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leticiaBrian and I have been running in spare moments an on-again-off-again Exalted game sent near Chiaroscuro.
He plays Sarye of the F'meeq, Zenith Solar, Delzahn noble, and desert rider, from a tribe with the deepest of heresies - they still follow the Sun.
I play Imtithal of the Radeen, a Night Caste Solar, daughter of a Chiaroscuro Delzahni household seemingly doomed to fade into memory.
I was rereading the logs as we started the 'on again' part, and he convinced me it would be a good idea to post them for anyone who was curious to read.
In many other parts of the city, in any other time, the F'meeq Clan's holdings would be considered valuable property, probably subletted and rented by the Clan. However, the Clan is poor but honorable-- and perhaps more importantly, considered to be as savage about their honor as their Simhata herd is about their loyalty. It is not considered a wise idea to challenge a F'meeq; their sabres are said to be as swift and sharp as a sirocco, and their tempers as hot. Still, almost all of their money goes to keeping the Simhata in meat and territory for hunting. The great beasts are unsellable except to Exalts, and the Clan mostly avoids Dragon-blooded, because of their heresy.
So the clan holding-- an elongated, one and a half story building that takes up a small block of the Old City-- remains in poor repair on the outside. It has not fallen or shattered yet; the multicolored glass is around thin cores of adamant that are impossible to reach. They can't be salvaged without destructive magic that would likely simply shatter the adamant. But the glass itself seems different than the glass in the rest of the city; where it has fractured, it has not shattered, but cracked into steps, like blocks for children. The stables-- for so they seem to be, from the First Age-- are thus pebbled and weathered in a way that most surviving Old City structures are not, making them extremely ugly. There is something worrying about the way that the light fragments through the odd glass.
Nevertheless, the holdings are the pride of the F'meeq Clan's historians; they certainly date back to the First Age, unchanged and unbowed, if extremely battered. None of the essence-powered gates or feeding mechanisms work, of course, and the few lights require much sacrifice from the clan's shamans to function. However, as it was designed to hold valuable animals-- quite possibly even the Simhata that live there now!-- the various locks and locking mechanisms were designed to release in the event of loss of power, preventing animals from being trapped. The F'meeq have found ways to keep them closed against the prowling Simhata-- who are usually given three sectioned out stalls apiece-- and live themselves in a quarter of the building that has not held animals since the chaos that brought the city low. It is to here that any visitors would come; there are no guards, simply the few F'meeq-- three families, nothing more-- who are never without their arms.
Imtithal is of average height; that is about all that is average about her. You can not blame the robes; they are the traditional tan robes of a young woman who is /not/ seeking a husband, flowing and loose. But every whisp of wind and every motion of her body somehow pulls the cloth against her form, to borrow the shape of one perfect curve or another. She has curving, elegant hips, generous, uplifted breasts, a narrow waist, a shapely back with perfect posture. Her face, unveiled and undecorated by any cosmetic, displays honor enough - in the form of beauty - for any household. Her lips are generous and red; her eyes large, with deep almond hue. Her skin is firm and looks as soft as the whisper of a stream, the tone a little darker than the average delzahni, rich and vibrant. Even her ears with whisps of her long back hair curled around them, are perfect, and dangling pendants of amber adorn them. Her hair is long, and braided into it are more ornaments, marking her as a woman of rank and reasonable wealth, though none of her jewelry is priceless.
She is accompanied by an older man, clearly not Delzahn, with the bearing of a soldier and clean, well-cared for servicable gear, as she approaches the F'meeq dwelling area with a business-like expression.
There are no guards; the F'meeq cannot afford guards. To a certain extent, they also need no guards; anyone who would try to steal a Simhata will typically get what they deserve; if they do not, then they are almost certainly an Exalt, or other supernatural being, and stiff honor or not, the F'meeq will not send more than one or two of their few clansmen out to attack such a being. It is, perhaps, telling that they would do so, even against a Dragon-blooded, unless doing so would likely kill the Clan, which is more important than any one F'meeq's honor.
Despite this, a young man is slouched on a decidedly Second Age wooden stool near the door. As a noble, clearly, he is not a guard; he is merely by the door, sharpening a weapon. It is the requirement of a noble to be ready, after all, and so he is, like his two companions dicing in the open air by the gated entrance to the animal paddocks over yonder. As the noble lady approaches, he smiles, and rises and salutes extravagantly with his blade; if the guard is familiar with the Delazhan at all, he'll see no threat, just casual showmanship. For all of his florid motions, he is clearly skilled with his weapon, and ready. He bows, but does not sheathe the sword, leaving it in one hand against his leg as the other gestures towards the door. "Has your lady business with our most honorable and valorous khan, good foreigner?" he asks in polite, but heavily accented Riverspeak, far too honorable to dare to address the lady directly.
The guard watches the weapon closely, but has been in Delzahn territory too long to take it amiss. He bows, deeply; he's survived the prickly honor of Delzahn nobles long enough to know it's better as a foreigner to err on the side of politeness. "My lady, Imtithal of the Radeen, desires to discuss business with your Khan," he answers. For now, Imtithal lets the men speak, simply watching with the same pleasantly neutral 'business' face. Not that it looks anything other than stunning on her, of course.
The veiled swordsman smiles broadly. "A peerless jewel crowns even the brow of a camel," he declares, and if it's a clumsy metaphor, it's probably only because he's a little stunned by just _how_ beautiful she is. Hastily he adds, "And the delight of a lady's honor can bless even the most banal of circumstances. May it be satisfied swiftly, and perhaps I can show the lady the fierce beauty of a Simhata as well!" It's a flirt, true enough, and a hopeful one; it is literally only his blade and his Simhata that he has to offer to any potential bride, and he knows it. Still, the boy is proud enough as he whistles a traditional pipe-song of the deep desert through his veil; 'coincidentally', one of the dicers throws down a few brass tokens and saunters over to the door, 'disgusted' with his losses and taking up the routine of sharpening his weapon while the proud one leads the pair inside.
Inside, there are threadbare tapestries. Not a one of them is a piece of art, per se; they are the required histories and embellishments in graphic form, and nothing more. There are few luxuries at all within; the seating pillows of most of the noble clansmen are faded and ancient-- the sort that a merchant in the bazaar would sit upon after having bought at an estate sale, though in this case, they probably simply never made it to a sale, and have not been replaced in years. Nine men, young and old, are in various places around the open area. There are no divisions, save the brightest colors of the clan over one divider off to a further part of the stables-holding; female voices, cheerful and strong, can be heard over there.
