never take that from us.” Sinhuldo responded with a shaking voice, looking down at the ghouls below as they dissipated and shivering in disgust.
“I don’t know about that,” Fihnoom said teasingly, “you seem like you’re not enjoying life at all. Perhaps great Hulaiya will see this.” Sinhuldo’s eyes widened and he gave a trembling smile.
“Wh- what? M-me? I enjoy life a lot. I sing and dance, l-look,” he started dancing and stumbling, strumming at his instrument with fumbling fingers. “See, the g-goddess will see I love life.” Ganisundur watched this exchange curiously, then looked to Rinaas, who spoke before he could ask his question.
“Life and death, day and night, joy and misery, the two great sides to life’s short cycle. Hulaiya presides over the first, Duhthaei over the other.”
“What of Reffoh, adi?” Fihnoom asked, causing Sinhuldo to scoff and earning him an irritated glance from the humelf.
“Incompetent and weak.” The giant Biruldaan spoke gruffly.
“Reffoh, disliked by elves and humans alike – though, it is said, she is the creator goddess whose face is the moon and who reigns over the night. When Duhthaei came to claim the mortals she had created, she could not stave him off and was felled, and even now she lies imprisoned inside the moon, her kingdom now her dungeon. When night arrives so too arrives her failure to rule. That is why all the dangers of Duhthaei arise with night. This is why when you visit Amashu or Telruto or Teukrall, or any of the great cities of the Upper Azumai, you will find there great braziers that are lit with the onset of dusk so as to keep the darkness - and its dangers - at bay.
“Not so with Hulaiya, the glorious mistress of the day who stands as the bastion against Duhthaei’s misery and darkness and death. She is not like Reffoh, the people say, she is not weak and useless – these are their words, my Ganisundur, do not frown. What are they to think of a goddess who failed them, hmm? People are fickle like that – they fear those who cause them fear and death, and they love those who ward that off and inspire joy. As for those who fail, if remembered at all they are despised even more than the evil that felled them.”
“Is it right?” The inkman asked, a small frown on his face.
“Is it right for a god to be so incompetent?” Biruldaan countered.
“Well, someone sounds like they have a grudge.” Fihnoom noted, her eyes on the big man.
“Yeah. Maybe.” His mutter came as he looked away. “Some things are unforgivable – a wilfully useless god, for one.”
“I mean, she’s not wilfully useless – she was just bested.” Sinhuldo retorted.
“No, the gods are many and the Death-eye could not best any of them. He is not more powerful, simply more terrible. Reffoh was bested because she was useless, incompetent, unworthy of being a god and unable to protect what she created. It had been better if she created nothing at all. Had Hulaiya made us, the Death-eye never would have taken us – he would never have brought calamity upon us by moving heaven and earth as he did to our most ancient ancestors, would never have taken us from the joys of life to death’s despair.”
“It is your pain that speaks, Biruldaan, for it is yet fresh.” Rinaas finally spoke. “Calm yourself and do not blaspheme overmuch against a divine being – imprisoned and incapable you may believe her to be, but she is yet a god.”
“I do not fear Reffoh, adi. Only those who have no protector but her have reason to fear. But let us speak of something else. The tattoo that Ganisundur gave you, adi, it is the same as that on Fihnoom’s thigh.”
“What?” cried Girgaah, “how do you know that? How does he know that?”
“Uhhh…” Fihnoom gave him a guilty glance then laughed.
The man fell to his knees and cried out loud, his beautifully sculpted visage contorted and pained. “Damn it Fihnoom, again? My poor heart.” Rinaas gave the three a frown then stood and began moving away. Ganisundur followed after her and looked at the tattoo that stood between her brows – an extended hand facing down.
“That symbol is known?” He asked.
“It is.” The songstress confirmed.
“I didn’t know… what does it mean?”
“It is the symbol of the singing god, Ghilmu. He lords over the good things in life – music, dance, poetry, feasting, revelry, pleasures of the flesh, and much else are his prerogative. They are the manner by which great Hulaiya is appeased. His great hand is known to be a ward that drives off all kinds of evil – and so he is regarded as the defender of everything good and the enemy of all that is bad. By dancing, singing, revelling in joy, the people call up his great protective powers and so aid in the fight against the Death-eye and all the evil he has birthed.”
“Why would it be on Fihnoom’s thigh?”
“Fihnoom was a professional dancer before she joined us, and tattoos of Ghilmu’s hand can be found on the thighs of dancers. Musicians too, actors, and servant girls.”
He was quiet for a few moments. “You don’t seem to approve, adi.”
“What she does is her business, Ganisundur.”
“No, I mean – you don’t seem to approve of the gods.”
“Oh, Ganisundur!” She exclaimed with a mite of shock, “you accuse me of blasphemy?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It seems to me more like… you don’t approve of what is said about the gods.”
“Ah, in that case you may well be right.”
“So… what do you say of them?”
“I don’t say anything Ganisundur. I listen and I sing, and what is beyond that is between my heart and I.”
“Why do you think my ink became a hand of Ghilmu on your brow?” He asked after a brief silence.
She paused and looked at him. “Isn’t it obvious, Ganisundur? It is because you are of that god.” He blinked after her.
“Ah.”
We observe ritual battle and some ghoul stuff by a tribe south of the Azumai. Ganisundur then finds out that he might be connected with a god or something.
“The masses of the Khadaar, Are pouring in amain From many a grand old market-place, From many a fruitful plain, From many a lonely village, They come to fight again Like the great and old, those brave and bold, Their glory to attain!”
31 AA | Year 16
The first man Sugae ever killed was a bare-chested spearman who came at him with terror in his eyes. The turbaned youth tried to side-step, but tripped in his hurry and fell onto his side. The man’s spear snaked at him, glanced against Sugae’s shield, and then rose again for another attempt. But the failure of the first strike gave Sugae enough time to lash out desperately with his sharpened stick. The point penetrated the man’s neck from one side and emerged from the other. He gave Sugae a confused look, shocked and gurgling, then fell over. The youth quickly got back up, shaken, and had only a few moments of respite before another man, wooden club in hand, was upon him.
In the confusion of the first moments of battle he had been separated from Shidhig, and looking around he spotted him fending off a spearman with his stick. Sugae’s new opponent struck out with his club, but this time the youth was better prepared and successfully dodged before swiftly stepping in and driving the spear into the man’s exposed stomach. Without waiting, he drew the spear out and rushed over to the struggling Shidhig, goring his adversary from behind. “Stick with me!” Sugae roared, before turning and raising his shield. Shidhig hurriedly abandoned his stick and took the felled man’s spear as Sugae warded off any would-be attackers. It was clear that shid Dharqul’s side had the upper hand, and Sugae notice that some parts of their mass had driven deep into the enemy.
The shid had crossed the Muhaddir with his force some three days back and made camp on a hill. After surveying the area around, he had moved the camp somewhat downriver and the command had gone around for everyone to prepare themselves for battle any day. Three days later, the enemy force of shid Dagran had appeared and the bloodletting had begun.
Sugae bashed a little bald man who had gotten past Shidhig’s spear with his shield, causing him to stumble to the side and giving Shidhig enough space to impale him. It was then that the earth began to rumble. Sugae looked up to see the enemy’s mounted warrior-nobles closing in on their flanks, along with a great number of behemoths – elephant-riders and riders of the reptilian monstrosities known as dircaans. The fighting continued and it was not long before the mounted warriors and behemoths crash into the massed host with terrible force. Shid Dharqul’s untrained commoners crumbled beneath the power of the charge. Swords flashed and spears snaked out; blood rose like a great cloud in their wake. Sugae grabbed Shidhig and began to back away, Bori’s words echoing in his mind. “You don’t want to be the first in the fray. And you want to be the first out. Don’t try to be a hero.” But then the weight of the warturban on his head reminded him of his mother’s tales about his father. He had never run from any battle; he had stood his ground always.
“C’mon Sug, let’s get the hell out of here!” Shidhig’s words drew him back to the realities of the battle, and he could see that bit by bit the enemy forces of shid Dagran were clamping in on them all. Sugae looked at Shidhig, his brows knotted, nostrils flared, flashing eyes of yellowed honey wide.
“I am shib Ravuk,” Sugae’s voice came, “I do not flee.” And with that, he drew his sword and began to move it as Bori taught him, and he advanced. He heard Shidhig cursing behind him, and then he was by his side.
“You’re going to get me fucking killed. You’re gonna kill me you-” he continued grumbling until suddenly there was a rider before them. Sugae raised his shield and stepped away just as the rider’s sword flashed. The tip ricocheted from the shield and Sugae stepped in immediately with a swift horizontal cut that ate into the horse’s side and lopped most of the rider’s leg off, before Shidhig’s spear caught the agonised rider in the throat.
Sugae looked at Shidhig wordlessly, and the other man spouted a few profanities at him. Sugae could see that shid Dharkul’s lines were now in full rout. Meanwhile, the enemy foot troops had recovered and both behemoths and riders were killing with abandon. “If we stick about, oh great shib Ravuk, we’re gonna die,” Shidhig shouted as Sugae swiftly put down a club-swinging peasant. Shidhig was right, but Sugae made no response.
Spotting a friendly group trying to make a stand, Sugae shouted to Shidhig and rushed to their aid, cleaving into the raised arm of a bald giant on the verge of bashing one of their men’s brains in with a hatchet as he went. Encouraged by the giant’s fall, the other men gave off a roar and pushed harder, causing the temporarily discouraged enemy troops to withdraw. Sugae’s encouraged comrades made to follow after them, but a shout from him caused them to halt and he ordered them to stay together. They instinctively obeyed, and before long Sugae was directing a growing defensive enclave against the massed enemy. One of the men stuck by his side, and when Sugae glanced at him the man smiled gratefully and nodded. “Thanks for that, thought that bald freak had me.”
“No worries, friend.”
“I’m Galgu by the way.”
“Good knowing you Galgu. I’m Sugaera shib Ravuk. Let’s get out of this alive, eh?”
“And with honour.” Galgu added, his eyes steely above his small smile. Sugae chuckled and nodded.
“Yeah, that too.”
The massing resistance did not receive much attention at first, but then an elephant and some riders took note of them and decided to break the little party apart. Scowling, a helpless fury growing within him as he wondered where shid Dharkul’s riders and behemoths were while they were all dying out here, Sugae shouted for the men to brace themselves for the charge. “Kill the fucking bastards!” He heard himself roar, and he sounded so self-assured that he found his own morale rising, and his voice came once more as though from far away, “they’re riding high above us. We’re gonna put them down!” Raising his sword, he stepped out to be among the first to receive the charge. He stood his ground as the riders speared towards them, and his eyes homed in on one of the riders heading for them. His gaze held his until the very last moment, when he ducked and stepped to the side, raising his shield to block a resounding downward slash from the rider even as Sugae’s blade licked out and cleanly severed one of the charging horse’s forelegs. It immediately collapsed and flipped in a mess of flesh and metal, the rider landing with gruesome cracking sounds ahead. Sugae released a triumphant bellow and turned about to face whoever came next, and found himself face to face with the elephant.
He stared at it for a few seconds, and then something struck him. The ground slipped away. He felt himself flying. And all was darkness.
Sugae's first battle! He is uber cool and powerful, mighty and dashing, stunning and- he is killed by an elephant.
“To where are we walking, adi?” One of the disciples asked one day. It was that same Sinhuldo who thought himself stupid in the ways of song. Stupid or not, he was faithful – for Rinaas’ disciples had been many when they walked the river ways, and now that they dared the jungles their number had dwindled to five – the small Sinhuldo, the strange Ganisundur, the giant Biruldaan, the handsome silk-voiced youth Girgaah, and the humelven woman Fihnoom for whom Girgaah often wove lovelorn lyrics and poesy.
