Sarye and Imtithal 3
Mar. 19th, 2010 07:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leticiaActually, in my files, this one's numbered 4, but I combined what were 2 and 3 because they were fairly short. This, too, is a couple combined sessions.
It is late afternoon or early evening. Sarye and Imtithal have scattered dead raiders around an oasis, fed a simhata two horses, and captured one other horse.
<<OOC>> Letiwolf: I presume they'll probably have it lead behind her horse, not the simhata?
<<OOC>> jhyanmar: Yes. Corona still thinks of the mare as being only slightly above meat because the People are interested in it. Corona sometimes gets close to forgetting. :P
Imti doesn't hesitate to shift some of the bags from her own gelding to the captured mare; the mare may be more tired, but her father's war horse has to carry her as well. She leaves all her most crucial supplies - especially the food and water - on her reliable, well trained horse, though, and then makes sure both horses and she have drunk well from the oasis, before mounting. Again, though the sun is much lower and behind them, she pulls the hood up over her hair.
Sarye ensures that his veil is well-placed for the dust of the journey and double-checks the state of Corona; once he is certain that the simhata is content, he leaps back onto the lion-horse's back in a single, fluid motion that sets his robes and cape to fluttering behind him. "Let us go, then; I do not think we will have the chance to acquire many more horses before we arrive."
Imti nods silently, lightly kneeing her horse forward; she doesn't ride with the grace of a F'meeqi, but she is Delzahn, and her reins hang mostly slack as she guides the horse with her legs and seat. Tonight, she has kept the bow at her side and her quiver on her back. She starts out first, watching the deepening sky. "It might be tricky to see the proper mesa at night," she says, after a while of riding. "Fortunately, there is enough light in the sky I should see the outline. We'll have to leave the road then."
"There are different qualities to shadows, as there are to light; the shadow, after all, is cast from the light," Sarye says quietly. "And indeed, the moon may guide as as well," he agrees with Imtithal's assessment. Another twitch of his veil, deep in the shadows. "I have spent some time away from the roads and beaten paths.
Imti casts a look back over her shoulder. "Your mount is also better at loose sand," she says, patting the shoulder of her warhorse. "He'll be all right, but I'll have to watch his footing." She squints up at the sky, her vision not overly hindered by the falling light of evening. "If I'm reading the maps up, we'll leave the road around midnight, I think."
"He is a child of the Delzahn," is all that Sarye will say of the horse. His eyes stretch-- not as keen as Imtithal's, but keen nonetheless-- to search out the shadows around them, always casual, but never unaware.
Imtithal isn't having much luck drawing Sarye out, so after a minute of trying gently, she falls quiet and rides in silence, patting the horse occasionally and keeping her eyes open to watch the dark horizon for any sign of her intended destination. She has the map scroll out of her robes and partially open on the saddle before her.
Sarye lets the silence fall for a while, appreciating the coolness and the whispers of the night for the moment. Eventually, though, he hears what he was thinking of, and begins to sing. His voice is a high baritone, and alternates between the hushed grandness of a gathering storm, to the cool, crystal clarity of the oasis they just left. He sings of the setting sun, of a hunt that gathered forth and was shadowed under the light of the moon. It is an old lay of his people, concerning a gem that entitled the bearer to have the right to lead-- to dispute with even the khakhan, the song says. He isn't a practiced singer, just a talented amateur, but there is a lot of heart in it.
Imtithal lets him sing, listening. Her primary focus is on following the map and making sure they don't have to spend another day wandering in the desert. When he stops singing, eventually, she waits a minute to make sure he's done, then comments, "Your clan has many songs and stories that are not common to the rest of the Delzahn, do they not?"
"We keep to ourselves, we F'meeqi," he replies. "Our simhata do not fit well in formations of horses or camels, after all," he adds, chuckling, some of his reticence loosing. "And we remember more of the past; we remember that we were a people before the Khakhan, blessed be his memory and blessed more with his returning, and that even when faced with the Tri-Khan or the Khakhan himself, we have responsibilities as old as the glass of Chiaroscuro." His laugh erupts again, and he pats Corona, who snorts at his master's loudness. "I suppose that our cousins do not let us forget."