There are only two exceptions to the tarnishments of time and proudest, noblest poverty. The first is the weapons racks-- oiled and maintained, showing no maker's mark. Indeed, one of the young nobles is, with no shame, actually preparing a new sharpening stone in the old facilities for the farriers of the stable. The F'meeq maintain their own as much from pride as poverty, and if their weapons have no decoration other than colored Chiaroscuro glass, they are also deadly sharp and well maintained.
The second is where the young guard, amiably and ostensibly chatting with the guard-- though actually flirting with Imithal at one degree-- is leading them. Faded silk, but no more than ten or fifteen years old, draps around a center of the room with actual brightly decorated pillows and a pristine table made of welded, colored glass, ground smooth, and a glorious tapestry of various simhata and F'meeq in battle behind it. Poor, yes, but the F'meeq prize hospitality as they do every other part of Delazhan honor. A short, but wiry man is sitting there, alert, if elderly eyes behind his veil, and coffee and fruits set out already. "The illustrious Jazan Khan, may his sword cleave the unrighteous and," the young man sets off into a long, memorized set of deeds. As distracted as he was by Imithal's beauty, he seems to have taken the time to come up with a number of lauding platitudes for it; if his flirtation was poor with disuse, his poetry in introduction is flawless. He bows, and steps away to one side of the guard, offering him a spot at the table away from the khan, who gestures flamboyantly to a pillow near to him. "Your fabled radiance, O Imitithal of the Radeen daughter of sainted Ha'lad, blesses our home as the Lord of Light blesses a battle dawn or the evening which sets upon a wedding. Our sorrows for your sorrows, and with your father and brother alike slain, your devoted guard may be sure of this-- the swords of all my children will defend you-- from all unwanted propositions, at least." Like his clansman, the Khan is as big of a flirt as any Delazhan, but he has less desperation in it. If his clan is poor, it is true, and the khan has nothing but pride in his children. At his word, every sword in the place is drawn simultaneously; salutes and oaths are freely-- and fervently-- given.
One of the young men sitting nearest to the khan has an especially razor-sharp blade. His white robes are folded about him simply, but they are long and flowing, and golden threads knit back and forth forming abstract, five-pointed patterns and bold circles across his veil, clear of any other references save his clanmarks. His body is fully concealed within the garb of a perpetual traveler, but his body moves like one of the clan's treasured simhata-- all power and grace combined. His concealed form is slightly bulkier than his grace would seem to indicate; it is likely that he is armored as well as armed. In addition to the concealing veil and headscarf, he has a pointed, curving helmet/skullcap, and his eyes are less focused on Imithal's curves, instead meeting her eyes directly. There is neither challenge nor disapproval, not lust or dismissal in his eyes. Just focus and curiosity.
Imtithal bows her head lightly to the Khan. "I am honored by your greeting, most honorable Khan," she says, with a slightly smile gracing her lips. "The honor and hospitality of the F'meeq remains, as my blessed father always said, an example to all Delzahn." She settles onto the indicated pillow, leaving the guard to stand behind her; not that she shows any indication of feeling herself in danger here, as she leans forward, resting her forearms lightly on the table. One of her braids tumbles forward over her should, the black hair coiling on the back of her hand as she looks around, curiously observing the veils of the men and the proud deeds they indicate, making properly -and truly - impressed expressions: the simhata riders are impressive men.
"I pray my unannounced visit does not mark me out poorly in your eyes, Khan of the F'meeq, but I would willingly trust no other clan with my business, and I did not want to risk missing your residence in the city." Her smile is bright and confident as she looks around the room, acknowledging again the honor written on the veils surrounding her.
The Khan laughs out loud, a hearty sound full of joy and amusement and earnestness. "If the Garuda comes to your tent, be prepared for a lovely fire, no matter the season," he declares joyfully. "And no Empress Phoenix could light my tent a fifth of your smile, daughter of the Radeen. You are welcome to our tents and our home alike, and as for your business--" he waves a hand. "I trust it can wait, for we wish to feast you as such honor deserves." With that, other women enter the room. None are as beautiful as Imtithal, of course, but there isn't jealousy in their eyes, either-- there's no room for it. The honor of a woman is in her face, and there is no room in any F'meeq for anything save honor. No matter what others would call beauty, there is joy, for none of the men of the F'meeq treat their womenfolk with anything less than the truth of the respect that is so often honored more in the breach than in the observance. They do not have practiced etiquette; instead, it is hospitality, honest joy at having guests. To the F'meeq, it is not a duty, but an opportunity to spread happiness.
As the food is set and the coffee and tea are poured, the leonid young man smoothly moves to a seat near to the guard, drinking lightly from his coffee. Unlike the rest, he listens; as loud as the clan is, this youth is silent. He is not hostile; indeed, the listening that he gives to the Khan and the woman is respectful to his Khan and to Imtithal alike, eyes flitting from face to face without clashing harshly. Each time that a new course is served, though, Imtithal can hear him whispering a blessing and a thanksgiving, named for the Lord of the Light and the Heat of the Sand-Mirror. It's decent poetry, as much loving and dedicated as it is ritual and worshipful. He whispers it, and begs forgiveness for his khan and his visitor, for some reason, in between each of the three blessings and thanksgivings he gives for each new course.
Imtithal's curiosity is a little piqued by the young man's prayers - her studies have not revealed anything much about the F'meeq's curious religion, but the prayers are clearly not meant for her ears, and she doesn't query. Instead, she enjoys the meal, makes light conversation, shares noble gossip the F'meeq may not yet have had a chance to hear, compliments the food and her hosts freely, and laughs with their speech and their jokes.
After two or so hours, the food is passed around and hospitality shared. A few of the F'meeq-- men and women-- sing after the last course, old and cheerful songs of the sand. There isn't a lot about city life; it's much like the F'meeq simply think of Chiaroscuro as punctuation, rather a sentence in and of itself. Eventually, they cease, and another round of coffee is poured. "So," the khan says gently. "There are two reasons why one of our cousins would seek our tents. Both of these reasons would apply, of course; an escort would be honored to add glimmering to the enchantment of your beauty-- but..." the old man's eyes are as sharp as shattered glass, "I suspect that it is for our other pride beside our maned children, and if it is blades that you are seeking, well." He shrugs, and takes a sip of the coffee. "We are the best that do not serve the Tri-Khan's household." The old man is not boasting; if he wanted to boast, he would mention that a full third of his clan is not present because they _do_ serve the Tri-Khan's household. It's not much-- but they are trusted with the Tri-Khan's family's safety, and serve together, rather than integrated. There is no need to guard against their treachery, after all, for the F'meeq have none at all.