“We are walking from here to there, my impatient Sinhuldo.” Rinaas told the young man as they slowly wove their way through the thick undergrowth.
“But adi, the jungle is dangerous – snakes and jaguars and gorillas.”
“Oh there are things far more dangerous than that Sinhuldo,” the songstress spoke melodiously, smiling at him. “Worrying so much that you can’t live, for one. What a terrible thing it is to die while yet there’s breath in you!”
Sinhuldo was silent then, watching the undergrowth fearfully, glancing up into the trees and hurriedly shaking away any dangling branches that brushed against his shoulders or head. His head turned to wherever there was sound – and there was sound everywhere. Above them unseen monkeys shouted and quarrelled, around them insects sent forth their myriad songs unceasingly, here and there the undergrowth rustled as some animal or another made its dashing way through.
They crossed tiny streams and paused by ponds, Rinaas simply breathing the places in and rocking gently from side to side with closed eyes. “These are the Ambuma jungles, my Ganisundur,” she said as they stood by one such rivulet. “Home to many things, of them the Buma tribes; free people who have never known a king or master. Other nomads and tribes may form up under one great chieftain or warlord or another, but not the Buma, the freest of the peoples of the great valley. They are the keepers of these jungles, worshippers of the jungle djinni whom they call Deh-dagini.”
“J- jungle djinni?” Sinhuldo whimpered, looking from side to side.
“Oh yes, a great and powerful thing – perhaps a child of the Godtree. Soon they will be setting out on the Great Hunt to appease Deh-dagini, and for that they will need us.”
“Why do they need us, adi?” Sinhuldo asked miserably.
“Oh, so many questions, Sinhuldo. You will find out. Come, we are close now.” The songstress stepped through the undergrowth and emerged into a small clearing at the centre of which was a small pool. At the far side were some huddled figures, who now watched them carefully as they approached.
“Seer Neh-naka, we had begun to think you would not be coming today.” One of them said once they were near enough, approaching Rinaas respectfully and touching his hands to his forehead in a gesture of respect. He was a short, stocky man – shorter even than Sinhuldo. His skin was dark, unlike the red people Ganisundur had grown used to seeing as they travelled the river ways of the Azumai river. He had a bamboo spear in one hand, his hair was cropped short and his face was stained with white and crimson paste. Beyond the long skirt of leaves, he wore a necklace of bone and amber with colourful feathers spreading out across his chest.
“It is good to see you too, Chief Ak-laha.” He was eyeing her five companions, particularly the variegated Ganisundur, and she noticed this. “I have brought these my companions. I know that some of them want to partake of the Great Hunt. Is that not so, Ganisundur?” She looked at the avatar who nodded with a small smile.
“You are not like anything I have ever seen, Friend Gin-sada,” Ak-laha said to Ganisundur. “You are of many colours, your colours shifting. You are like colour paste and like leaf-ink and earth-ink and all inks.”
“I am only a humble disciple of her whom you call Seer Neh-naka.”
“Ah, the weighty chest illness has you? There is only one cure for that.” Ak-laha laughed. Ganisundur cocked his head and glanced at Rinaas, who only smiled, revealing that small, familiar gap between her two front teeth. She gestured to the chief, who turned and led them from the clearing and through the jungle with the other Buma warriors until they reached their village. It was a simple affair, clearly not meant for permanent settlement.
There Ganisundur and Biruldaan – who likewise wished to partake of the Great Hunt – were handed bamboo spears. “Now know this, Friends Gin-sada and Bur-beda; to speak during the hunt is forbidden. There can be no sound.” Ak-laha told them, and both nodded in understanding. The hunters then gathered near Rinaas, who stood with eyes closed before a fire and seemed to be listening. The women beat drums and the hunters began to beat the ground with their feet, jumping and thumping rhythmically. Ganisundur watched them for a few moments, taking in the rhythms and the movement of their feet, and then joined them. Beside him Biruldaan attempted to do the same but only stumbled over his own feet or got the rhythm wrong.
There was clapping and singing from both the women and the dancing men, and the great ritual went on for some time before Rinaas, at last, opened her eyes and gestured in one direction. The song and dance came to an immediate halt, and Ak-laha turned and led his warriors, silently, into the jungle, going the direction Rinaas had pointed. Ganisundur and the giant Biruldaan followed.
The Buma men moved silently through the jungle, now that they had entered into the time and place of the Great Hunt. They communicated with hand gestured and exaggerated facial expressions, and Ganisundur watched this process with unveiled fascination. As they strode silently, gesturing and nodding to one another, a hand rose and there was abrupt stillness. They listened and watched; eyes wide.
There, hidden in the undergrowth but now moving was a great gorilla, its silver back to them. After some minutes, the great creature moved out and the warriors slowly readied their spears. This was the place that the Seer Neh-naka had told them about. This was the animal they were to hunt today. The warriors fanned out silently, and moved along with the unaware gorilla, watching it all the while.
Then, when they had it surrounded and the coast was clear, Ak-laha leapt forth and struck, and all others threw their spears and struck also. Ganisundur was swift, his spear landed right after that of the chief and lodged itself deep into the noble ape. It did not take this assault in silence, screeching loudly and beating its bleeding chest, rampaging now here and now there. One of the small warriors was not quite nimble enough and the dying thing of muscle struck him a glancing blow to the head that left him dead before he struck the ground.
When the rampage was over and it lay dead, the warriors all formed up around it and gathered their spears, they thumped the earth and ululated and danced around its body, praising the jungle djinni Deh-dagini. Ak-laha turned to Ganisundur. “You, who struck it first in truth, you shall carry it in the lead.” And so Ganisundur lifted its head while others lifted other parts and they carried it with them. The body of the fallen warrior was likewise brought and they entered the camp where the women and children were singing and dancing and ululating and beating their drums.
Praised is Deh-dagini! Praised is Deh-dagini! Oh djinni of the jungle Worshipped of the Buma You protect us from the monsters of the Ambuma You alone defend us from the gorilla and the jaguar You alone grant us great power and high ability To face all the dangers of our lives! Praised is Deh-dagini Praised is Deh-dagini We are made unseeable to our foes by your grace Great son of the Godtree, his shadow in the world You appear to us in every time and place You alone take care of the affairs of the great Godtree When, oh worshipped one, will you appear to us?
And as they sang, the jungle seemed to groan in response, and a great sound unlike anything known to mortalkind rumbled through the jungle of the Ambuma. It was, without a doubt, the great response and cry of the guardian Deh-dagini, the jungle djinni, to his loyal people.
Then they brought forth the body of the fallen warrior, wailing and praying to Deh-dagini to ward off the misfortune of death and the cosmic disharmony it brought. They piled debris around the corpse and danced around it all night, spears at the ready; when the viney ghouls came dashing to claim their brother the warriors all rose like the river and fought it off. They danced like this all night, tirelessly keeping the ghouls at bay, and after that long night the people gathered themselves and their belongings and departed, leaving the corpse behind. “Now we will go away from this place and its deathcurse, we will flee elsewhere and find there Deh-dagini’s blessings.” Ak-laha told Ganisundur. “You are of us now, Warrior Gin-sada, you struck the gorilla and heard the great voice of the jungle djinni. Take this spear, for you are foremost amongst hunters. Your heavy chest ties you to the Seer Neh-naka, but when you are cured return here to the Ambuma. May the jungle djinni cause all your foes to cease seeing you.” And with those words the chief and his people moved away and disappeared into the undergrowth.
“Come, my Ganisundur,” Rinaas sang, “for other tribes of the Buma await.”
We observe some rituals that a jungle tribe dwelling north of the Azumai river called the Buma do and some ghoul stuff.
1DP (Art Domain) - The Voice of Deh-dagini. The Jungles of the Ambuma are home to a strange and unique phenomenon - a musical sound that echoes through the jungle after the Buma ritual of the Great Hunt. (+1 Music)
It was a year before shid Arkhus shib Mucazim’s soldiers rode through Rehna again. This time, no pleas from Dhula could make them leave Shidhig as they had done the year before, and not even the promise of all her share of the harvest. When the warrior-lord and his riders arrived at Sugae’s door, his mother was just about finished tying his father’s great blue warturban around his head. The young man was clad in his father’s quilted tunic, sandals on his feet, and a white cloth wrapped around his waste numerous times to act as a holster for the simple scabbard into which his father’s silvery sword was sheathed. In one hand he held his herding staff, sharpened at one end, and in the other he gripped his father’s great round shield. The commanding warrior-lord, whose great beard had more grey in it than black, gave Sugae an amused, if somewhat surprised, look from beneath his thick brows. “Bit overdressed, aren’t you boy?” He did not laugh, but some of the noble riders behind him sniggered, and one of them commented something along the lines of a loincloth would have sufficed.
Bori had warned Sugae that people like him — ‘peasants’, ‘commoners’ — were not even considered soldiers, but merely spare meat to throw at the enemy before the real warriors — clad and armed noble shids — swept the bloodletting fields on foot and horse. “If you want to survive, pup, you’re going to want to keep your head down. The nobles and higher-ups will mock you, laugh at you, make you do menial and humiliating tasks. Take it in your stride. They expect you to die, but if you stick around long enough there will be recognition. They respect a survivor, even if he is a lowly peasant from some rural backwater.” Sugae looked up at the warrior-lord.
“My pa was a veteran, shid. He left these for me so that I can honour him.” The lord scanned the shield and eyed the turban.
“Is that true then,” he said, “thought that turban looked familiar.”
“You... you knew my father, lord?”
“Hmm. So I take it he’s dead then. Shame. A man like Ravuk belongs on the bloodletting field, in life and in death.” He looked Sugae in the eye, “if you can be half the fighter your father was, you will have earned that warturban.” With that, he gestured for him to follow and steered his horse away. A few of the riders, not laughing anymore, gave him curious looks before spurring their horses to follow after the warrior-lord.
Sugae turned to his mother and smiled thinly. “Await my return, mam. I’ll come back to you.” She smiled back and nodded, her eyes glistening as she planted a kiss on his forehead. Then she stepped back and poured water into a small clay bowl. Scooping water from it into her hand, she began spraying it over her son and chanting.
“May the Glorified Mojtha guide your steps. May the Thousand Terrible Things and Faces strike with you and never against you. May the One Who Frowns scowl down on all who wish you harm. May the Serene Lord bring you tranquillity even in the heart of the fray. So may it be.”
With her words at his back, he marched off after the riders and eventually found himself walking beside Shidhig. Unlike Sugae, his father perished in the bloodletting and so he had no armour or shield or sword, only his trusty herding stick. Sugae grinned at him and lifted his own stick. “Good thing I trained long and hard pummelling your sorry arse with this, eh?” He looked over despondently.
“Only reason you ever managed to do that is ‘cause stinkin’ Bori showed you some of his tricks. In a way, you cheated. If not for your cheating I’m obviously far superior.”
“Well, I did invite you to come train with us, but you’re just averse to any form of hard work.”
“Averse to hard work? Me?” He exclaimed, “while you were off messing about with Bori and prancing around the lake with Mahula, somebody was actually bothered to care for the goats. Ain’t nobody gonna bother with them now! Some wolf or leopard will get them without their brave, dashing, daring Shidhig. Oh, my poor goats.” Sugae chuckled slightly, but the mention of Mahula visibly dampened his mood. He knew he was going to miss her immensely. He looked around in the hope of spotting her somewhere in the crowds that had gathered to see the young men off, and even as he looked the mere thought of her brought an immediate smile to his face.
“Ugh, there it is again, that stupid, happy, vacant smile of yours. Can you blame me for wanting to whack you silly every time you look like that?” Sugae looked at Shidhig distractedly.