"The simhata were bred to be steeds to the princes of the earth," Imtithal muses. "I suppose they demand a certain devotion from mere mortals. She waves a hand after a moment of thought. "Though I never heard the F'meeqi spent a lot of time seeking out our various visitors from the Realm." She gives him a sidelong glance, her lips quirked in a smile. "Of course, few people do except opportunistic toadies and fools who listen too long to their monks. As if the rest of us who don't live in territories swarming with Exalts can afford to ignore the spirits."
She shrugs and stretches, leaning forward a little on her horse's neck; the road is packed hard and the evening air has cooled. She desires a little more speed from her mount, and the well trained horse responds, pulling ahead until Sarye urges Corona to catch up.
"The Realm is not what it could be," Sarye responds. "They do not produce many scions worthy of the cousins. We will wait until the right ones come. We have waited a long, long time; we will wait longer yet," he adds as he touches Corona's forward shoulders. The powerful predator increases his speed casually, running neck and neck with Imtithal's horse.
Imtithal laughs freely. "It has been a long, long time since I raced a horse in the desert, and I am much larger now, the horse is too laden, and it would be no fair match against your beast, regardless." She doesn't pull back her speed yet, though, shaking her head and letting the hood fall back. For now, she wants to feel the night air in her hair and on her face. Last night, she was too tired to appreciate the /joy/ of riding, outside the crowded streets of Delzahn. Her hair whips lightly behind her - she still is too responsible to encourage her mount to a full gallop - as she enjoys the ride.
Sarye's veil tugs back further as he watches Imtithal's beautiful face experience the joy of riding once more. He doesn't push Corona to compete, merely to stay even with her. "The night sky itself compliments your honor; surely, the House of Serenity was well-pleased at your birth," he says with a laugh. "Or perhaps Battles; when and if you decide to seek a man, you will surely inspire duels.
Imtithal's expression slips a little, but she pulls it back up into a wry smile, enjoying the ride too much to go dour on him. She hides nothing on her face, every emotion written raw across her features. "Maybe someday," she says. "I could not do so now. Not when I am so vulnerable." She shrugs and sits back a little, letting the warhorse slow, though keeping him at a reasonable canter. "I think we will be leaving the road soon," she comments.
Sarye narrows in on 'vulnerable'. "There is some honor other than your own," he hazards here, "At stake." He remains quiet for a moment and then says, "The offer my khan made was not in jest. If you are pressured, or anyone attempts to force the issue, even your own khan, come to us. We will be there if you need aid." He does not mention the one possibility of it proving otherwise-- if she proves false on this little treasure-hunt, she will have their wrath instead. But it is an obvious fact. He is sincere and earnest-- and, of all things, not hitting on her. Sarye has decided to treat her as a friend on this journey, and means it. "Good; that will get us closer to our destination, and the adventure which awaits!" he says.
Imtithal hesitates, and shrugs; if she had reason at all to distrust the F'meeq priest, she might not answer the question, but she has none. "My brother's wife's family was poor, hardly noble. Our khan might have opposed the match if my father had any more wealth or status at all, but it was seen as a true a love match and went unopposed. Now that they are both passed, my father's wealth is mine, and would become my husband's if I married. It would be a shame to take it out of the clan, and her family can not afford to have her return to them." She shrugs. "It is possible a husband of mine might be willing to support her, but how could I know for sure?" She pats the horse again and continues scanning the horizon. "I do think I see the right rocks over to the south of the road. Let's get closer before we cut off the road, though."
Sarye ponders as they get closer to the mesa and the turn-off point. "It is very simple," he declares at last. "If he fails to do so, we will convince him. Or perhaps, if you wish, arrange for a very, very swift widowing if you do not like him," he says cheerfully.