The honor of the F'meeq is truly legendary - and true - and Imtithal is here because of it. She bows her head. "The F'meeq are indeed the best, both in skill and in honor," she says. "I am a woman alone in the world, and must be able to trust the honor of those I do business with, for I can not avenge a wrong as a man could. This is why I have come to your tents, illustrious Khan. Because if I deal with the F'meeq, I will have no fear of betrayal; alas that the same can not be said of all Delzahn."
She lifts her coffee lightly to her lips, though the fluid barely touches her dry lips. "As you have guessed, I would hire the blade of one of your proud warriors," she says. "My situation is well known by all; the death of my father and brother. But there is more, and the honor of the F'meeq is such that I can be honest with you without fear you will seek to make my plight your advantage. My father is dead, and my brother is dead. I am my father's heir, and after me only my brother's widowed wife, but neither she nor I were ever trained to merchant trade. I fear I will lose my father's wealth in poor decisions, if I can not find more funds. But my father left me more than salt and silver."
The young woman's words are artless; she speaks true when she says she lacks a merchant's skill.
The khan grows more serious, nodding slowly and drinking from his coffee. He does not interrupt his guest or make any of his early outlandish declarations. Truth is being spoken, and it needs no further embellishments. Around them, other conversations are taking place, but none about the business. The evening meal, far more simple, is being taken, though, oddly, the gold-threaded veil does not part, for the young man waits on both of them, not eating. The only disturbing sound as the Khan waits on his guest's comfort and own time is the savage sound of the feasting Simhata, just beyond a few glass and adamant walls.
Imtithal sets the small coffee cup down. "When my father was a young man, he discovered a ruin near his farm-holdings east of the city," she says. "According to his memoir, he always intended to take some other young men and explore it, but the time never arose. I was born shortly after, and my brother after. He had other concerns. But -I- have a map, his notes on the location, and reason to believe, that as an undisturbed ruin of the First Age, there must be objects of value left within, but also, quite likely, danger."
She pauses and looks at the Khan. "I would like to hire one of your respected kin to accompany me, since I am not much fit to face such dangers alone." She tries to keep her expression even, but is clearly not very confident in how the suggestion will be taken.
The khan runs his fingers under his veil over a white, but well-kempt beard that falls below the veil past his chin. "The relics of the past hold both danger and glory-- two sides of the same coin, as it were that might feed your family." His eyes twinkle from above his veil, "You have touched my heart," he declares. "Bold beyond what is set for your kind," he reproves gently-- but not in refusal, "To risk for your family, you do what you must-- and this is an honorable thing. We are the F'meeq, and were I but younger-- and your beauty inspires the youth still within!-- and lacking in the responsibilities of a khan," he says with a sigh, for it is clear that the latter is more a barrier than the former, "I would go myself beside you. But I must feed my family, myself, for my maned children and kin of my blood," the khan says, piercing eyes fixed on Imtithal's. "The blades I can spare you-- but only if they bring back more than they -eat-," he says, though it's not a demand, so much as it is teasing his youths, who laugh and raise their coffee cups high. He waits quietly.
The young woman bows her head slightly at the reproof, but she decided long before this meeting to do what she had to do regardless of its appropriateness. "What I ask is dangerous indeed; stirring trouble rather than waiting for it, and I hope to repay you and yours well. I have not /yet/ run my father's wealth into the ground," she says, with a wry smile, "perhaps only since I have not yet been called on to make many decisions about its distribution. If you will spare me the blade of one of your kin, I will repay your generosity with silver and salt enough to provide for his family as he would, in his absence, and of course, a fair share in whatever treasure we can uncover in these ruins."
The khan is silent for a moment; conversation swirls around him and Imtithal like the wind through the streets of Chiaroscuro, impinging not upon the elder's thoughts. After a while, he pauses for a moment and asks, staring off into the distance, "What do you know of dreams, Imtithal?" Perhaps coincidentally, he is staring in the direction of, if not precisely at, the pious youth.
Imtithal spreads her hands somewhat helplessly. "Good or ill, sometimes foreboding, sometimes promising, sometimes false, sometimes true." She smiles slightly. "Mine are mostly just odd," she admits. "I believe I dreamed something about a cheese chasing a horse last night." Her gaze briefly follows the Khan's, though she pulls it back towards the table to avoid rudely staring, and reaches for the pockets of her robe. "I did bring my beloved father's notes. He copied some etchings in runes I do not know, some markings. I'm afraid it's all the proof I have that there may be something of value there."
The khan frowns and waves his hand again, shaking his head at Imtithal's words concerning her dream, and the maps. He seems to be prodding at something, around the edges. "Your word is Delazhani, jewel of Ha'lad," the old man says quietly. "Written words are drawings in the sand, blown away when the Fire-Dragon breathes. I am quite sure they will lead to what you believe they will." And so he does; the concept of doubting a noble lady who has not been proven dishonorable is repugnant to him. "But dreams are the words of the gods themselves." He shrugs a bit. "Or our thoughts returning. But I am sure here, among the fallen dreams of another Age, you know of what I speak. So I ask, perhaps more than any but a father has a right to-- what do you _know_ and what do you trust in dreams?" At this, the fiercely graceful F'meeqi who said the prayers leans forward, listening intently. This is important to the khan-- and the tribe almost seems to wait on one breath.
The young woman lifts her eyes somewhat, looking off into the distance over the table. It's very clear to her, as poor as she may be at negotiations, that this answer is important to the Khan - to his kin, as well. She isn't sure of her answer, but she's a Delzahn, and, city-raised or not, they have not shaken the 'superstition' of their nomadic days - at least partially because it's NOT superstition, not in this world. "If a man of honor has a gift of dreams from the gods, what mortal of wisdom would quarrel with such visions?" she asks in response. "I am no wise one, but not foolish enough to scorn the wisdom of the gods."