“You’re just miserable and jealous is all you are, Shidh,” he teased, “if the gods are kind you’ll get your wish and be reborn as a goat.” The bigger man jabbed him in the side with his stick, but Sugae’s thick tunic meant he barely felt it. And then he saw her and his heart leapt as he took a few steps out of the marching procession to be closer to her.
“Oi!” One of the noble riders shouted, riding past and kicking him back into the marching line. Sugae stumbled into a few of the others and they grumbled at him, but he quickly righted himself and got back to marching, though he had eyes for nothing other than Mahula's melancholy visage and small sad smile until the procession crested a hill and she, and Rehna, were permanently out of sight.
Sugae blinked and looked at the others marching around him, most of them in thin tunics. Others had their chests bared and either wore long white loincloths or great baggy sirwals. Only a few were ‘armoured’ like him, and many had not even bothered to arm themselves with a stick as Shidhig had. Only now, as he watched all those who had been pressed into this business of fighting, from all the towns and villages in the region, did the depressing and wretched reality of it dawn on him. No amount of training with Bori or words of warning and advice from him could have truly readied him for this mass of despondent people, near-naked and unarmed, being forcefully marched off from their homes and loved ones. He gripped his staff and tightened his hold on his father’s shield. He would return to Rehna, to his mother, to Mahula.
And everything would return to how it had always been.
Prepared For All Things
The long march ended just outside the market town of Zira, where they made camp. At first it was only the noble warriors who had tents, while rural ‘peasants’ like Sugae, Shidhig, and many others camped out in the open. It was not much of an issue as far as warmth went, since the wet season was not yet upon them and the days and nights alike were rather warm, but the Khadaar had many dangers that made having a tent, or some sort of shelter, advisable.
After perhaps four days in the open, during which time Sugae busied himself practising as Bori had taught him, the shid of Zira, Dharqul shib Caamuthrapa, finally rode through the camp with his warrior-lords, guards, and various advisors, to inspect the troops he would soon be leading into battle in the name of shid Arkhus and the true ramshida, Muwayma shil Sahrur. Upon surveying Sugae and other members of the commoner-militia and speaking for a time with members of his entourage, the giant old man ordered that every one of them be given simple bedding and that five-man tents be provided. “Lord, are we going to get weapons? And training?” Someone asked. The shid looked at him for a few moments, his great grey moustache seeming to curl upwards, then pointed towards the main camp where those of noble birth and military upbringing were.
“They came with their weapons and brought with them their training, and they brought their bedding and their tents and horses and all they will need. Because I am benevolent and wish for the gods to witness my virtue, I have bestowed on you bedding and tents, purchasing them with the shidra’s limited funds. But as for weapons, you will have to buy your own or earn them on the bloodletting field, and if you wish for training, then train amongst yourselves.” So saying, the shid turned his horse, looked once more at the commoner militias, and cantered away with his retinue in tow.
Shidhig looked at his herding stick with pursed lips. “Guess I’ll be holding onto this then,” he muttered. Sugae nodded.
“Good idea. If you like I can sharpen the tip for you.” He looked at him and nodded back in appreciation.
“Fucking Palwijtha coulda given me some of his old stuff. Heck, he coulda let me make something…” Shidhig let loose an exasperated sigh. “And, uh. I think I’ll be taking you up on that training business now.”
“My, you’re just brimming with good ideas today,” Sugae chuckled, and the bigger lad punched him on the shoulder.
The levies are called up and the youths of Rehna, along with others from the region, are marched to the regional capital of Zira.
Grant Sugae consecrated Warturban - Undying Light II (1DP & 2 Free Titles).
All strikes and ailments that come upon the wearer of this item somehow fail to be lethal. Stab wounds eerily miss vitals, deathly illnesses may weaken and bring the wearer to the gates of death, but at the last, they are returned.
“First things first — your sword. It has two main parts, pup, blade and hilt. If you feel here — careful, ya muttonhead! Don’t feel it, just look. See the blade tapers from the centre and has a sharpened edge, and then at the end here you have the point. The two edges give you flexibility when attacking. If a normal cut,” Bori drew the sword across, “won’t work, then a backward slash — like this — can take out an opponent who isn’t expecting it. If the sword bends one way or the edge warps, just turn it over and you’re good to go.
“The hilt protects your fingers a bit, prevents the opponent’s blade from getting to them, but don’t rely on it. If an opponent gets up close and personal and you can’t get a cut in, you can easily punch at them with yer shield, or hammer down with yer sword’s pommel. Yeah, this big pommel ain’t just for decoration pup, both the blade and hilt are useful. Remember that — it will save you.
“In the fray you want to keep your knees bent, one leg in front and one behind. Shield’s always gotta be up and ready.” Sugae imitated him, and the old man paused to inspect him. He tapped the boy’s back leg, telling him to bring it back slightly and ensure his foot was facing outward. “It gives you a firm foundation, see? And the knees, bend ‘em more. Like this you’re strong, you can step forward, or to either side, and you can retreat easily.” With that said he surveyed Sugae’s arms, bringing the young man’s elbow in slightly, “a tucked in elbow means your opponent doesn’t have an easy target. When it’s tuck in, it’s protected. And here, you want one of the edges of your sword to be facing towards your outside,’ he moved the boy’s wrist so it was rotated at a slight angle. With that said he expressed a satisfaction with the posture, telling Sugae to practice it often.
“Best way to strengthen posture and balance is standing on one leg, like the ascetics.” Sugae balked at the prospect. The ascetics could stand on just one leg for hours on end. “Don’t look at me like that, pup. The best defence is movement, and if you want to move in the right way you have to have balance and posture. Don’t think you’ll have time in the fray, the first blow is nearly always the last. Your shield and blade can be used for defence, but that’s really a last resort. Others will say differently but take it from me; if you keep moving you won’t need for anything other than pressing the offense.” He paused for a few seconds, “but if you ever have to use your sword to parry, you want to meet the strike with the lower half of your blade. The closer to the hilt the strike lands, the stronger your defence.
“Now for attacking, remember always that this sword your pa’s left you is a cutting sword. True it has a sharp point, and you could stab someone with it if you’re desperate, but it isn’t a stabbing sword — after enough usages the point will fail you, so stab only when there’s no other choice. It’s a cutting sword. There are eight angles you can cut from. The first two are downward cuts — one comes down from the right and the other comes down from the left, and then you draw the sword through to slice your opponent open. This drawing movement is important! It’s what does the damage. The second two are upward from the right and upward from the left. The best cuts are straight from the right and left. And the final two are cuts that come straight down and straight up. When you get used to the movements, you’ll be able to flow from one cut into another without moving anything but your wrist — no big swings, no elbow leaping about, just a simple wrist movement. Controlled armed movement, along with this wrist movement, creates for a perfect combination. Now if you combine this with foot movements, say a swift step forward or to the side when you’re attacking, then you give the cut extra power and lethality. Your constant foot movement — left, right, back, forth — and the constant movement of your sword, means your strikes are unpredictable and so more likely to land, and are also more lethal. You’ll have many opponents on the bloodletting field, you can’t waste too much time on each one, so all of these’ll help you to take each one out with one cut.
“Come, let’s practise. If you can master these basics then you’ll be well able to protect yourself.” Bori put the sword to the side and picked up a wooden stick. “Sharp weapons are for killing, not sparring.” He commented casually as he raised his wooden shield and took up the fighting form. Sugae did likewise and both began to carefully step around each other. It was slow and cautious at first, with Bori frequently stopping to comment.
Over the weeks and months, however, the comments grew fewer and fewer, and soon they were not stopping so much anymore, or at all. “Find your feet! Keep your balance.” Bori growled. Groaning slightly, Sugae rolled on the ground and got to his knees.
“Didn’t have to hit me so ha-”
“Stop whining, pup.” The butcher’s steely voice cut the boy’s words short without mercy even as he prodded him roughly with his wooden sword. The boy huffed in frustration and rose heavily to his feet. What was this now, the tenth, twentieth, time that he had knocked him down this session? Bori was just far more skilled and experienced than Sugae, even if it had been nearly two decades since he had last seen a battle and was an ancient husk. Sugae stood no chance against him. “Ready yourself- shield up!” He shouted, striking with sudden speed.
Sugae stumbled back and just about manage to parry and dodge the confident blows, smacking the last one away with his makeshift wooden shield. “You’re doing quite well against these playful strikes, pup — let’s see how well you do against something more serious.” He spoke, and before Sugae knew it he came forth with a furious burst of speed, delivering a powerful horizontal cut to the boy’s midsection that caused him to drop his stick and crumple to the ground in pain.
Bori sighed and squatted down next to him. “Think you won’t die out there, pup? Think you’re the hero of your life? No one is too special when death comes searching for them on the bloodletting fields. Remember that.”
“That... gods. That hurts,” Sugae managed between gasps.
“Think anyone will pity you if you cry? Think anyone will stop ‘cause it hurts?” He looked at Sugae for a few seconds. He had never spoken so ruthlessly before, and Sugae was somewhat taken aback by it. At last, however, Bori extended a helping hand, “but this ain’t the bloodletting field.” Sugae took it and got to his feet, and after a few moments he was ready to resume.
As they circled one another, Bori told him once again to always keep moving. “Move your feet and grip your sword tight and keep it moving — over your head and across, always in a constant circular motion. And when you move in, move with speed and surety. In the fray, the first blow is often the last blow.” And to illustrate, his circling steps gave way suddenly to a two-step forward dash and Sugae’s extended leg was taken out from under him. “Your opponent’s extended leg is an easy target. If you can get his wrist or his fingers, those are excellent targets too. It’s the same for riders — if a horseman is riding you down, you don’t want to turn your back to him or run ‘cause these guys have a sort of strike they do, a sort of turn of the wrist, that makes a man’s head fall off just like that. You want to shield yourself and cut the reins of their horse or the hand holding the reins or injure the horse itself — its legs or throat, whatever you can get your blade into.” He helped Sugae back up again. “A rider’s thigh is also a good target; you can usually get that along with the horse. More riders have died from cuts to the thigh than I care to count. If you have your spear to hand, that’s your best friend — whether against a rider or a footman. Only draw your sword if you lose that — and don’t lose it if you can. Also, don’t go up against an elephant or any kind behemoth, but if you do, get the legs.”
Over the months, Bori battered and taught Sugae. But mostly he battered him. “You don’t want to be the first in the fray. And you want to be the first out. Don’t try to be a hero.” Was one of his cardinal guidelines. “Keep your sword sharp.” Was another. A sharp sword meant that even delicate cuts could slice through an opponent’s wrist, leg, neck, or to the bone at the least. According to Bori, it was all about correct wrist movement, and he illustrated this to Sugae in the slaughterhouse where he allowed him to practice his cutting technique on some of the carcasses they brought back from hunting. “Stop swinging your sword around like that,” he would snap when Sugae’s movements became too wide and open. “Don’t hack and chop. Draw your sword through the target for long, deep cuts.”
It was punishment from the gods for all his meetings with Mahula, Sugae had no doubt about it.
Sugae trains in preparation for some war or something.
“Five goats were taken today,” Sugae reported glumly. His mother did not look up from the ripped blanket she was fixing — likely brought to her for patching by one of the village women — but Sugae noted the slightest of dejected shrugs at his words. She continued working away in silence for a few seconds before finally looking up. The moment his eyes met her gaze he found himself looking away, unable to bear the weight of her eyes.
Shammur was not a rare beauty by any means, but she had always had a nobility about her. That nobility — that innate dignity and unbroken pride — had made her a source of adoration to Sugae, and the subject of both great admiration and envy for many of the villagers over the years. But now there were dark stains under his mother’s eyes and — crushingly — there was a distinct emptiness there that threatened to swallow him whole if he met her gaze for too long. “They, uh. They took Palwijtha’s grandson too. And uncle Bori’s boys.” Sugae added offhandedly.