Imti laughs slightly. "But that would shame the clan I would then be a part of," she says, dryly. "And me twice over if I took the blame for it." She shrugs. "The generosity of the F'meeqi, though, is a great comfort to me." She means it, too. She is a woman of the Delzahn, and their world is not particularly kind to women alone; too many doors are closed to those who do not have menfolk. "I do not know that I deserve all that you and your noble Khan have offered," she says. "Let us hope we find something of worth in this ruin so that perhaps I do." She sits further back, slowing the horse more as she starts to turn him off the road, towards the looming shadow of the mesa against the deep blue sky.
"Worth is not found in wealth; only a means of supporting it," Sarye quotes cheerfully. "And if they insulted you, why, we would gladly champion you." He ponders. "Repeatedly, perhaps, but that is all the more to the fun." He gives a bloodthirsty cry in Old Realm that shatters the night, and sighs. "Sadly, I suspect you will be too clever to need our swords."
Imtithal casts a brief grin off Sarye. "Rest assured, if I find myself wishing for the right to challenge a fool, I will come to your clan first for aid. After all, I would hardly wish to ask anyone for aid who might /lose/." The gloomy thoughts seem to be shaken completely off by this point, and she asks him for a translation of the warcry after a moment's baffled expression.
Sarye chuckles, "Loosely translated, it means 'The chicken has six legs; it is a reject.'" His veil twitches again. "But the important thing is that it _sounds_ very threatening in the tongue of the ancients, and those who understand are usually too confused to do much. 'Fang and Steel!' is for more formal occasions."
Imtithal gives him a dubious look. "What?" she asks, "Really?" After a moment, she giggles. "You probably shouldn't tell people that," she says. "They might not fear you properly then, when you shout it."
"We do not expect to be assaulting you or your caravans at any point in the near future," he points out. "And who would believe you if you told them?" He laughs again and then hmms. "Is that the mesa up there?"
Imtithal laughs. "But see, I have seen you fight," she says. "I would know to fear you anyhow. Or count upon your defense, rather, since I do not expect you to be assaulting me or my caravans." She smiles. "It is, I hope, unless I have read the maps all awry. It's still further away that it looks; my father's notes show it as rather high."
"Then let us press on swiftly," declares Sarye, and he begins to speed up-- though he respects the strength limits of Imtithal's warhorse, and will not let Corona become as fleet as the large simhata desires. "I would reach our destination, and begin our destiny!"
Imtithal lets her horse pick up speed a little. but she simply will not permit the horse too much speed over the less even, unpacked sand in the open desert. She watches the ground before her mount closely, watching for holes or obstacles that could lame her mount if she is unwary, and continues.
The ruins are surprisingly close to the road for something that has in theory been discovered by no one but one man, but the mesa is forbidding and there is no water this side of it - and surprisingly close is still three hours of careful night riding. Imtithal leads Sarye to its very foot, jagged rocks tumbled down from the heights, surrounding it and making the footing for the horses less certain. As she turns closer, watching carefully for the shadowy opening she believes must be there, she eventually dismounts, so that she can lead the two horses carefully.
Finally, she finds it; the two explorers agree to rest here and enter when they wake, not wanting to enter the manse tired. Sparing of their water, they give their mounts a little to drink and set up a light camp. Tonight, they are undisturbed.
Sarye wakes early, as is his custom; if he must wake during the day, he prefers to do so before the heat of it has become true. In the early morning light, he finds a private area to put on a clean set of robes for the trawling to come, and carefully checks and cleans his weapons and gear.
As she breaks down her tent and sorts her belongings into 'to carry in' and 'to leave outside' piles - the former even smaller and something she can carry on her own - mostly her bow, her quiver, water, and a small pile of food, but also including a belted pouch - Imtithal looks up at Sarye. "How smart is Corona?" she queries, her brow a little creased. "I'm worried about the horses if we're in there... long."
Sarye chuckles. He does not answer directly; instead, he walks over and rubs Corona's muzzle, stroking it gently and whispering into the big felinoid horse's ears. After a few moments of this, he releases Corona, and says, "Watch," as the big simhata struts over to the horses.