The khan purses his lips, and then stands, waving his hand to forestall Imtithal from doing the same. "Then I shall converse with your appointed guardian the delivery of your generous donation to the family of my nephew, Sarye F'meeq, who has dreamed of a cleft between two rocks, at the foundation of cliffs that once held a staircase, whose own foundation has been crushed. And in this dream, he stood beside a gem, and this gem held a light unmatched in the courts of the Tri-Khan himself." With that statement, the old man wanders over to the table where the pious young man sat, and slaps the guard on the shoulder companionably, gesturing for the guard to join him at that table.
Sarye stands at that point, his movements as swift as the wind and agile as a hunting lion's, the robes surrounding his body and armor flowing around him as he almost dances from his former seat to one across from Imtithal, bowing deeply to her. Unlike his cousins, when he speaks, there is no florid embellishment. "There are dreams," he says quietly, "And there are blades. If this dream balances with your knowledge..." He shrugs liquidly, and his blade is unsheathed. This may cause the guard to reflexively jump, but the iron hand of the khan is upon the mercenary's wrist, and Sarye lays the blade out across the table in front of the beautiful Imitithal, in a diagonal with its handle towards Sarye and the blade and point towards Imtithal-- but he reaches across the table and lays his thumb out, just above the tip before continuing, "Then you will have my word and my blood on this: no harm will come to you that I do not prevent or avenge eightfold."
The guard does jump, just a little, though he knows, if not as much in his gut as Imtithal knows, that these people mean his employer no harm. After a moment, he follows the Khan, sighing a little at these strange, strange people he finds himself stuck with.
Imtithal bows her own head deeply towards the young devout man. She may not understand the peculiar inner workings of this clan, but she recognizes that he is a different sort of man than most his 'cousins' here, and unconsciously responds to his dignity as if it were a rank of its own. "I thank you for your aid, honored Sarye F'meeq," she says, quietly.
Sarye bows his head and then raises his eyes again to Imtithal's. His voice is quiet but does not waver as he presses his thumb against the point of his sword, marking the tip with his blood. The wound is precise, open but not gushing as he holds it up for Sarye, offering to stand as bloodkin-- and, most unusually for a Delazhan, offering her a seal to a bargain usually reserved for men alone.
Imithal's eye's widen slightly at the gesture, but she knows the tradition, even if women usually have no part of it, and, rather than insult him by hesitating, reaches promptly for the blade - for she does not carry one of her own, of course - and presses her own thumb against it. She does not have Sarye's experience with the blade, but though she bites her lovely lip in concentration, she has enough precise control of her hands to match his mark with the gash on her own thumb, and raises it to press to his, hesitant only now in case she mis-read and he pulls back.
Sarye reaches forward with his hand to clasp Imtithal's and hold it securely and as respectfully as he would any of his kin's, holding his thumb to hers long enough for the blood to mingle, and then pulling it back. From his belt pouch he pulls out a hankerchief-- for most nobles, it would be silk, but this poor F'meeqi, it is linen. He carefully turns the sword so the blade is up, and drops the hankerchief over it-- slicing the rough linen in half. He cleans one side of the blade with one of the halves, and then crumbles up that half, casting it into the fire, uttering, "Lord of Light, Flame of Morning, Heat of the Sand-Mirror, see this through. Let my strength be only limited by my honor, and may the Light test our honor true," before offering the other side of the blade-- not as much blood, but it's still there-- and the other half to Imtithal.
Imtithal watches Sarye's procedure closely, taking the linen from his hand and carefully wiping the back of the blade to clean it. "Ancestors see and judge and not be shamed by our honor; Dragons give us strength to uphold it," she says, and then imitates him, tossing the linen into the fire.
Sarye's veil twitches slightly, and his eyes twinkle slightly, reflecting the familial humor, but perhaps also some deeper mysticism to it. "So let our mission be blessed, and as we rise with the dawn, shall we meet in the Street of Five Lions at the edge of the city?" he asks, flashing his sword through the air and sheathing it once more. With that, it seems, Imtithal has been accepted-- the entire clan, male and female, calls and talks to her cheerfully as long as she remains, and she has the hospitality of both guest and kin until the contract is fulfilled, and unless she proves ill-willed on that mission, she will ever be remembered as a friend.
Imtithal bows her head slightly. "I will meet you there in the morning," she says, with a sudden smile of relief. Sarye inspires a great deal of confidence in her, and no F'meeq would break an oath; this may yet work. The lovely woman is completely transparent, of course, her emotions relayed on her face almost as quickly as she is aware of them herself, and the smile is radiant. After a quick glance determines that her escort is still in discussions with the Khan, she inquires, "Would you be willing to tell me of this dream?"
Sarye leans back on his pillow for a moment and his eyes close briefly. Eventually, he languidly shifts, moving forward again to brush his thumb over the smooth glass of the table, tracing a broad arc over it as he speaks. "There was a sword, and I was the song that wielded it," he says as the arc stretches towards Imtithal. "The sword was sung to by a jewel that sparkled in the light and in the darkness with even measure, more brilliant than the highest glass in the Plaza. The sword and the jewel blew into the desert, and the only mark of the wind on sand was the rending of claws." It's clear that Sarye speaks often, but not, perhaps, to people outside his family much; the metaphors are private and personal, and unexplained. "There, we came to the base of a cliff where the rock had been struck, cloven in twain. Once, it was surmounted, and indeed, stairs were carved of the living rock, but crushed beneath a greater heel than the songs could see, so that only the ascent, but never the descent, could be completed." Sarye grows quiet again, pulling the arc back towards himself. "The songs sung the sword and the jewel found a way into the heart of the cliff, but it tried to choke them; in the choking, though, the jewel became a diamond arrow, and the sword a ray of sunlight. When they ascended, they were changed again, and neither could sing of what had become-- until it came to be."
Imtithal listens closely, her brow somewhat furled - which still manages to make her look beautiful. As he finishes, she nods slightly, her face slowly clearing as she contemplates the strange imagery. None of it is familiar to her, but she's capable of basic metaphor and analogy. She smiles slightly, as he finishes, and says, "I am glad I am not one tasked with understanding such things."
As her guard finishes his conversation and walks back towards her, she bows again over the table, rubbing a fingertip over her thumb where it was cut and is now scabbing over. "Until morning, honored Sarye," she says, accepting her guard's hand to rise gracefully to her feet, the robe brushing over her body again as she unfolds, despite its modesty.
Sarye completes the open circle he was drawing on the table just a bit before his own finger heals over. His veil shifts slightly and swiftly with unseen facial movements and he rises with a bow of his head as the guard escorts Imtithal out and he says, "Until the dawn, honorable Imtithal."