“Dhula said they came for Shidhig too,” Shammur spoke in a low voice as she returned to her work, “said that she spent over an hour begging them not to take him. They didn’t let up until she promised them nearly all her share of the year’s harvest, the poor soul.” Sugae frowned at these words. So that was why he had not seen Shidhig all day. Usually he was out tending to the goats even before Sugae. “Not that it matters, they’ll come back and take him when the next levy is called up.” She looked up to find her son picking at a spot on his nose. “And then they will take you too.” His picking slowed and came to a halt as he considered that reality. Looking to his mother, he found that her eyes were brimming with tears, but she steadied herself with a sharp intake of breath and they were gone.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine ma-” he began, but Shammur’s voice cut through his.
“No. No you won’t be fine. Just like your pa was never fi-” her voice caught in her throat and cracked, and there were tears. She buried her face in the blanket as sobs rocked her body. Usually, such a display of sadness would have had Sugae at his mother’s side, comforting her, but her words had caused a sudden snaking fury to erupt in his gut.
“I-” he started, but then took a moment to compose himself. When he did, however, the fury was still there to fuel his tongue. “I am not my pa.” The bitterness in his voice got his mother’s attention and she looked up, wiping the tears away with her hands and causing dirt stains to layer her already dirty face.
“My dearest, your pa was a good man. A great man. Brave, caring, loving too... at times. But he was tormented, and I always thought I could... fix that. And when you came into our lives I was certain of it. I thought that our new, happy, memories will replace everything that he saw out there in all that bloodletting. But some things are beyond our abilities, we are only human beings. You are your papa’s image; I don’t want you to end up carrying so much... so much pain.”
Sugae was drawn to agree with his mother. His father’s memory was larger than life in his mind, a commanding presence and serious visage that had always lent Sugae a maturity greater than his age. But at the same time, it was a great, empty presence. Ravuk had abandoned his wife, and he had abandoned his son. Shammur always told her son that his father had never run from any battle, had stood his ground always. Yet in the face of the great battle of life he had turned tail and run away. Shammur's eyes rested on her son, waiting on a response.
There were a few sombre seconds, and then Sugae’s face lit up suddenly, all signs of anger disappearing as he took two quick strides towards his mother and planted a kiss on her forehead. “My pa was only human, mam, and who isn’t? I would count myself blessed by the Glorified Mojtha if I can be half the man he was. But I want you to never worry yourself about me, mam. I am your son after all and, for all my nonsense, I like to think that you reared me well.” She looked at him with a small sad smile before sighing and holding him close to her, muttering something about my baby. But when she finally spoke there was a seriousness to her voice.
“Your pa knew the bloodletting wasn’t over. He knew they would come for you as they came for him, and he always wanted you to be ready. I... I wasn’t able to prepare you, my dearest. I just... deep down, I thought if we just ignored it and tried to live normal lives it would just never reach us... that you would be my little boy forever. But I was only deluding myself,” she rose and looked to the war-chest his father had left behind. The key was tied around Shammur’s neck and she had only allowed Sugae to look inside on a number of occasions. Now she removed it and handed it to him. “I want you to go to your uncle Bori. He survived the bloodletting and your father always praised his prowess. Convince him to teach you how to fend for yourself before they return. You must be ready.” Sugae looked at the small key, gripping it tightly, and then to the chest. Wondrous things, locks and keys, and no one in Rehna had anything like this one other than priest Ahnu.
“I’ll prepare, mam,” he assured her, “but promise me you'll never worry.” She cocked her head to the side and raised a hand to his cheek, her eyes softening and glistening once more.
“I am a mother, my dearest, and it is the duty of a mother to be always worrying.” He gripped her hand and brought her fingers to his lips.
“Then I must endeavour always to give you no cause to worry.”
When Sugae arrived at the slaughterhouse, Bori was not there. He asked Palwijtha the smith about where he was, and the hammer-wielding veteran of the bloodletting wheezed that Bori had gone off after the soldiers came for his boys. “He used to always go to the lake when he was in a bad way. But he hasn’t gone there since...” Sugae waited expectantly for the giant old smith to finish his sentence, but he only gestured for the boy to go away. “I’ve work to do, whelp. Bori’ll be back when Bori’ll be back.” Sugae was about to respond with some snarky line about the prodigious wisdom of those words, but he somehow doubted the wisdom of annoying a giant with a hammer.
With Palwijtha’s words in mind, he headed for the lake — though he could not remember seeing the butcher there since his early childhood days with his father. Bori had accompanied them on occasion and often brought Hushik and Olkiq along. But though Sugae and the butcher’s boys would swim together often over the years, old Bori never came — even to just watch.
The sun was low in the sky as he crested the hill and the lake spread out before him. He could not see anyone from up there and so descended to look more closely. Here around the lake there were more trees and so the entire area felt more sheltered. Back when his father would take him swimming here, his presence and the trees had given a feeling of complete safety — as though he were tucked into the lap of a valley over which his Ravuk and his host of trees stood guard. The feeling of security this place gave Sugae had never waned.
As he descended, there was suddenly a break in the trees and the light of the setting sun shone upon the lake... and upon a feminine figure stood knee-deep in the water, chanting and slowly pouring water from a clay bowl held high before her. Sugae silently drew nearer and watched from behind a tree, noting that the young woman appeared to be sobbing. He could not see her face, only her long red draping shawl covering her head and back. She was dressed in the long knee-length tunic and baggy trousers common to Rehnites, and her words reach him between sobs.
“We meditate on the glory of that which has produced the world, “that excellent brilliance of the divine vivifying sun; “may He enlighten our minds. “May He enlighten our understandings. “May we attain that sublime majesty of the god in the sunrays: “so may He stimulate our prayers. “We choose your supernal light, oh divine sun; “we aspire towards it that it may impel our minds. “Oh you of the cosmos, “you vital energy of the world, “essence of our life, “destroyer of sufferings, “bearer of brightest happiness “luminous like the sun, “destroyer of evil thoughts; “may we imbibe your divinity and brilliance within us “so that we may be purified and guided to righteous wisdom. “Let us adore the supremacy of that divine sun, the godhead “that illuminates all, “who recreates all, “from whom all proceed, “to whom all must return, “whom we invoke to direct our understandings on our journey toward His holy seat. “Unveil your eternal light upon us, oh you who gives sustenance to the world, “unveil that face of the true sun that we may see the truth and do our whole duty on our passage to your sacred heart. “We meditate on that adorable glory and radiance; “may He inspire our intelligence, “inspire our rise above the world of forms and turn our attention to the all-consuming sun within. “May He cause us to be absorbed in that sun and make us, in His own likeness, all-luminous.”
With those words, she tipped the contents of the bowl over completely into the water and spun unexpectedly. “So may it be!” She declared loudly, and then fell silent and took an involuntary step back, her eyes on Sugae’s.
The boy was silent and wide-eyed also, for he had not expected to so suddenly be looking — nay, hurtling and falling, drawn in willing and unwilling — into her endless obsidian eyes. He stepped out from behind the tree, and slowly recognition dawned. “So may it be. Don’t be afraid. Th- that was beautiful, Mahula.” She held the bowl close to her chest in one hand and brought part of her shawl over her face to cover everything beneath her eyes, then looked at him carefully, eyes still brimming with tears. She nodded but said nothing. “Are... are you okay?” She turned from him and wiped the tears away, but again made no response, and so he decided it was best to leave her to grieve in peace. “I’m looking for your pa. D’you know where he went?” She looked to the side and gestured off into the distance. He followed her hand to see a figure huddled by the far end of the lake. Thanking her, Sugae made to head for him, but her voice stopped him.
“No, wait. Look... my pa’s not in a good way. Leave him alone for now, please.” He paused, staring at the distant huddled figure, then looked over at her and nodded.
“Alright, but only if you tell me where you learned that chant. Are you a priest?” Despite the melancholia of her earlier chant, she chuckled at his words and shook her head.
“No, women can’t be priests. But priest Ahnu taught me some things. He says that every single person should know some rituals.” While Sugae was naturally involved in the many festivals and rituals that occurred annually in the village, he had never really considered actually learning rituals. Several times a day, his mother poured water at the doorstep of the house from a clay bowl similar to the one Mahula was holding, and every few months she told him to take a goat to priest Ahnu and make a sacrifice to in honour of his father. But beyond that, he had never really thought too deeply about it all. If he was good and took part in all the public rituals when the priest did them, he was sure the gods would be pleased with him.
“Well, if priest Ahnu says that then maybe I should learn some rituals too,” he said offhandedly. Her eyes lit up at his words and there was suddenly an energy and excitement to her as she waded out of the water.
“It’s really easy! And it doesn’t have to be long, you can just say a few words. Here.” She filled the bowl with water from the lake and handed it to him. His fingers brushed briefly over hers, causing him to cough in embarrassment and spill some water. She smiled and brought him knee-deep into the lake. “What do you want from the gods?” She asked. He looked at her, unsure if this was a bewildering dream or reality.
“I want to ask only the strongest god. Uncle Bori always talks of Mojtha.” He told her.
“Oh yes, my pa venerates the Glorified Mojtha most of all. I don’t know if the Mojtha is the greatest god. I talked to one of those ascetic teachers once, and he said that the Mojtha isn’t a god at all. Actually... he said that there are no gods, that every person can become god.” The boy raised his eyebrows at this paradoxical statement. “I don’t know okay! But priest Ahnu said not to listen to him. Anyway. You could pray to anyone of the Thousand Terrible Things and Faces, some of them are truly powerful. Or you could pray to the One Who Frowns. Or you could pray to the Serene Lord who is the source of all things.” He stared at her with a faint smile. “W- what?” She asked.
“Nothing. Just... you really know a lot.” He looked over the lake, the quickly fading sun, the resolute trees standing forever guard. “Can... can I pray to my father?” He asked suddenly, glancing at her. Her eyes softened and she nodded.
“What do you want to ask of him?” Her voice came low, her breath warm and close.
He straightened and looked over the trees and hills towards the fading light of the heavens. “I am Sugaera shib Ravuk. I will be marched to the bloodletting soon, like my father before,” he looked down at the bowl, “I will have his sword and shield, I will wear the battle garments he left me and I will don the warturban. I want him to strengthen my spirit and bless my form.” With that, Mahula told him to raise the bowl before him, no lower than his head, and began to chant rhythmically. He slowly tipped the content of the bowl as he repeated after her.
“When mustered masses lift on high,” she intoned gently.
“When mustered masses lift on high,” Sugae repeated, his voice low and hesitant.
“Their bloodied banners to the sky,” Mahula continued, her near breath causing his ears to tingle.
He spoke slower and more certainly. “Their bloodied banners to the sky.”
“When restless fighters lift their gaze,” he heard her head move, hair rustling, and lifted his chin also, his eyes rising.
“When restless fighters lift their gaze.”
“From blood-red field to sky’s dark haze,” her chant came steady, but louder now and he echoed her growing voice.
“From blood-red field to sky’s dark haze.”
“Oh great Ravuk! Be then my hope and stay!” She did not shout, but her voice cascaded through the air and seemed to pervade everything.
“Oh great Ravuk! Be then my hope and stay!” He repeated, warmth exploding in his chest despite the coolness of the water against his legs.
“And aid your son Sugae in fierce fray!” Her voice dropped and was closer to a whisper, the difference from the previous verse almost dizzying.
“And aid your son Sugae in fierce fray!” With those final words he tipped the bowl’s content completely into the lake, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The wind whispered on his skin and the light of the quickly-fading sun warmed his eyelids, and the world seemed cosmically tender and safe. When he opened his eyes, Mahula was staring at him with a faint, knowing smile. In the dimming light, she seemed unearthly, her face aflame. “I feel warm,” Sugae noted in a hushed voice. “And you’re beautiful,” he sighed before he could stop himself. She blinked, reddened, and quickly covered her face with her shawl again before turning and wading out of the water. “W-wait. Where are you-” but she was already rushing off into the trees. “Your bowl, you forgot your bowl!” He called, rushing after her.