Corona, for his part, struts; no humility, he. The golden-maned beast walks right up to the terrified horses, but does not lay into them with claws. Instead, like a herding dog rather than the hunting cat he appears, he drives both horses with both physical presence and the occasional-- gentle!-- nip to the shadiest area nearby the mesa-- the best spot to wait out the heat of even midday. "He will watch them, and if they-- or he-- become too thirsty-- he will drive them to the nearest source of water, and then back. Horses are herd beasts; he will keep them together, and they will naturally not attempt to go in separate directions."
Imtithal laughs a little. "I was worried about the water more than anything else," she says. "Your simhata must be an incredible asset to your tribe, even if they are also your duty. He can find the water on his own, then?" She asks, but the greater concern has faded from her face. "Then we will want to leave them entirely untethered and trust him. I will stash my other luggage in the opening so that neither of them have anything to carry." She chuckles. "I imagine he's also smart enough to tear open the waterskins if he's thirsty enough."
Sarye ponders. "I should warn you, if you spend time amongst my tribe-- Corona is smarter than most. We can leave the waterskins for now, but hopefully, he will find some water nearby. Most simhata would tear the skins first."
"Just as well," Imtithal laughs quietly. "Your beast is growing on me, and knowing he's unique for his own kind will help keep me content with my horses." She shrugs and starts carrying bags - she's not strong enough to carry the larger ones except one at a time - into the narrow groove in the mesa that starts the passage up.
The groove is about two and a half feet wide, cut into the stone cleanly and clearly not natural. The chimney like shaft sinks back about two yards, before a pile of rubble crumbled at the back is all that remains of the lower reaches of a staircase that once led up. About nine feet off the ground, the rest of the staircase resumes, carved into the solid stone. The force that shattered the lower staircase also chipped and scarred the surrounding stone, the only place it's not cleanly cut.
Sarye laughs softly again, but does not illuminate Imtithal as to the reason for his bemusement. He moves silently to help her transplant the bags up, and then follows her to the shattered base of the stairways. "Hmm," he says, testing the rope in his carry satchel. "Grapple up?" he inquires. "Or is there another way?"
Imtithal looks up the shaft, contemplatively. After a moment of examining the scarred rock, she says, confidently. "I can get up it and tie off the rope for you." She no sooner decides that she can, than she begins putting action to her words, pushing her feet against one wall. The stone was deeply pitted and cracked by the force of the destruction, but time has weathered the best hand and footholds back towards smooth. Nonetheless, the slender woman clings with a chameleon's grasp, choosing between all three rock faces for the best hold as she scrambles vertically.
Imtithal initially slips as she starts up, only catching herself from spilling into the rubble pile with a quick twist to brace herself on both sides, her expression angry and embarrassed as she proves herself less that competent, but then, without descending the rest of the way to the ground scrambles up agilely right over the top. "Throw the rope up," she says, shrinking to one side to give him more room to toss.
Sarye's veil twitches slightly, and he twists the end of the coil over itself after removing the grapple. With the coil thus secured, he hurls it up carefully towards Imtithal.
The niche in the rock was probably once a candle holder; it's a deep nook cut in the stone with a central support. left to hold the light. Imtithal loops the rope around the central support twice, then three times, tying the ends off together and tossing the long one down to her companion.
Sarye carefully secures himself with the rope and pulls himself up along it, his boots planted against the chimney as he makes his way up and over elegantly. "Very well. Easier from here, yes?"
Imtithal shrugs. "The stairs are intact," she says. "I don't know if things will be /easier/. I wonder if they were deliberately destroyed?"
The path ahead is a continuing staircase cut ever deeper into the mesa face. The shaft overhead goes clean up with sheer smooth sides - except for the candle-niches every few feet at the staircase level, in which no candles remain. The stair climbs another hundred feet or so towards the heart of the mesa, then a tall, shadowed archway and door bars the way.
