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Beren shared the look with Jo, and then curled his fingers around his chin as he contemplated the implications. What they had seen in the wastes was powers beyond what he thought possible, as if reality could bend to this ancient pharaoh's will. It was unsettling the more he dwelled on it. However, before he could truly grapple with it, he knew there was something he had to ask.
"Can I say the name?" Beren queried, raising his hand.
"No!" The locals all cried together, some pleading, others frustrated. Beren held both hands up disarmingly, and then deflated. He had just wanted the flames to go out when he said it, too. Jocasta patted his bicep consolingly. Fazel gave Beren an appraising look, something mysterious in his eyes, but it was gone quicker than a flash.
"What you can do, is take a bath." The elder said, holding his nose for emphasis. "Your stories are believable for nothing else but the smell of dust and sweat."
Jocasta and Beren looked at him, and then simultaneously smelled themselves, Beren lifting his arm and Jocasta clipping her shirt with her thumb and index finger and sniffing the fabric. It was not as bad as the elder made it out to be, likely using that as a segue so he could speak to the other townsfolk alone. However, Beren had to admit it had been awhile since he or his clothing had been cleaned. Jocasta looked good in anything to him, but when she smelled herself, he could tell she felt the same.
They were ushered off to separate bath houses, their clothing being left out to be taken and cleaned. The villagers assigned to them smiled and were always polite, but said very little beyond pleasantries, though it was obvious they wanted to. Visitors from the north were seldom seen, in Jocasta's case, and they knew not where Beren was from, only that he was certainly not a local. Beren was pleased to find the water was not cold, and there was lye to use, mercifully. He thoroughly scrubbed himself, and did his best to get the blood and grime out of every nook and cranny, before ascending and drying himself off, trying to tame his unruly hair. Once finished, Beren donned the garb they had left for him, and followed a village woman who looked at him admiringly, fixing a few imperfections of his outfit before she guided him to their room.
It was a small, open air guest house. One needed to step up two, wide steps to reach the well furnished, wooden structure, with a bed covered by an embroidered canopy, and glass lamps with diminutive but bright flames. There was a small table that straddled the ground, and a few cushions around it to accommodate a small group. Beren looked at the "missing" wall, and saw it could be closed by the extension of a row of fold-able wooden slides one could draw with the yank of a pulley.
Beren's eyes explored the small system, admiring the work. Now that he was in the light, his outfit was illuminated and easily visible from the street. He wore a long, dark blue thobe, opened down the center to give a nice view of his neck and torso. His belt was swaddled in red, comfortably twined around his slim waist, and he wore a loose salvar as bottoms. Beren turned to thank the woman, but he found she was gone, and Jocasta had appeared in her place. She gave him a smile and a wink, and she stepped up to him, placing a hand on the small wooden railing framing the makeshift 'porch.'
"Not bad," she said to him, feeling the fabric of his long robe. For her part, Jocasta wore a similar belt to clinch her waist, but there the similarities ended. Her outfit ran from her ankles to cover her chest, all a white, form fitting garmet, and she sported a jelick jacket of blue and embroidered gold. Beren would have thought it was a tan salvar with a matching, lowcut white top if he did not know better. Her scarab earrings sparkled in the light of the eldritch moon.
"You're impressed now, what do you think of my theory we're in the Harine Satrapy." Beren said, glancing at the carpet. "Their textiles seem to fit the description, and it's not-"
"Yeah, I figured that when I heard their dialect." Jocasta said with a casual enthusiasm. "The anu'sarian influence is subtle, but it's obviously present by the decorum, and the Arad occupation was not too long ago. The peoples have been heavily integrated culturally for some time, even before that. I saw a few of their swords too. Even past the blades, the hilts are refurbished from the crescent imperial style. But brass has been more heavily used in their make, likely using local ores in the remaking. Furthermore-"
As she rattled on, Beren simply listened. As usual, during her lecture she made various hand gestures, at one point her eyes bugged out and she stuck her tongue out when describing a deva from regional myth, and somehow she even incorporated bird calls in the talk. He had been so proud of himself for figuring it out, but of course Jo nonchalantly rams a mallet onto his theory and gives a ten minute spiel on what he did not know.
Evergod help him, he was infatuated.
By the time she was done, she breathed out and wiped her forehead in exaggeration, and then she smiled. "But anyway, you are right! Congratulations, you're not just a pair of shoulders."
Beren opened his mouth, and then stopped, before he leaned outside and gazed up at the sky suspiciously. He glared accusatory, even growling.
"What is it, boy?" Jo asked him, looking up too. Beren walked back into the house and paced.
"I uh..." He started, crossing his arms, clearly in distress. "I..." He sighed. "I want to uh...I want to kiss you. But everytime we tried, something would happen. And now we have this dark sorcerer cursing the land, getting in everyone's business. It's like...." The warrior monk hung his head. "I feel like if we get interrupted again, I'm really cursed. I might just jump into the spring."