“You can keep it!” Came her retort.
“But I haven’t learned the chant yet! It’s useless if I don’t know the chant, right?” He cried as he got his feet on dry land. His words caused her to pause this time, and she turned. He looked at her, a smile growing on his face. “If you won’t come teach me again, you might as well take your bowl, right?”
“Your words are sweet and say one thing, but it seems your motives are quite something else, shib Ravuk.” She spoke, somewhat incisively.
“Was it wrong to tell you what is so plainly true? You asked the great god for the truth. Well, here is a truth for you: you are beautiful. You said he created all things, and you praise the sun and light because they were created by him and are beautiful. Well, he created you too and your beauty, so when I praise you I am really praising him, aren’t I?” She looked at him with somewhat startled eyes, never having expected such poetry from him, and then she chuckled, and her chuckle became a wonderfully exuberant and immediately contagious laugh, and so he could not help but be swept up in the irresistible tide of her laughter.
When at last her laughter and his came to a winding close, he stood staring at her with a grin. She looked at him demurely for a few moments, then raised her hand in farewell, turned, and disappeared into the gathering darkness. He took a deep breath, the smile unwavering, the bowl yet in his hand, and he sat beneath a tree and basked in the embers of her warmth and joy.
She met with him many times at the lake after that first time, and each time she brought with her some exciting tale or idea. She seemed to be ever abuzz with life, her mind ever curious and readily amazed. It was like she actively searched for the odd, the curious, the wondrous. But then again, she found something wondrous in near enough anything, seeming to occupy a world quite different from Sugae’s, a world teeming with wonders and marvels.
“Hey, Mahu, do you know how to swim?” He asked her one day, only for her to give him an unimpressed glare.
“Trying to get me out of my clothes, are you? To praise the beauty of my naked form, maybe?” She chuckled.
“Well, would you blame me?” He grinned.
“You’re incorrigible!” She declared, shoving him teasingly.
“Oh, you bring out the best and worst in me. I am beyond saving. But on the bright side, I can teach you to swim.”
“Hah, dream on, shib Ravuk! Maybe I’ll go tell your mam that her son is trying to lead me astray with his many sweet empty words.”
“Empty?” He exclaimed, taking affront, “you can accuse me of whatsoever you wish and tell my mam whatsoever you please, but at the very least recognise my sincerity!” She looked at him, suddenly bashful.
“Will your sincerity save you from my pa’s wrath when he finds out you’ve beguiled his daughter with all these secret lakeside trysts? If you were sincere you would have married me by now.”
“And would you accept me, knowing that soon I may be dead?” His words caused her to stiffen and look away.
“Everyone dies. Why shouldn’t we enjoy what we have while we have it?” She asked.
“It will only cause you pain. Look at Shidhig, look at aunt Dhula. Both of them alone and poor.”
“They may have little coin, but they are not poor or alone!” She insisted, turning to him with anger in her eyes. “Everyone is here for them. Poverty, true poverty in this world of forms, is to have no one at all. But Dhula and Shidhig are not alone. They are loved.” He smiled. “What?” She asked, the anger in her eyes fading into slight annoyance.
“I’m going to teach you to swim.” He stated.
“What? No, I don’t want to sw-” But he caught her by the arm and, before she could protest, scooped her up.
“Oh my- you oaf! Put me down. I’m going to murder yo- he- hey!” But already he was wading into the water and now she was not trying to get away but was holding onto him for dear life. He breathed in her sweet fragrance and, in a hushed, soothing voice, told her to relax. “I hate you.” She grumbled.
“I know.” He grinned. And then her hand cupped his head and brought him to her.
Goats are being stolen from Rehna and the lords of the Khadaar have called up levies - some of the young men of Rehna are taken up in the drive. Sugae's mum is worried about this and tells him to seek out her uncle Bori so that he can prepare him for the bloodletting. Sugae goes off and doesn't find him at the slaughterhouse, but is tipped off by Palwijtha that he might be by the lake. Sugae goes there and finds Mahula. Many trysts are had.
~20,500 characters. +5 Prestige to Sugae; 15 Prestige in total.
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.
Rima and the kayhin arrive near a great caravanserai where our old friends the Mirtaah tribe, and old woman Zahna, are. Rima meets Zahna and the kayhin speaks with her. It seems he has sensed a disturbance in the force. Uh. Worldsong. It is none other than the evil badboy megagoth, befriender of Vespians, Malri. As fortune would have it, Malri’s trader vespian comrades arrive at the caravanserai for trading while Rima and the kayhin are present. Malri makes a dramatic entrance, and all the people and Rima are pretty scared of him. Some come forward and try to appease him, and he is appeased. They go to the caravanserai where they sit and eat. Rima and the kayhin join them. A few bad words are exchanged between Malri and the kayhin, and things get spicy. Eventually the caravanserai is clear of people as Malri rampages, attempting to slay the kayhin, but the crafty fella escapes by magicking himself through the great building’s roof. Malri hits it so hard that he falls down to the ground in a daze, and the roof collapses in on him. Is our boy dead? Find out just above the summary.
Malri
Starting = 23 -1 Prestige to make a sunspear +5 = 27
Rima-Tinrur
+5. End prestige: 25
Circle of the Turning Away
Starting: 25 prestige -1 prestige: open wall, slip through, and close it behind +5 prestige from post End prestige: 29
The Kavijama | the thing of ink & poetry | The Hibrach
The god in the inkstain is not dead, my friends. Look, do you not see how even now his variegated heartink pours into the walking place of the gods; and if you step forth into that antique place then be sure to bring boat and paddle, or be prepared to wade. No he is not dead who bleeds eternally that the curse of dryness and monochromy may never again plague that divine heartland. Walk then or fly, ye race of celestials bound beyond the veil of worldly sight, 'tis one wetness more, one drabness less, a sing-song richer, and a fluttering of ink faeries through every divine door.
On the dunes of Galbar and its plains, in its mountain cores and in the depths of its jungles and at the gurgling blackness of its swamps, in the inky heart of the stilly deeps; there sounded a hum, a cry, a moan. Oh brother troll, oh sister, he is not dead who stained the peripheral heights of your universe so that they roil now and breathe with the breath of the cosmos. Oh, he is not dead who lends melody and soul to the terrene and empyrean spheres. Did the spark in your dancing feet perish that he should die? Did the euphony of your crooning tongue fade that he should echo into nothingness away? Has the soul of art been struck by the swift and poisonous dart that he should up, up, and fleeing depart?
If it is so, then take this song and kiss of ink, take this sculptor's, carver's, builder's touch - but, take this art, these artitects and this artefact.
Why? Why not?
It is all absolute nonsense, I don't even know what I'm writing anymore. A golden generation of architects is created, and a cool artefact of carving rings is now somewhere on Galbar. Ping me if you want to claim them.
The Birth of Artitecture III: This generation is made up of architectural geniuses who intuitively and creatively see how the native architecture of their people can be beautified and made better. They have an intuitive understanding for all aspects of the architectural process, from designs to the processes of bringing about what is designed. They also have a greater imagination when it comes to the materials useable and the possibilities provided for enhancing and controlling their built environment. (3DP - +3 to Architecture)
Were Your Heart Stone It Would Yield To My Hand III: The one who wears these carving rings is granted an incredible ability to manipulate and carve material into the shape they desire. They tend to adapt to the nature of the wearer, but return to their natural appearance once removed. (3MP - +3 to Sculpting)
The people of Rehna were for the most part lowly peasants and farmers. They were, however, by a happenstance of history free from some of the higher demands for labour, produce, and military levies to which petty shid Dharqul of Zira subjected other towns and villages in his shidra. To the west and north of the village were hills, and nestled in a forested vale between the western hills was a lake of some size. Beyond the northern hills, the plains of the Khadaar stretched out for endless leagues in all directions, while the east and immediate south of the village was made up of farmlands. The river Muhaddir flowed perhaps a day’s journey south — meaning the village lay on the natural border between the two major belligerents in Dehrthaa’s civil war.
But Rehna had always had something of a martial tradition — war and conflict was the norm in Dehrthaa, not the exception, and any town or village required able young men to leap to the defence of their kin at a moment’s notice. They were rural village people, and so their conception of the ideal warrior-youth emphasised strength — and that was why any festive occasion almost always included a village-wide wrestling event. Sometimes it was a competition in which all the youths took part, other times it was a match between the renowned wrestlers from across the region.
Sugae was by no means the strongest wrestler, but herding had made him deft and nimble, his hands — like those of near everyone — calloused even at a young age. While he was more than able to bring down opponents in single matches, he never won any competitions. His agility did, however, mean that those stronger and bigger than him often struggled to get him to submit — he was stubborn and strong-willed in that sense, his nature repulsed by the idea of surrender.
His close friend and kinsman Shidhig, however, was big and tall — often even the older boys struggled against him. And as he grew he waxed strong and gained increasing renown for his vigour and might in the wrestling ring. At thirteen he was able to throw even the hulking Olkiq, three years his senior. “It’s not all about strength or size,” Bori, Olkiq's father and Sugae's maternal great-uncle, would often say after such wrestling matches, “I’ve seen little fellas take out giants twice their size.”
“How'd they do it?” Sugae once asked with a frown. Bori scoffed and brought the cup of palm wine to his lips.
“It’s in the method, pup. Now method won’t help if you’re a twig — which you're not, my niece has taken care of that — and if you’ve got some strength and know what you’re doin’ you can tire out big lumbering oafs and crush ‘em. Brutes that think with their pecs may get far with the rabble, but one man with a good head for technique can bring ‘em down a notch or two.”
Along with wrestling, there was a stick-fighting tradition — as, indeed, was the case for most towns and villages around the Khadaar. A stick was an effective weapon in skilled hands and villages had been known to drive off marauders and mercenary bands with nothing more than militias armed with sticks and staffs. Being nimble and quick aided Sugae when it came to stick-fighting — he was often able to duck and weave his way around bigger and stronger opponents, and even the brawny Shidhig could not always pin him down or best him.
As with any community, disputes often arose — indeed, when young men were prone to wrestling and stick-fighting, competitiveness could very easily turn into rivalry, and rivalry into envy and enmity. Sometimes playfighting swiftly descended into an altogether more serious affair — that was the way with these things. When these were not resolved and became something bigger, it was to the headman that the people of Rehna turned — indeed, all kinds of disputes inexorably found their way to headman Jishnu who was the last living son of Rahuna himself, from whom most Rehnites were patrilineally or matrilineally descended and after whom Rehna was named. Intermittently brought before the old headman were marriage quarrels, land disputes, inheritance disagreements, squabbles between wives and in-laws, and — perhaps the most serious — troubles emerging from historic family feuds or unresolved issues.
It came to be that a dispute arose one day between the old smith Palwijtha and his niece, Dhula. Now old Palwijtha had for a long time been a good uncle to Dhula and her son, Shidhig. Though she was a mere widow and had slaved away for her father- and mother-in-law until they died and now lived a simple life with her son, old Palwijtha had married her mother — his brother's widow — and taken the orphaned Shidhig under his wing and had taught the boy much of smithing; when he was not running off into the hills with Sugae, that was. And even when Dhula's mother died, he would often send them food or what coin he could spare, to ensure that his niece and her son were able to keep up some semblance of face and honour before the other villagers. In exchange for this, the old man asked little more than for Dhula to fix up old clothes for him from time to time.