"There were wars, once, in which the world was reshaped," Sarye comments quietly as he stalks up the steps, one hand on the hilt of his scimitar. "Time may have done this... but who could tell the difference?"
Imtithal shakes her head. "The rest of the stairs are in excellent shape," she points out, unwinding the rope from the candleholder and following him up as she coils it around an arm. When she does, she adds it to the load carried by her belt, making sure it won't tangle her bow if she needs it in a hurry.
The door is apparently made of wood, but it is wood that has suffered no ravages of time. The green jade banding on it, and white at the base, may have some influence on that. There is no visible handle, but a marred place indicates where there may have once been one.
"Time is not erosion alone," Sarye points out quietly, and is about to go on, when they come to the door. "Lady, you have good eyes as an archer borne. How sensitive are you to the deceptions of mechanisms and magic?" he asks, his eyes serious as he looks over the door.
Imtithal frowns. "If it were mortal magic we feared, I'd be confident I could detect it," she says, "but obviously I've never studied the magics of the Solars." She smiles as if she would laugh again, but reins it in. "Traps... well, I've got good eyesight." She shrugs slightly, and taking his meaning, looks over his shoulder - the passage too narrow to pass unless he turns to the side - checks over the door. First, she seeks the patterns of geomancy, the geometrics of the jade banding, the patterns in the stone, the meaning of the positions of the candle-nooks, the degree of the arch, the variety of wood and any directional harmonies it might add greater than the obvious 'east'. Then, she checks again, searching the stonework for gaps that would indicate poison needles or jets of flame, stones that appear rigged to fall, or anything else that seems amiss and unnecessary for an honest portal.
"Essence flows-- or it becomes corrupt. I am confident that you would have a better chance of checking than I," he says. "Tell me when-- or if-- I can try the door."
Imtithal clucks her tongue. "I don't see any traps, but the essence flows should be ...it's very strange. It's not in the making of it, but the essence flows are flowing back incorrectly." She waves a hand in a flattened oval. "I'm not sure what will happen if you try to open it. The door is ...not happy with it?" she says.
Sarye shrugs. "Well. We never know until we try then. Please, stand back." He gives Imtithal a moment to move aside, and then leans back slightly, kicking the door with tremendous force-- kicking off from it to hurl himself backwards and away from the door, flipping backwards into the air to gain space and stability.
Imtithal squeaks a little as Sarye moves, pressing herself against the wall. As the door flies open, she gasps a little.
The door swings easily into the room beyond, slamming against a wall and ricocheting a little back. As it does, there is a foul smell and a strange sizzling noise, and beyond the door, you can briefly see a network of wires and dangling, swinging elements, but the room is mostly dark and as the door bounces back it's hard to see what all hangs there.
Sarye dusts himself off and his veil twitches as he gets back into order. "Fouled air, but not, I think, too explosive, or old magic would have started that with a fiery blast," he says, utterly unconcerned as to his own personal safety. "Give it a moment for the air to circulate."
Imtithal's got a heavy frown on her face. "That's not right," she says, bluntly. "Those wires don't belong there. That's what's fouling the essence at the doorway. It's... I think it was contained by the door; it's going to spread." She takes two steps back down the stairs, watching the doorway warily. "Someone's done something to foul the natural essence here. It's some kind of spiritual pollution if you walk into the contaminated Essence."
Sarye quirks an eyebrow. "Have you a purification ritual, or protection of some kind? Or should I try to rush in and cut the wires off as fast as I can?" he inquires.
Imtithal shakes her head intently. "/Don't/ enter it," she says, perhaps forgetting that she shouldn't try to order a man. "I..." she fumbles with her belt pouch, peering inside. "I could do a basic ward, but I don't think it would help..." She shakes her head and shrugs, grabbing for her bow. "I can break the wires from here, maybe. It might make things worse, but..." She nocks a broadhead arrow, the wider blade better to cut the wires. "We might want to be ready to run," she comments as she draws the bow back.
"In or out?" Sarye asks cheerfully. He does not seem too disturbed by either prospect.