He plays Sarye of the F'meeq, Zenith Solar, Delzahn noble, and desert rider, from a tribe with the deepest of heresies - they still follow the Sun.
I play Imtithal of the Radeen, a Night Caste Solar, daughter of a Chiaroscuro Delzahni household seemingly doomed to fade into memory.
I was rereading the logs as we started the 'on again' part, and he convinced me it would be a good idea to post them for anyone who was curious to read.
In many other parts of the city, in any other time, the F'meeq Clan's holdings would be considered valuable property, probably subletted and rented by the Clan. However, the Clan is poor but honorable-- and perhaps more importantly, considered to be as savage about their honor as their Simhata herd is about their loyalty. It is not considered a wise idea to challenge a F'meeq; their sabres are said to be as swift and sharp as a sirocco, and their tempers as hot. Still, almost all of their money goes to keeping the Simhata in meat and territory for hunting. The great beasts are unsellable except to Exalts, and the Clan mostly avoids Dragon-blooded, because of their heresy.
So the clan holding-- an elongated, one and a half story building that takes up a small block of the Old City-- remains in poor repair on the outside. It has not fallen or shattered yet; the multicolored glass is around thin cores of adamant that are impossible to reach. They can't be salvaged without destructive magic that would likely simply shatter the adamant. But the glass itself seems different than the glass in the rest of the city; where it has fractured, it has not shattered, but cracked into steps, like blocks for children. The stables-- for so they seem to be, from the First Age-- are thus pebbled and weathered in a way that most surviving Old City structures are not, making them extremely ugly. There is something worrying about the way that the light fragments through the odd glass.
Nevertheless, the holdings are the pride of the F'meeq Clan's historians; they certainly date back to the First Age, unchanged and unbowed, if extremely battered. None of the essence-powered gates or feeding mechanisms work, of course, and the few lights require much sacrifice from the clan's shamans to function. However, as it was designed to hold valuable animals-- quite possibly even the Simhata that live there now!-- the various locks and locking mechanisms were designed to release in the event of loss of power, preventing animals from being trapped. The F'meeq have found ways to keep them closed against the prowling Simhata-- who are usually given three sectioned out stalls apiece-- and live themselves in a quarter of the building that has not held animals since the chaos that brought the city low. It is to here that any visitors would come; there are no guards, simply the few F'meeq-- three families, nothing more-- who are never without their arms.
Imtithal is of average height; that is about all that is average about her. You can not blame the robes; they are the traditional tan robes of a young woman who is /not/ seeking a husband, flowing and loose. But every whisp of wind and every motion of her body somehow pulls the cloth against her form, to borrow the shape of one perfect curve or another. She has curving, elegant hips, generous, uplifted breasts, a narrow waist, a shapely back with perfect posture. Her face, unveiled and undecorated by any cosmetic, displays honor enough - in the form of beauty - for any household. Her lips are generous and red; her eyes large, with deep almond hue. Her skin is firm and looks as soft as the whisper of a stream, the tone a little darker than the average delzahni, rich and vibrant. Even her ears with whisps of her long back hair curled around them, are perfect, and dangling pendants of amber adorn them. Her hair is long, and braided into it are more ornaments, marking her as a woman of rank and reasonable wealth, though none of her jewelry is priceless.
She is accompanied by an older man, clearly not Delzahn, with the bearing of a soldier and clean, well-cared for servicable gear, as she approaches the F'meeq dwelling area with a business-like expression.
There are no guards; the F'meeq cannot afford guards. To a certain extent, they also need no guards; anyone who would try to steal a Simhata will typically get what they deserve; if they do not, then they are almost certainly an Exalt, or other supernatural being, and stiff honor or not, the F'meeq will not send more than one or two of their few clansmen out to attack such a being. It is, perhaps, telling that they would do so, even against a Dragon-blooded, unless doing so would likely kill the Clan, which is more important than any one F'meeq's honor.
Despite this, a young man is slouched on a decidedly Second Age wooden stool near the door. As a noble, clearly, he is not a guard; he is merely by the door, sharpening a weapon. It is the requirement of a noble to be ready, after all, and so he is, like his two companions dicing in the open air by the gated entrance to the animal paddocks over yonder. As the noble lady approaches, he smiles, and rises and salutes extravagantly with his blade; if the guard is familiar with the Delazhan at all, he'll see no threat, just casual showmanship. For all of his florid motions, he is clearly skilled with his weapon, and ready. He bows, but does not sheathe the sword, leaving it in one hand against his leg as the other gestures towards the door. "Has your lady business with our most honorable and valorous khan, good foreigner?" he asks in polite, but heavily accented Riverspeak, far too honorable to dare to address the lady directly.
The guard watches the weapon closely, but has been in Delzahn territory too long to take it amiss. He bows, deeply; he's survived the prickly honor of Delzahn nobles long enough to know it's better as a foreigner to err on the side of politeness. "My lady, Imtithal of the Radeen, desires to discuss business with your Khan," he answers. For now, Imtithal lets the men speak, simply watching with the same pleasantly neutral 'business' face. Not that it looks anything other than stunning on her, of course.
The veiled swordsman smiles broadly. "A peerless jewel crowns even the brow of a camel," he declares, and if it's a clumsy metaphor, it's probably only because he's a little stunned by just _how_ beautiful she is. Hastily he adds, "And the delight of a lady's honor can bless even the most banal of circumstances. May it be satisfied swiftly, and perhaps I can show the lady the fierce beauty of a Simhata as well!" It's a flirt, true enough, and a hopeful one; it is literally only his blade and his Simhata that he has to offer to any potential bride, and he knows it. Still, the boy is proud enough as he whistles a traditional pipe-song of the deep desert through his veil; 'coincidentally', one of the dicers throws down a few brass tokens and saunters over to the door, 'disgusted' with his losses and taking up the routine of sharpening his weapon while the proud one leads the pair inside.
Inside, there are threadbare tapestries. Not a one of them is a piece of art, per se; they are the required histories and embellishments in graphic form, and nothing more. There are few luxuries at all within; the seating pillows of most of the noble clansmen are faded and ancient-- the sort that a merchant in the bazaar would sit upon after having bought at an estate sale, though in this case, they probably simply never made it to a sale, and have not been replaced in years. Nine men, young and old, are in various places around the open area. There are no divisions, save the brightest colors of the clan over one divider off to a further part of the stables-holding; female voices, cheerful and strong, can be heard over there.