Now as he aged and his smith’s disease worsened, the old man — whose wife was now long dead, and whose daughters, Dhula's half-sisters, had all been married off and lived in different villages — found that he was in need of greater help and petitioned his niece to assist him. But Dhula was hard-pressed enough caring for herself and her son, and so naturally refused to take up caring duties for the old man. And so Palwijtha took his matter to the ancient headman Jishnu, his great-uncle. “I have been good to her — gone beyond the bounds of duty. And now when I am old and can hardly breathe, she turns her back on me.” The veteran of the bloodletting fields rasped in complaint. “Does a niece not have a duty to care for her old and ailing uncle?”
The frail Jishnu, sat on a bench leaning on his staff, nodded slowly. “You’ve been good to her Palwijtha — but you were good to her because you are good, not because you expected anything in return.”
“Of course! But can no one speak some sense into her? She’s like my daughter! She has no husband — my brother was claimed long ago on the bloodletting fields — and she has no in-laws. Her mother I married and cared for, as was my duty — and she was good to me and did her duty also. Her sisters are all of them gone — Renu in Milna with her husband, Srupa with her husband in Ahpur. Had I sons and had they wives, I wouldn’t call on her, but I have only her.”
“Come now Palwijtha, it doesn’t befit an old man like you — a warrior at that — to complain like this. We’ll send to Renu and Srupa and they can send you some help. Their daughters are old enough now, one of them should be able to come and aid her old grandfather, surely.” The old smith grumbled but ultimately acquiesced.
“May the gods curse me if I aid her ever again,” he muttered as he rose.
“Ah, Palwijtha, would you have all the virtues you’ve amassed thrown against the wind like dust? Don’t change your goodness because of this. And you need to understand that she is a woman alone — no mother, no husband — , she only has her son and he is her greatest duty. Don’t hold it against her.” But Palwijtha was an old man, and age brought with it weakness and weakness brought with it fear; and out of fear and weakness grew selfishness and so he never sent aid to his niece again. He allowed Shidhig to work with him — though that was because he needed help and the boy was skilled, rather than anything else.
Now as with any Dehru village, there were many festivals and causes for celebration throughout the year — the harvest was a time of showing thanks and gratitude to the gods, the time of shearing goats likewise festive and subsequent spinning of raw mohair into yarn a communal event filled with laughter, gossip, and renewed camaraderie.
The celebration of the Mojtha’s birth was one Sugae and the young men generally looked forward to — it was celebrated by watering the sycamore-fig orchards near Rehna’s lake, and the women beautified themselves and chanted lovely songs while the men marched behind. Later, at the centre of the town around Rehna’s beautifully carved shrine — a great stone pillar which had representations of the gods along its length, as well as depictions of battles and feats of heroes and ancestors — music was played and dances were performed in celebration.
Priest Ahnu would then come out and stand before the pillar, and he would chant great poetic verses and regale the villagers sat about him in the dim light of dusk with tales of the Mojtha — how he came to descend into the world when the great god Misnaya saw that the world needed balance, how he was blessed with strength and wisdom even from a young age, how people flocked to him — drawn by his charisma, his strength, his justice, his beauty; and how he fought all the corrupt shids who lived at that time and brought all the Dehrus under his banner to establish the sacred Ramshidra. By then darkness would have long set-in and the villagers would have lit fires all around the shrine, giving the epic performance a magic of its own.
The next day was one of wrestling and competing in all kinds of sports for the young men, where they would prove themselves in feats of strength and skill. Those who did well often felt confident enough to propose to one girl or another who had caught their eye during the festivities. Such unions were considered blessed and auspicious — the young women beautified themselves especially so that they could be noticed, the young men often prepared themselves months before so that they could excel in the feats and land themselves a worthy wife.
Another celebration was that in honour of Hivilarti, the great god of the sun, day, goodness, light, life, justice, and of the great open expanses; the one who maintained all life. When this celebration dawned Sugae’s mother, Shammur, would clean the entire house as well as its surroundings. She would have Sugae gather old and unneeded belongings, and the people of Rehna would assemble and light bonfires to burn them by the shrine. Homes were then painted and decorated to give them a festive look. New clothes were worn by all to mark the start of the festival, and so the period leading up to it was often quite demanding for Sugae’s mother and the women of Rehna at large as they busied themselves with weaving, cutting, sewing, embroidering, and quilting new clothes.
The next day saw the women gathered to sing traditional songs and prepare special dishes of rice for the sun god. The offerings included sweet dishes and fruits too — mainly sugarcane, sweet lime, baobab fruit, and sycamore-figs offered in small wicker winnows. The food was cooked without salt, onions, or garlic, and was strictly vegetarian — only the purest food could be offered, and so great care was taken to ensure it was not contaminated by such impure ingredients. After the food was offered to Hivilarti, it was shared with all the villagers who often gathered to eat together.
Many families held reunions on this day — daughters married off to husbands in other villages often returned and distant in-laws gathered. Along with eating, social events were organised to strengthen mutual bonds. The young were expected to go out and accompany their senior relatives, paying respects and seeking blessings. These elders, in turn, were often prepared with gifts for their younger kinsfolk.
While Sugae was quite used to seeing his baabis — old man Sugaenu and grandmother Satya — due to the fact that his mother cared for them diligently and visited them on a daily basis, this gathering was an opportunity to see kinsfolk who were not so frequently present — his bamti Gipaja, who lived in a nearby village with her husband, was one such relative. She was a humorous woman and the heart of any gathering, talking ceaselessly and laughing just as much. She often brought gifts, assuring him that she had saved the very best for her favourite nephew. His mamti Kumari was likewise talkative, though her humour was more cutting and often came at the expense of her soft-spoken husband. The youngest of his babtis, Arajit, invariably took this gathering as an opportunity to petition Sugae’s maabis, old man Vasu and grandmother Sudeshna, for Shammur’s hand in marriage. “It is only fitting that I, her husband’s brother, should marry her.” He would say. But Sugae’s mother, as she had done every year since her husband’s strange disappearance, refused.
“I am happy to live simply and do my duty to my husband’s parents.” She would respond.
“A woman like you is yet young — do you not wish after more children? Soon you will be old, and you will find yourself alone. Numerous children are the delight of old age.”
“When old age comes, I will deal with that. Please, don’t spoil the celebrations with such talk, brother-in-law.” Perhaps if Shammur had no brothers to fend off Arajit’s advances, she would have eventually succumbed to his incessant proposals, but she had two brothers, Baraha and Dharem, who were veterans of the bloodletting and renowned for their wild and fiery dispositions — a flash from either often quietened the dogged suitor. Arajit’s elder brother, Prahaben, was a veteran also and considered Shammur — the widow of a great warrior of the bloodletting fields like his brother Ravuk — far above being the wife of Arajit. The man had approached Shammur himself when Ravuk had first disappeared, but had taken her rejection as final and never sought her again — the stubborn Arajit, however, did not seem to know when to take no for an answer.
On the eve of this third and last day, every household accompanied its matriarch over the hills and into the forested vale where Rehna’s great lake lay. There they made offerings to the setting sun along with prayers. Women and young girls prayed for their brothers’ wellbeing, and brothers paid special tribute to their married sisters by giving gifts as affirmation of their filial love. What followed was then almost a carnival and folk songs were sung throughout the evening, and young men danced around fires and fought with sticks and displayed their agility and quickness.
Sugae had no siblings, however, and he would watch the women as they prayed for their brothers, and the brothers as they gave their sisters gifts and honoured them. From this part of the celebrations he felt distinctly excluded. Shidhig would sit by him and watch. “Eh, you brought a gift again this year?” He laughed, “you think sisters just magically emerge from the lake or pop out of a tree?”
“I- uh,” Sugae coughed, “I’m gonna give it to my mam, that’s close enough.” The younger boy said with a huff.
“Hah, that’s not how it works. Your mam just isn’t your sister.” Shidhig grinned.
“So? If there is anyone who deserves a gift, it’s my mam.”
“Sure sure, but this isn’t an occasion for that. You just need to accept that we don’t have sisters and so we don’t get to give gifts, and no one prays for us. That’s how it is, we just watch. And we get to wrestle!” The bigger boy rose and, punching Sugae lightly on the shoulder, went to mock-fight some of the other boys in preparation for the night's bouts. Sugae sat sullenly and eyed the small wooden figure he had carved for his mother, carefully wrapped in a small bit of mohair he had put aside just for this.
“You brought a gift?” A soft voice reached him, driving him from his reverie. He looked to the side and, bathed in the cascading red light of the setting sun, there stood a little goddess. Sugae stared at her for a few seconds, lost in her endless obsidian eyes.
“Uh- t- this?” He asked, forcefully moving his paralysed mouth. “Well. Yes. I mean. Y'know that I don’t- don’t have a…” he stopped and shut his mouth, then laughed in embarrassment.
“I know it’s probably bad of me…” she said approaching slowly, “but I heard what you were saying to Shidhig.”
“Oh. Y-yes.” He swallowed. “I guess it was just some silly idea.” He looked away, tears suddenly forming in his eyes for no reason he could fathom — perhaps it was more sheer embarrassment than anything else.
“I’ll pray for you.” She said, and he glanced at her in shock. There was a certain anger in her eyes. “I’ll pray for you, Sugaera, so stand up and give me the gift. C’mon.”
“B- but Mahula, you’re not-”
“It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have listened to Shidhig. I’ll be your sister, so you need to stand up and be a good brother.”
“Ah, yes.” He stood up, blinking away the tears and looking at her. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me.” She smiled. "I'm just here for the gift." She chuckled, and her joy was immediately contagious.
“Year on year you sound more and more like uncle Bori — you'll be growing a beard soon, no doubt.” He chortled, causing her to scowl in mock-anger. She was not quite able to stop herself from bursting into a fit of giggles.
“If that happens I'll know who to blame!”
He was quiet for a few moments, content to simply behold her. She cleared her throat after a few moments. “Uh. H- here, this is for you.” He stumbled over his words, extending the mohair-wrapped figure to her.
“Thank you.” She smiled, accepting it from him and gently unwrapping it. Within was an amateurish attempt at a carving of the sun god. She looked at him with a smile, her eyes twinkling in the dying light. “I love it. You should keep practising and give me one next year too.” She wrapped it back up and hid it into the folds of her clothes, then glanced out towards the lake. “I’m going to the lake now — I will pray for you, I promise.” And she walked off at a quick but oddly graceful gait. She glanced back once, to find him staring after her with a broad grin that made her laugh.
Introducing aspects of Rehnite life — wrestling and stick fighting traditions and competitions, dispute resolution, festivities, family politics. We end on the celebration in honour of the sun god. Sugae sits with his sercond-cousin Shidhig and they watch one of the rituals, where brothers give gifts to their sisters by the lake and sisters make prayers for their brothers. As both are sisterless, they don't get to partake. Sugae had made a gift anyway, and Shidhig mocks him for it before running off. Mahula, his cousin-once-removed, then shows up and comforts him, offering to be his sister. An agreement is forged in steel and rock, she takes the gift and goes off to pray for him (and her brothers, obvs) at the lake.
~19,000 characters. +5 Prestige to Sugae; 10 Prestige in total.
The best part of the night was over when the guardsmen of Miha-Rad hailed them. “Great diviner, you have brought the kiwbur!” One cried in surprise.
“No,” the kayhin responded simply, “he just came.” The painted man floated off above their heads, surely to find an isolated space where he could enter into what passed for sleep amongst the sleepless kayhins. The guard looked at Minir-Huda fearfully now that the kayhin was gone. The vampire grinned, flashing teeth.
“What’s this, Aku-Mihid, you’re not afraid of little old me now are you?” He laughed.
“Sh- shut-up, beast! And don’t say my name like you are one of us — you severed all ties when you slew your kin!”
All joviality faded from Minir-Huda’s face. “The gods take what the gods give.” He spoke coldly. “It just so happens that I was the tool they used. Now I am not here to be arguing with you. I will speak with my father.” The guard opened his mouth to protest, but Rima cut across him.