"Can I say the name?" Beren queried, raising his hand.
"No!" The locals all cried together, some pleading, others frustrated. Beren held both hands up disarmingly, and then deflated. He had just wanted the flames to go out when he said it, too. Jocasta patted his bicep consolingly. Fazel gave Beren an appraising look, something mysterious in his eyes, but it was gone quicker than a flash.
"What you can do, is take a bath." The elder said, holding his nose for emphasis. "Your stories are believable for nothing else but the smell of dust and sweat."
Jocasta and Beren looked at him, and then simultaneously smelled themselves, Beren lifting his arm and Jocasta clipping her shirt with her thumb and index finger and sniffing the fabric. It was not as bad as the elder made it out to be, likely using that as a segue so he could speak to the other townsfolk alone. However, Beren had to admit it had been awhile since he or his clothing had been cleaned. Jocasta looked good in anything to him, but when she smelled herself, he could tell she felt the same.
They were ushered off to separate bath houses, their clothing being left out to be taken and cleaned. The villagers assigned to them smiled and were always polite, but said very little beyond pleasantries, though it was obvious they wanted to. Visitors from the north were seldom seen, in Jocasta's case, and they knew not where Beren was from, only that he was certainly not a local. Beren was pleased to find the water was not cold, and there was lye to use, mercifully. He thoroughly scrubbed himself, and did his best to get the blood and grime out of every nook and cranny, before ascending and drying himself off, trying to tame his unruly hair. Once finished, Beren donned the garb they had left for him, and followed a village woman who looked at him admiringly, fixing a few imperfections of his outfit before she guided him to their room.
It was a small, open air guest house. One needed to step up two, wide steps to reach the well furnished, wooden structure, with a bed covered by an embroidered canopy, and glass lamps with diminutive but bright flames. There was a small table that straddled the ground, and a few cushions around it to accommodate a small group. Beren looked at the "missing" wall, and saw it could be closed by the extension of a row of fold-able wooden slides one could draw with the yank of a pulley.
Beren's eyes explored the small system, admiring the work. Now that he was in the light, his outfit was illuminated and easily visible from the street. He wore a long, dark blue thobe, opened down the center to give a nice view of his neck and torso. His belt was swaddled in red, comfortably twined around his slim waist, and he wore a loose salvar as bottoms. Beren turned to thank the woman, but he found she was gone, and Jocasta had appeared in her place. She gave him a smile and a wink, and she stepped up to him, placing a hand on the small wooden railing framing the makeshift 'porch.'
"Not bad," she said to him, feeling the fabric of his long robe. For her part, Jocasta wore a similar belt to clinch her waist, but there the similarities ended. Her outfit ran from her ankles to cover her chest, all a white, form fitting garmet, and she sported a jelick jacket of blue and embroidered gold. Beren would have thought it was a tan salvar with a matching, lowcut white top if he did not know better. Her scarab earrings sparkled in the light of the eldritch moon.
"You're impressed now, what do you think of my theory we're in the Harine Satrapy." Beren said, glancing at the carpet. "Their textiles seem to fit the description, and it's not-"
"Yeah, I figured that when I heard their dialect." Jocasta said with a casual enthusiasm. "The anu'sarian influence is subtle, but it's obviously present by the decorum, and the Arad occupation was not too long ago. The peoples have been heavily integrated culturally for some time, even before that. I saw a few of their swords too. Even past the blades, the hilts are refurbished from the crescent imperial style. But brass has been more heavily used in their make, likely using local ores in the remaking. Furthermore-"
As she rattled on, Beren simply listened. As usual, during her lecture she made various hand gestures, at one point her eyes bugged out and she stuck her tongue out when describing a deva from regional myth, and somehow she even incorporated bird calls in the talk. He had been so proud of himself for figuring it out, but of course Jo nonchalantly rams a mallet onto his theory and gives a ten minute spiel on what he did not know.
Evergod help him, he was infatuated.
By the time she was done, she breathed out and wiped her forehead in exaggeration, and then she smiled. "But anyway, you are right! Congratulations, you're not just a pair of shoulders."
Beren opened his mouth, and then stopped, before he leaned outside and gazed up at the sky suspiciously. He glared accusatory, even growling.
"What is it, boy?" Jo asked him, looking up too. Beren walked back into the house and paced.
"I uh..." He started, crossing his arms, clearly in distress. "I..." He sighed. "I want to uh...I want to kiss you. But everytime we tried, something would happen. And now we have this dark sorcerer cursing the land, getting in everyone's business. It's like...." The warrior monk hung his head. "I feel like if we get interrupted again, I'm really cursed. I might just jump into the spring."