There are only two exceptions to the tarnishments of time and proudest, noblest poverty. The first is the weapons racks-- oiled and maintained, showing no maker's mark. Indeed, one of the young nobles is, with no shame, actually preparing a new sharpening stone in the old facilities for the farriers of the stable. The F'meeq maintain their own as much from pride as poverty, and if their weapons have no decoration other than colored Chiaroscuro glass, they are also deadly sharp and well maintained.
The second is where the young guard, amiably and ostensibly chatting with the guard-- though actually flirting with Imithal at one degree-- is leading them. Faded silk, but no more than ten or fifteen years old, draps around a center of the room with actual brightly decorated pillows and a pristine table made of welded, colored glass, ground smooth, and a glorious tapestry of various simhata and F'meeq in battle behind it. Poor, yes, but the F'meeq prize hospitality as they do every other part of Delazhan honor. A short, but wiry man is sitting there, alert, if elderly eyes behind his veil, and coffee and fruits set out already. "The illustrious Jazan Khan, may his sword cleave the unrighteous and," the young man sets off into a long, memorized set of deeds. As distracted as he was by Imithal's beauty, he seems to have taken the time to come up with a number of lauding platitudes for it; if his flirtation was poor with disuse, his poetry in introduction is flawless. He bows, and steps away to one side of the guard, offering him a spot at the table away from the khan, who gestures flamboyantly to a pillow near to him. "Your fabled radiance, O Imitithal of the Radeen daughter of sainted Ha'lad, blesses our home as the Lord of Light blesses a battle dawn or the evening which sets upon a wedding. Our sorrows for your sorrows, and with your father and brother alike slain, your devoted guard may be sure of this-- the swords of all my children will defend you-- from all unwanted propositions, at least." Like his clansman, the Khan is as big of a flirt as any Delazhan, but he has less desperation in it. If his clan is poor, it is true, and the khan has nothing but pride in his children. At his word, every sword in the place is drawn simultaneously; salutes and oaths are freely-- and fervently-- given.
One of the young men sitting nearest to the khan has an especially razor-sharp blade. His white robes are folded about him simply, but they are long and flowing, and golden threads knit back and forth forming abstract, five-pointed patterns and bold circles across his veil, clear of any other references save his clanmarks. His body is fully concealed within the garb of a perpetual traveler, but his body moves like one of the clan's treasured simhata-- all power and grace combined. His concealed form is slightly bulkier than his grace would seem to indicate; it is likely that he is armored as well as armed. In addition to the concealing veil and headscarf, he has a pointed, curving helmet/skullcap, and his eyes are less focused on Imithal's curves, instead meeting her eyes directly. There is neither challenge nor disapproval, not lust or dismissal in his eyes. Just focus and curiosity.
Imtithal bows her head lightly to the Khan. "I am honored by your greeting, most honorable Khan," she says, with a slightly smile gracing her lips. "The honor and hospitality of the F'meeq remains, as my blessed father always said, an example to all Delzahn." She settles onto the indicated pillow, leaving the guard to stand behind her; not that she shows any indication of feeling herself in danger here, as she leans forward, resting her forearms lightly on the table. One of her braids tumbles forward over her should, the black hair coiling on the back of her hand as she looks around, curiously observing the veils of the men and the proud deeds they indicate, making properly -and truly - impressed expressions: the simhata riders are impressive men.
"I pray my unannounced visit does not mark me out poorly in your eyes, Khan of the F'meeq, but I would willingly trust no other clan with my business, and I did not want to risk missing your residence in the city." Her smile is bright and confident as she looks around the room, acknowledging again the honor written on the veils surrounding her.
The Khan laughs out loud, a hearty sound full of joy and amusement and earnestness. "If the Garuda comes to your tent, be prepared for a lovely fire, no matter the season," he declares joyfully. "And no Empress Phoenix could light my tent a fifth of your smile, daughter of the Radeen. You are welcome to our tents and our home alike, and as for your business--" he waves a hand. "I trust it can wait, for we wish to feast you as such honor deserves." With that, other women enter the room. None are as beautiful as Imtithal, of course, but there isn't jealousy in their eyes, either-- there's no room for it. The honor of a woman is in her face, and there is no room in any F'meeq for anything save honor. No matter what others would call beauty, there is joy, for none of the men of the F'meeq treat their womenfolk with anything less than the truth of the respect that is so often honored more in the breach than in the observance. They do not have practiced etiquette; instead, it is hospitality, honest joy at having guests. To the F'meeq, it is not a duty, but an opportunity to spread happiness.
As the food is set and the coffee and tea are poured, the leonid young man smoothly moves to a seat near to the guard, drinking lightly from his coffee. Unlike the rest, he listens; as loud as the clan is, this youth is silent. He is not hostile; indeed, the listening that he gives to the Khan and the woman is respectful to his Khan and to Imtithal alike, eyes flitting from face to face without clashing harshly. Each time that a new course is served, though, Imtithal can hear him whispering a blessing and a thanksgiving, named for the Lord of the Light and the Heat of the Sand-Mirror. It's decent poetry, as much loving and dedicated as it is ritual and worshipful. He whispers it, and begs forgiveness for his khan and his visitor, for some reason, in between each of the three blessings and thanksgivings he gives for each new course.
Imtithal's curiosity is a little piqued by the young man's prayers - her studies have not revealed anything much about the F'meeq's curious religion, but the prayers are clearly not meant for her ears, and she doesn't query. Instead, she enjoys the meal, makes light conversation, shares noble gossip the F'meeq may not yet have had a chance to hear, compliments the food and her hosts freely, and laughs with their speech and their jokes.
After two or so hours, the food is passed around and hospitality shared. A few of the F'meeq-- men and women-- sing after the last course, old and cheerful songs of the sand. There isn't a lot about city life; it's much like the F'meeq simply think of Chiaroscuro as punctuation, rather a sentence in and of itself. Eventually, they cease, and another round of coffee is poured. "So," the khan says gently. "There are two reasons why one of our cousins would seek our tents. Both of these reasons would apply, of course; an escort would be honored to add glimmering to the enchantment of your beauty-- but..." the old man's eyes are as sharp as shattered glass, "I suspect that it is for our other pride beside our maned children, and if it is blades that you are seeking, well." He shrugs, and takes a sip of the coffee. "We are the best that do not serve the Tri-Khan's household." The old man is not boasting; if he wanted to boast, he would mention that a full third of his clan is not present because they _do_ serve the Tri-Khan's household. It's not much-- but they are trusted with the Tri-Khan's family's safety, and serve together, rather than integrated. There is no need to guard against their treachery, after all, for the F'meeq have none at all.