“B- brother of Miha-Rad, your kinsman is here to make his peace and pay for his wrongs. Don’t make it difficult on him.” Aku-Mihid released a frustrated breath and shrugged.
“I’ll let the mugahtir know. But don’t move from here — and definitely don’t go wandering in town.” He turned around and grunted something along the lines of keep an eye on him to the others before moving off. Once he had disappeared, Minir-Huda approached them.
“Well, Aku’s still as stiff as an old woman I see. All’s well in the world.” A few of the guardsmen snickered. “Though mind you, I’ve known some pretty supple old women in my time.” He added with a laugh, and Rima was somewhat surprised to see them quickly descend into hubbub of joking and laughing as though all was truly well with the world. They paid her no heed at all and she felt almost invisible in their presence.
When Aku-Mihid returned, he barked at Minir-Huda to follow him to the town’s kurkolai. Rima hurried after them curiously until they reached the centre of town near the oasis. There, beneath a great tree, benches and stools had been set up in a semicircle and on them all the patriarchs sat assembled. The tall mugahtir, Huda-Anar, came forward and looked at his son, before exhaling wordlessly and gesturing for him to come forth and sit. The vampire walked into the semicircle and greeted the seven patriarchs before descending to his knees on the ground and crossing his legs. “I have come before you, patriarchs.” He spoke. “I tire of life on the barrens and wish to be with my people again.”
“You have done great wrongs, Minir-Huda,” one of the patriarchs said, “not merely against the people of Miha-Rad, but especially against your near of kin: your brother, your uncles, your cousins. You have slain in your few weeks more than we have ever lost to battles or raids—only the fahupki have hurt us more. Why did you do as you did, boy?”
“Look here at this old man,” another of the patriarchs said, pointing to mugahtir Huda-Anar, “you have caused his hair to whiten and you have brought on him more age in these last few weeks than have the seven decades that went afore. Your mother, who was yet the most beautiful woman west of the mountains, now walks back bent, weighed down by your deeds. Have you no shame or conscience?”
“Listen to this too, Minir-Huda: the shedding of blood is a crime against your fellow people and a crime against the gods. We do not kill even our enemies! We go into battle and we fight and give strike for strike, but we know never to kill. That is not our way. We are not some fahupki monsters to kill and slay mindlessly. And here you are, our son born and raised among us and planted in this earth as the corn; here you are killing us and shedding our blood. Neither we nor our forefathers have known a crime like this in Miha-Rad, and we know of no punishment for it.”
“I erred, patriarchs, and I am repentant. Is it not punishment enough that all people across the sands of time will know that it was Minir-Huda who first shed blood in Miha-Rad? And is it not punishment enough that the gods have cursed me never to walk in the light again? My punishment follows me and I am repentant, so do not add pain to my pain. Be forgiving, patriarchs. Here I am, a sinner — cursed with this hungering for blood and the strength by which to fall deeper and deeper into the pit. But here I am repentant before you — I would give this strength to Miha-Rad, I would be the arm that strikes for it and not against it. I only ask your forgiveness and your aid. I do not seek wealth or estates or authority, my heart knows no love for those things; I only seek to be among my people again. My heart is heavy on the barrens, the silence is death and it is a punishment I cannot stand. Be forgiving, patriarchs.”
Rima walked by quietly and leaned against one of the abode walls, watching the whole thing with the slightest of furrowed brows. A patriarch looked over at her with a frown, then whispered something while gesturing in her direction. The mugahtir looked over too when attention was drawn to her, then stood and walked over. “My girl, what are you doing here. This is no gathering for young women, go and sleep now.”
“Wh- what? But I just want to watch. I convinced him to seek peace, I just want to see.” She protested.
“My girl, this is not seemly. It is not a woman’s place — especially not one so young. Had you the years of Huna-Miwe then perhaps you could observe — but look,” he gestured around, “not even she is here. It is best that you go, daughter.”
“I- I don’t understand. Why can’t a woman watch?”
“That is the way of things — women have their duties, and men have their duties, and neither transgress the line between.” The mugahtir said calmly, “now go, go. The sun will soon rise and we must be done with this before then.” With a frown on her face and a pout lining her lips, Rima took one final look at the circle and the vampire sat within it. Sighing loudly, she turned and walked away, and the mugahtir likewise returned to his place and their proceedings continued.
Rima walked around until she found Shala’s home. Sticking her head inside, she found that Shala was lying naked on her bedding, her head on an equally naked Jur-Boh’s arm. Ignoring the sleeping couple, Rima went and sat on the sheets, her brows refusing to unknot. Why was she not allowed to watch? She was not going to say anything! It seemed unfair to her — and after all the effort she and her idda-ta had gone to too. Her roiling thoughts kept her awake until the sun began to rise. When Shala awoke, she found her sat fuming still, her wig-headdress hanging lopsided atop her head.
“Well, someone looks like they had a good night.” The older woman said as she covered up her crotch and chest with garments.
“Well, you need to see better,” Rima responded brusquely, watching how she tied the undergarments with veiled attentiveness.
“What happened? Did things not go as planned with Minir-Huda?” She asked, slipping her long skirt on.
“No no, it all went well. Really well actually — he came back with us to make peace. But then when I wanted to watch the kurkolai the grumpy mugahtir made me go away! Why can’t a woman watch? I wasn’t going to say anything, I just wanted to see!” Shala came over with her poncho in hand and looked down at the irritated girl.
“Well, that’s men’s business. Why would you want to bother with that?” She bent down and busied herself with righting Rima’s headdress.
“Alright, I get it. It’s men’s business. I wasn’t getting involved or anything — I just wanted to see how it went, that’s all. Is that so bad?” Rima huffed and scratched at her ear.
“I mean, we’ll eventually know the outcome whether we watch or not, so why waste your time on that? Come now, let’s make you something to eat, you’re probably starving.” She rose and put her poncho on, throwing a blanket over Jur-Boh on her way out of the abode. She stood at the door and stretched. “Oh, it’s a beautiful day!” Rima held back a tired yawn before getting unsteadily to her feet and rushing after her.
“Are you going to show me how to cook?” She asked excitedly, her prior frustrations forgotten.
“If you stick around long enough you’ll be an expert in no time,” Shala laughed as she gathered some firewood from their stores and got to lighting a fire. “See now, cooking is women’s business — and I for one would rather spend my day cooking than sat listening to all the problems of the town. Can’t make a person happy listening to all those problems, that’s for sure.” Rima thought on that for a few seconds and nodded slightly.
“Hmm, I guess that’s true.” She acknowledged. “Hearing Huna’s problem was enough to make me sad, I can’t imagine what hearing everyone’s issues would do. Far better to be making happy food!” Shala chortled at this.
“I see old Huna’s already getting her quirky ideas into your head. She did the same to me when I first married Jur-Boh. But I guess that’s what any good maiyara would do.” Rima nodded with a smile, then paused, frowned, and looked at Shala.
“Old woman Huna is your maiyara?” She gasped in shock. “Wait... that means Jur-Boh…” she paused and frowned. “But his name’s Jur-Boh, not Jur-Huda...”
“Yeah, the mugahtir is not his father.” Shala noted offhandedly and reared her head back slightly before shouting, “Ulimi! Did you get any cheese yesterday?” The woman in question shouted back from inside a nearby home.
“Yes! The pot’s by the door!”
“Will you be a dear and get it for me, Rima?” Shala asked, and the girl nodded and dashed off to do as told.
“But Minir-Huda looks older than Jur-Boh,” She said as she hurried back with the pot.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” Shala breathed. Rima looked at her expectantly. “Well. The short of it is that the mugahtir and old Huna got into a quarrel. Maybe a few quarrels actually — and in one such quarrel, Huda declared that he was going to find himself a new wife who is less of a harridan. Old Huna did not like that one bit and told him that she’s finding herself a new husband too! Huda laughed it off obviously, but off she went that stubborn old woman. And after months of pushing and insisting, the patriarchs grew tired of her voice and let her marry anew! Heh. When they protested saying, ‘but Huna, you’re not a man to have more than one spouse!’ she scoffed at them and said, ‘no, I’m a hundred men!’ and, well, that settled it apparently. She married the young Boh-Gar and had Jur by him — but it was not a long marriage you know? He grew sick not more than a year later and died, poor soul. Then Huda spoke with her and they made their peace, and so she returned to his bed. And that’s the story of how my big man came to be — it’s like the gods wove it! Fate and all.” Rima was smiling in wonder at the old woman’s audacity and strength. She had beaten those stupid men!
“Fate?” She asked distractedly. “What’s that?”
“Well, you know. Fate. Everything happens because the gods will it — Huna was married and had children, but the gods willed that she would have a son — a legitimate one, mind you! — and that it would be by Boh-Gar and none other. And the craziest things happened so that it would be. There’s no resisting the will of the gods, not even the mugahtir could stop it.” Rima nodded slightly and looked down at how Shala had calmed the fire to embers and was now cooking the ears of corn on it.
“Fate,” she murmured as she stared into the embers while Shala turned the corn. “The gods... my idda-ta never really spoke of them, he mentioned names from time to time. You all seem to know them better. Better than me at least.”
“Of course — the gods made us and deign to know and help us; the least we can do is know and thank them.”
“Tell me about them. Tell me about the one called Ura ʿAliaa first.”
“Ah, Ura ʿAliaa, Mistress of Light, Lady of Day, Eternal Sun; the Life-giver and Great Punisher, She Who Strikes the Shackles of Sleep and pushes the Great Orb of Morn into the Sky. The eldest of the children of Buʿr Iynas the Great Old Mount. Due to the Great Old Mount’s fury with those bears who once wandered the lands west of the mountains he commanded his daughter, who pushes the orb of the sun up by morn and down by dusk, to make it strike the harsher upon this land. The caravanners say that there is no region in all the world more pounded upon by Ura ʿAliaa’s light and heat than this. But it is not because Ura ʿAliaa is cruel mind you — quite the opposite. She does her father’s bidding; it is absolute justice.”
“Why was the Great Old Mount furious? And what are these bears?”
“Ah, bears are great mighty creatures that live off in the furthest north, beyond where anyone but the caravanners has ever wondered — great beings with hair all over their bodies, claws like knives and teeth as long as your hand. Their eyes are like night and their growl is like thunder. And in the olden days before the Great Old Mount Buʿr Iynas came down from Mount Arharo and smote them and cursed them, they walked upright like you and me.” Shala finally removed the corn from the embers and put them in a small pot, handing Rima a bowl with cheese in it and gesturing for her to take one of the steaming ears and eat. She then placed more ears on the hot coals. “He is the great father of all the gods, the earth itself, its rocks and mountains and stones. When the mountain rumbles, that’s his voice. When the fire-mountain smokes and fire fills the heavens, that’s his fury. But for all his bad temper, it is from his earth that all life grows, and it is by his tremendous will that the salt water of the sea is kept from consuming the world. That is Buʿr Iynas.”
“And why’d he smite all those bears?”
“Ah! Yes. Well, that is a long story. You see, it’s all got to do with his youngest daughter Sihri Dra, the lovely one known as Red-clay and who is the Dancing Heart of the Flame and mother of the humenaki, and who sings on the mountain-top and pines even now for her children. You see, when Red-clay was little she climbed up the holy Mount Arharo and peeked over the rim — she wanted to see the sea, you see. But as she looked over the top her glorious and long red feathery hair was whipped all about her and disappeared even beyond the four horizons! And she was dragged from the mountaintop and came here to these redlands. The bears found her, and she lived with them and gave birth to us, the humenaki. But in time the Great Old Mount came to know that his lost daughter had been with the bears all this time, and so he cursed them and took his heartbroken daughter back to the mountain, and from there he took all the gods and went up into the skies, to the Moonmother Qibbar Husnu, mother of the gods and consort of the Great Old Mount.