The honor of the F'meeq is truly legendary - and true - and Imtithal is here because of it. She bows her head. "The F'meeq are indeed the best, both in skill and in honor," she says. "I am a woman alone in the world, and must be able to trust the honor of those I do business with, for I can not avenge a wrong as a man could. This is why I have come to your tents, illustrious Khan. Because if I deal with the F'meeq, I will have no fear of betrayal; alas that the same can not be said of all Delzahn."
She lifts her coffee lightly to her lips, though the fluid barely touches her dry lips. "As you have guessed, I would hire the blade of one of your proud warriors," she says. "My situation is well known by all; the death of my father and brother. But there is more, and the honor of the F'meeq is such that I can be honest with you without fear you will seek to make my plight your advantage. My father is dead, and my brother is dead. I am my father's heir, and after me only my brother's widowed wife, but neither she nor I were ever trained to merchant trade. I fear I will lose my father's wealth in poor decisions, if I can not find more funds. But my father left me more than salt and silver."
The young woman's words are artless; she speaks true when she says she lacks a merchant's skill.
The khan grows more serious, nodding slowly and drinking from his coffee. He does not interrupt his guest or make any of his early outlandish declarations. Truth is being spoken, and it needs no further embellishments. Around them, other conversations are taking place, but none about the business. The evening meal, far more simple, is being taken, though, oddly, the gold-threaded veil does not part, for the young man waits on both of them, not eating. The only disturbing sound as the Khan waits on his guest's comfort and own time is the savage sound of the feasting Simhata, just beyond a few glass and adamant walls.
Imtithal sets the small coffee cup down. "When my father was a young man, he discovered a ruin near his farm-holdings east of the city," she says. "According to his memoir, he always intended to take some other young men and explore it, but the time never arose. I was born shortly after, and my brother after. He had other concerns. But -I- have a map, his notes on the location, and reason to believe, that as an undisturbed ruin of the First Age, there must be objects of value left within, but also, quite likely, danger."
She pauses and looks at the Khan. "I would like to hire one of your respected kin to accompany me, since I am not much fit to face such dangers alone." She tries to keep her expression even, but is clearly not very confident in how the suggestion will be taken.
The khan runs his fingers under his veil over a white, but well-kempt beard that falls below the veil past his chin. "The relics of the past hold both danger and glory-- two sides of the same coin, as it were that might feed your family." His eyes twinkle from above his veil, "You have touched my heart," he declares. "Bold beyond what is set for your kind," he reproves gently-- but not in refusal, "To risk for your family, you do what you must-- and this is an honorable thing. We are the F'meeq, and were I but younger-- and your beauty inspires the youth still within!-- and lacking in the responsibilities of a khan," he says with a sigh, for it is clear that the latter is more a barrier than the former, "I would go myself beside you. But I must feed my family, myself, for my maned children and kin of my blood," the khan says, piercing eyes fixed on Imtithal's. "The blades I can spare you-- but only if they bring back more than they -eat-," he says, though it's not a demand, so much as it is teasing his youths, who laugh and raise their coffee cups high. He waits quietly.
The young woman bows her head slightly at the reproof, but she decided long before this meeting to do what she had to do regardless of its appropriateness. "What I ask is dangerous indeed; stirring trouble rather than waiting for it, and I hope to repay you and yours well. I have not /yet/ run my father's wealth into the ground," she says, with a wry smile, "perhaps only since I have not yet been called on to make many decisions about its distribution. If you will spare me the blade of one of your kin, I will repay your generosity with silver and salt enough to provide for his family as he would, in his absence, and of course, a fair share in whatever treasure we can uncover in these ruins."
The khan is silent for a moment; conversation swirls around him and Imtithal like the wind through the streets of Chiaroscuro, impinging not upon the elder's thoughts. After a while, he pauses for a moment and asks, staring off into the distance, "What do you know of dreams, Imtithal?" Perhaps coincidentally, he is staring in the direction of, if not precisely at, the pious youth.
Imtithal spreads her hands somewhat helplessly. "Good or ill, sometimes foreboding, sometimes promising, sometimes false, sometimes true." She smiles slightly. "Mine are mostly just odd," she admits. "I believe I dreamed something about a cheese chasing a horse last night." Her gaze briefly follows the Khan's, though she pulls it back towards the table to avoid rudely staring, and reaches for the pockets of her robe. "I did bring my beloved father's notes. He copied some etchings in runes I do not know, some markings. I'm afraid it's all the proof I have that there may be something of value there."
The khan frowns and waves his hand again, shaking his head at Imtithal's words concerning her dream, and the maps. He seems to be prodding at something, around the edges. "Your word is Delazhani, jewel of Ha'lad," the old man says quietly. "Written words are drawings in the sand, blown away when the Fire-Dragon breathes. I am quite sure they will lead to what you believe they will." And so he does; the concept of doubting a noble lady who has not been proven dishonorable is repugnant to him. "But dreams are the words of the gods themselves." He shrugs a bit. "Or our thoughts returning. But I am sure here, among the fallen dreams of another Age, you know of what I speak. So I ask, perhaps more than any but a father has a right to-- what do you _know_ and what do you trust in dreams?" At this, the fiercely graceful F'meeqi who said the prayers leans forward, listening intently. This is important to the khan-- and the tribe almost seems to wait on one breath.
The young woman lifts her eyes somewhat, looking off into the distance over the table. It's very clear to her, as poor as she may be at negotiations, that this answer is important to the Khan - to his kin, as well. She isn't sure of her answer, but she's a Delzahn, and, city-raised or not, they have not shaken the 'superstition' of their nomadic days - at least partially because it's NOT superstition, not in this world. "If a man of honor has a gift of dreams from the gods, what mortal of wisdom would quarrel with such visions?" she asks in response. "I am no wise one, but not foolish enough to scorn the wisdom of the gods."
The khan purses his lips, and then stands, waving his hand to forestall Imtithal from doing the same. "Then I shall converse with your appointed guardian the delivery of your generous donation to the family of my nephew, Sarye F'meeq, who has dreamed of a cleft between two rocks, at the foundation of cliffs that once held a staircase, whose own foundation has been crushed. And in this dream, he stood beside a gem, and this gem held a light unmatched in the courts of the Tri-Khan himself." With that statement, the old man wanders over to the table where the pious young man sat, and slaps the guard on the shoulder companionably, gesturing for the guard to join him at that table.
Sarye stands at that point, his movements as swift as the wind and agile as a hunting lion's, the robes surrounding his body and armor flowing around him as he almost dances from his former seat to one across from Imtithal, bowing deeply to her. Unlike his cousins, when he speaks, there is no florid embellishment. "There are dreams," he says quietly, "And there are blades. If this dream balances with your knowledge..." He shrugs liquidly, and his blade is unsheathed. This may cause the guard to reflexively jump, but the iron hand of the khan is upon the mercenary's wrist, and Sarye lays the blade out across the table in front of the beautiful Imitithal, in a diagonal with its handle towards Sarye and the blade and point towards Imtithal-- but he reaches across the table and lays his thumb out, just above the tip before continuing, "Then you will have my word and my blood on this: no harm will come to you that I do not prevent or avenge eightfold."
The guard does jump, just a little, though he knows, if not as much in his gut as Imtithal knows, that these people mean his employer no harm. After a moment, he follows the Khan, sighing a little at these strange, strange people he finds himself stuck with.
Imtithal bows her own head deeply towards the young devout man. She may not understand the peculiar inner workings of this clan, but she recognizes that he is a different sort of man than most his 'cousins' here, and unconsciously responds to his dignity as if it were a rank of its own. "I thank you for your aid, honored Sarye F'meeq," she says, quietly.
Sarye bows his head and then raises his eyes again to Imtithal's. His voice is quiet but does not waver as he presses his thumb against the point of his sword, marking the tip with his blood. The wound is precise, open but not gushing as he holds it up for Sarye, offering to stand as bloodkin-- and, most unusually for a Delazhan, offering her a seal to a bargain usually reserved for men alone.
Imithal's eye's widen slightly at the gesture, but she knows the tradition, even if women usually have no part of it, and, rather than insult him by hesitating, reaches promptly for the blade - for she does not carry one of her own, of course - and presses her own thumb against it. She does not have Sarye's experience with the blade, but though she bites her lovely lip in concentration, she has enough precise control of her hands to match his mark with the gash on her own thumb, and raises it to press to his, hesitant only now in case she mis-read and he pulls back.
Sarye reaches forward with his hand to clasp Imtithal's and hold it securely and as respectfully as he would any of his kin's, holding his thumb to hers long enough for the blood to mingle, and then pulling it back. From his belt pouch he pulls out a hankerchief-- for most nobles, it would be silk, but this poor F'meeqi, it is linen. He carefully turns the sword so the blade is up, and drops the hankerchief over it-- slicing the rough linen in half. He cleans one side of the blade with one of the halves, and then crumbles up that half, casting it into the fire, uttering, "Lord of Light, Flame of Morning, Heat of the Sand-Mirror, see this through. Let my strength be only limited by my honor, and may the Light test our honor true," before offering the other side of the blade-- not as much blood, but it's still there-- and the other half to Imtithal.
Imtithal watches Sarye's procedure closely, taking the linen from his hand and carefully wiping the back of the blade to clean it. "Ancestors see and judge and not be shamed by our honor; Dragons give us strength to uphold it," she says, and then imitates him, tossing the linen into the fire.
Sarye's veil twitches slightly, and his eyes twinkle slightly, reflecting the familial humor, but perhaps also some deeper mysticism to it. "So let our mission be blessed, and as we rise with the dawn, shall we meet in the Street of Five Lions at the edge of the city?" he asks, flashing his sword through the air and sheathing it once more. With that, it seems, Imtithal has been accepted-- the entire clan, male and female, calls and talks to her cheerfully as long as she remains, and she has the hospitality of both guest and kin until the contract is fulfilled, and unless she proves ill-willed on that mission, she will ever be remembered as a friend.
Imtithal bows her head slightly. "I will meet you there in the morning," she says, with a sudden smile of relief. Sarye inspires a great deal of confidence in her, and no F'meeq would break an oath; this may yet work. The lovely woman is completely transparent, of course, her emotions relayed on her face almost as quickly as she is aware of them herself, and the smile is radiant. After a quick glance determines that her escort is still in discussions with the Khan, she inquires, "Would you be willing to tell me of this dream?"
Sarye leans back on his pillow for a moment and his eyes close briefly. Eventually, he languidly shifts, moving forward again to brush his thumb over the smooth glass of the table, tracing a broad arc over it as he speaks. "There was a sword, and I was the song that wielded it," he says as the arc stretches towards Imtithal. "The sword was sung to by a jewel that sparkled in the light and in the darkness with even measure, more brilliant than the highest glass in the Plaza. The sword and the jewel blew into the desert, and the only mark of the wind on sand was the rending of claws." It's clear that Sarye speaks often, but not, perhaps, to people outside his family much; the metaphors are private and personal, and unexplained. "There, we came to the base of a cliff where the rock had been struck, cloven in twain. Once, it was surmounted, and indeed, stairs were carved of the living rock, but crushed beneath a greater heel than the songs could see, so that only the ascent, but never the descent, could be completed." Sarye grows quiet again, pulling the arc back towards himself. "The songs sung the sword and the jewel found a way into the heart of the cliff, but it tried to choke them; in the choking, though, the jewel became a diamond arrow, and the sword a ray of sunlight. When they ascended, they were changed again, and neither could sing of what had become-- until it came to be."
Imtithal listens closely, her brow somewhat furled - which still manages to make her look beautiful. As he finishes, she nods slightly, her face slowly clearing as she contemplates the strange imagery. None of it is familiar to her, but she's capable of basic metaphor and analogy. She smiles slightly, as he finishes, and says, "I am glad I am not one tasked with understanding such things."
As her guard finishes his conversation and walks back towards her, she bows again over the table, rubbing a fingertip over her thumb where it was cut and is now scabbing over. "Until morning, honored Sarye," she says, accepting her guard's hand to rise gracefully to her feet, the robe brushing over her body again as she unfolds, despite its modesty.
Sarye completes the open circle he was drawing on the table just a bit before his own finger heals over. His veil shifts slightly and swiftly with unseen facial movements and he rises with a bow of his head as the guard escorts Imtithal out and he says, "Until the dawn, honorable Imtithal."