“Now the Moonmother Qibbar Husnu, the Lady of the Sprawling Heavens, Bringer of Night, Whose Shawl is Darkness and Whose Voice is Peace, is the mistress of the great silvery moon. Her heart is the heart of a mother and so from time to time she sneaks poor Red-clay out of the great abode of the gods up in the sky and helps her down to the mountain-peak where she sits and sings for us her children. But her brother, Tiyraah Qirz, Lord of the Snowy Peaks, sees this and releases his winter birds upon her and makes it so cold that all that can be heard is the shriek of the cold. You will see those winter birds near the mountains when Red-clay descends and winter arrives. She sings through the winter until she can sing no more, and then ascends back to the sky and winter departs. He is a cruel brother, is Tiyraah Qirz — and not even the light of Ura ʿAliaa can warm Red-clay as she shivers, cries, and sings.
“But being so high on Mount Arharo she is close to the stars and so can often hear the voice of her brother Zharuuʿ who is the master of the stars — by their light is she guided back to the abode of the gods when she is too cold to go on. By the light of the stars are we guided in the depths of the badlands too.”
“How is that?” Rima asked, glancing up at the variegated heavens.
“Oh I’m not sure. Jur-Boh knows just how — he learned it from the caravanners. He says that the stars are like a reflection of the entire world, and if you look up you can know exactly where you are and how you can get to where you’re going. It is the god Zharuuʿ who has made it like this so that his sister may never become lost while she is ascending to the skies and descending from them. And like our mother Red-clay, we can be guided by those same stars here on the earth.
“But anyhow, the gods are too many for me to tell you all about them in great detail —” she took Rima’s hand and began counting them out on the girl’s finger, “ there’s Kiʿranuʿjaza, who is the sea east of the mountain and the sea west of it, Miġra Zaʿl — or Ai’jaal — who gives inspiration for song and is the mad god who made the kayhins and caused their blood to be ink, Jinasa who is the great roiling jungle and swamplands east of the mountain, Yaruh Dal who is the lord of lightning and bringer of maize and crops, Mir Thuu who is the visage of death and who sends forth the bodytakers to steal away the dead if they are not buried properly and quickly, Hara Fegas who the caravanners say is the monstrous insect god of the fahupki, Keset Mikrah who is the lily-faced, jealous, vile one of the purple moon and the great antagonist, and Kaʿal Nuhrat of whom the iho kawnnisaj speak.” She put Rima’s hand down and returned to her bowl of corn and cheese. “Ask old woman Huna about them, she knows all the stories.”
“Iho kawnnisaj?” Rima asked curiously.
“Ah,” Shala murmured, a frown on her face, “they are strange ones. They dabble with the kawnnisaj in ways that shouldn’t be dabbled with. They make bijrus that follow them around and they bend the world to their words in terrifying ways. They are mighty and even kayhins know to fear them.”
Rima frowned as she nibbled at her ear of corn, a far-off look in her eyes. “My idda-ta never told me about them...” she murmured.
“Ah well, he can’t tell you about everything now can he? Some things you’ll just have to get to know for yourself.”
“Well, yeah. But it would have been nice to be a bit prepared you know?”
“Pshht, life prepares everybody one way or another. Everything is good in its own time.”
“Well, he told me that for sure.” Rima laughed. “I guess it’s true.” They were soon joined by Jur-Boh who ate at his ear of corn ravenously and finished up with them.
“Be a dear and take the rest of these to Ulimi,” Shala said, gesturing to the ten ears left, “the kids will be up soon. Oh, and the pot too!” Rima nodded and picked up the pot, balancing the large bowl on top of it. “No, here like this.” Shala said, picking the bowl up and placing it on Rima’s head. It sat precariously there for a few seconds, and then she brought one of her hands up to keep it in place. “You’ll be able to do it without holding, just need to practice,” Shala reassured her as she got to clearing everything away. Rima hurried off to Ulimi’s abode and placed the pot of cheese back at the entrance.
“Uh, I brought some corn,” she said hesitantly, sticking her head inside.
“Oh! Thank you!” The woman was soon at the door and accepted the bowl from Rima. “And while you’re here, would you take this and bring us some water?” She gestured to an empty clay water jar. “Just follow the others to the well, it won’t be a minute.” Rima picked the great clay jar up and glanced at Ulimi, who came over and placed a round cloth on her head and helped her put the jug on it. “There, that will make it easier to carry.” Piping a word of thanks, Rima walked off at a careful slow gait. She soon spotted a few women with jars on their heads and children at their backs or by them, and so Rima joined them. Some of the children eyed her curiously and she smiled at the cute little things.
“...and we’ll need to give him blood!” One of the women, a babe tied to her chest, was saying.
“Ura ʿAliaa protect us! Give him blood?” One asked.
“Yes, and he will live with us cursed and all.” The one speaking glanced over at Rima. “You went with the kayhin didn’t you? Why did you bring Minir-Huda back? Do you want his curse to afflict us too?”
“Uh. Well, no. He wanted to make peace that’s all.” Rima responded defensively.
“He survives on flesh and blood; how can we possibly make peace with him? Are you sure he didn’t mean he wants to make pieces of us?” She asked mockingly.
“Come now Laha-Nir, you shouldn’t speak to the companion of the kayhin, and our guest, like that.” One of the other women intervened. “Ignore her dear, she’s not been getting enough attention from a man lately that’s what.” Laha-Nir scoffed at this and sped up, dragging a snotting child behind her, who reared his head backwards and stared at them. Rima watched her go, noting how she did not hold onto the jar but still somehow kept it balanced. “You did well to bring Minir-Huda back. Poor Huna may say otherwise but losing another of her boys would have broken her.” Rima smiled and nodded.
“And he isn’t a bad man at all.” Rima added.
“Oh gods, there are many bad men in the world, no doubt,” the woman spoke, “but Minir-Huda is far from being one of them. I for one am glad he’s back and we’re slowly putting this whole thing behind us.”
“So, uh, what was that about giving blood?”
“Oh yes. Well, the patriarchs have accepted Minir-Huda’s peace and have welcomed him back into the town — but he will not inherit and will never be mugahtir, that is his punishment. As his curse means he can only survive on humenaki blood the patriarchs have accepted that every family will take it in turns to provide him with blood. In return, he will be on patrol every night and will help guard against fahupki raids.” Rima smiled.
“That’s great! I knew it would all end well.” The woman glanced at her and shrugged.
“Well. It hasn’t ended yet.” She said. “I’m Fana by the way.” They soon reached the well and Fana showed Rima how to draw water from the well. It was far heavier when she next placed it on her head, and she stumbled sideways into Laha-Nir. The other woman turned on her angrily and pushed her away, causing her to stumble even more, trip, and fall over. Looking up just as the jar came crashing towards her, she gasped and closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable. There was only silence, however. She opened her eyes to find that the jar was hanging above her and the women were all staring wide-eyed.
She quickly grabbed it and rose to her feet. One glance at the others confirmed that she had done something bad, and she muttered a quick apology and hugged the jar to her chest before turning around and hurrying away. Children ran past her, others playing and laughing in the warmth of morning. Men and women were sat by the entrances to abodes and would pause in their conversation to glance at her as she dashed hurriedly by. When she entered Ulimi’s abode, her children were eating corn in the yard and looked at her curiously. With knotted brow, she placed the jar by Ulimi’s door. The older woman thanked her and invited her to come have some corn with them, but she excused herself and went straight to Shala’s abode. “Ah, there you a-” the other woman began, but Rima scurried right past her and disappeared into the abode, muttering something about needing to sleep. “Oh.” Shala frowned and looked after her. Getting up from where she was busy sifting through lentil seeds, she went over to the door and looked inside. The girl was lying down on her bedding, facing the wall. “Did something happen? Are you alright?”
“N-no. Sorry. Just need to clear my head.” She paused for a few seconds, and then turned over and propped her head up, her headdress once more askew. “There was this woman at the well and, for some reason, she just didn’t like me! I don’t understand why. I didn’t do anything to her. She pushed me and made me...” her words drifted off and she turned back to the wall with an agitated sigh. Shala walked over and sat by her, gently prying her headdress off and patting it down.
“Some people are like that, there’s no need to get upset or pay them any mind. Who was it that pushed you?”
“It was this woman called Laha-Nir. She was very good at carrying the water jar, but beyond that she was horrible!”
“Ah, Laha-Nir. She’s probably angry is all — Minir killed her husband you see? She shouldn’t be taking her anger out on you though, it’s no excuse.”
“Oh...” Rima whispered. “I see...”
“Well, you haven’t slept all night so you should get some rest. When you wake up I’m sure old woman Huna will be helping you make one of these,” she raised the headdress. Rima smiled at the idea, then nodded and thanked her. Placing the headdress on the ground beside the bedding, Shala got up and returned to the yard and sifting the lentils.
On Rima’s request, her idda-ta agreed to stay in Miha-Rad for longer than planned so she can learn more about ‘how to be a woman’ from old Huna. The young woman stuck to the older one, learning how to weave a headdress and care for her hair, the intricacies of childcare — for as a grandmother to many Huna did much of that —, as well as some of the mysteries of the delightful art of cooking. She taught her how bathe, how to dress properly and which perfumes to use — and where to find and how to make such perfumes if need be. “These kayhins!” She scoffed in disgust. “It’s a good things their kawnnisaj keeps them smelling nice, else they’d be chased off everywhere! You though, you don’t have that — and you’re a woman! You need to look after your cleanliness.” Though it was little over a month that she stayed, Huna left no aspects of a well-run home’s needs except that she showed Rima how it was done. “And when you’re done running about with this mad kayhin, you come right back here and I will find you a good man — a few of them have their eye on you already,” she smiled mischievously at the younger woman, “you’re of that age now, you need to think seriously about it!” Rima only reddened and looked away.
She did not see Minir-Huda again, although his wife often popped by to check on her mother-in-law, carrying one thing or another for the mugahtir’s household. When her idda-ta and her left Miha-Rad at last, the town came out and gave them a festive farewell, and they piled gifts on Rima — a camel loaded with fabrics, foodstuff, clothes, and jewellery. Many of them were from the men, rather than the women, for the crafty Huna had been going around suggesting toa number of them that there was perhaps a possibility that the young woman was looking to settle in Miha-Rad when her travels were done.
“And what are your thoughts on your fellow people?” He asked her once they were some ways out of the town.
“Oh, there was much good. And like you said, there was bade too. Some things were downright odd and I just didn’t understand them — I still don’t really — but I guess it is what it is. Will there be things like that wherever we go?”
“No doubt.” The kayhin responded simply. “It is what makes mortal beings beautiful, and what makes them ugly too. Perhaps you cannot have one without the other — perhaps all things are only truly known by their opposite. Day is not night; night is note day. Man is not woman; woman is not man. Sound is not silence; silence is not sound. Movement is not stillness; stillness is not movement. And if there is something without an opposite, could we know it? Who knows?” Rima smiled at her idda-ta. She had missed his voice and his presence.
“Yeah,” she murmured with a thoughtful smile, “who knows.”
Rima and the kayhin return with Minir-Huda, and he makes his peace with the patriarchs of the town - they will now supply him with blood and he will continue living in the town and protecting it, although he will never inherit or gain any position of authority in Miha-Rad. Rima is upset by not being able to watch the proceedings and stomps off to Shala's house. When Shala wakes up she comforts her and they have breakfast. Shala tells Rima some stories, including a few things about the gods. Rima then helps around and gets bullied by some lady. Shala again comforts her. Rima stays in the town for a month or so and learns under the tutelage of old Huna. She and her idda-ta then depart, seaward west!
+5 Points to Rima-Tinrur (~29,000 chars) - 20 points in total.
Lord Zee
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Cyclone
Vec
Torack