Imtithal doesn't answer his question directly; she releases the arrow, squinting her eyes as the bolt flies clean through the partially ajar door, and slices through several of the wires, the lines under tension snapping audibly as they're parted. For a moment she holds herself tense, then relaxes. "That's... better," she says. "It's probably safe to enter."
Sarye bows to Imtithal, and, as he would neither insult her or show fear at all, simply strides in, hand casually back on his hilt. He even whistles as he walks in and ahead.
A small hallway inside leads straight, and ends in a wide open room; the archway between the hallway and the open room once had a rich fabric curtain, but it hangs in tatters from its rod. Across the hallway, save those strands that Imtithal sliced through with an arrow that now hangs tangled in one wire, wires crisscross the hall, still impeding progress - and dangling with dessicated corpses of rats, bones that look rather human, obscene and profane symbols, chunks of tangled hair, and in a position of honor in the center, an entire human hand making an obscene gesture, dried as if it was buried in the desert sands for a year first.
Imtithal, following close behind Sarye, widens her eyes, and murmurs, "That would do it."
"Hmm," Sarye says quietly. He's slain enough dead things in his time-- and, best yet, Imtithal cannot speak Old Realm. It is most convenient, all things considered. "Wait here a moment, please," he asks Imtithal and walks forward towards the blasphemous pile. Slowly, he walks around the carnage, making as close to a circle as he can, humming softly to himself. As his pitch grows deeper, he pulls out another flask from his carry sack, a carefully stoppered one. Patiently, for the dead hold no horrors for him that has not been seen on black nights in chiaroscuro, he lets the sweet-smelling oil run from the flask. Precious it is to his poor tribe, but their duty is all the more precious still, and he cleaves to it-- always.
The oil drops in a constant, steady stream onto the bodies, and Sarye carefully anoints every skull he can find, but otherwise can only guess at the proper number of bodies. As best he can, he accounts for each with a light dousing, and then pulls a small length of lightly gold-dusted candle cord from his pouch. Dipping the wick into the oil, he lets it soak before pulling it out again and swiftly capping the flask once more. Once it is secured, he pulls a match out, and strikes it in another circular motion against the wall, leading the guiding arc and spark together to light the wick. Now his humming stops...
And the singing begins. Deep and reaching, especially in the long tunnel, he sings in Old Realm; a sincere prayer to a long-distant deity. He asks-- neither begs nor demands-- with all of his heart for release for those who stand before him-- whether enemy or kin, whether blasphemer or victim. Only release, and cleansing of a once powerful place.
And with the end of the song, casts the lit wick into the oil.
Imtithal bites her lip as she watches him, and breathes a sigh of relief as the flames lick through the oil, clearing the air; there is no foul scent from the burning remains, only the scent of the oil wafting through the room. She looks over at Sarye, when she is sure she will no longer be interrupting the ritual. "I don't /think/ that was part of the original design," she says.
"Probably not. But would not the Immaculate Monks claim it must have been?" he asks quietly. "But perhaps, in here," he says, listening the Essence as it passes, "We should pay more attention to things that are written beneath the sands. Shall we go on?"
"If it wasn't," Imtithal says, edging up next to him; most the remains have burnt so cleanly that there is little ash even remaining, "then someone else was in here and wanted that door polluted," she points out. She glances nervously at the room beyond the hallway. "Maybe a long time ago."
"Or perhaps yesterday," Sarye suggests, cheerfully. "I have not killed anything in twenty-five hours. All know this is an unhealthy length of time for a F'meeqi," he says, not trying to be serious at all as he moves forwards, trying to find any of the crystal controls that First Age buildings had for light; if they still function, it will be easier than burning through his torches.
Imtithal follows, after him, rummaging in her own bags for a small, glass-sided lantern. It's designed to be carried on the saddlebow of a horse, but she hangs it from the grip on her bow. "If we find anything to kill, I will of course surrender the killing to you," she says, with a smile. "We Radeen can go slightly longer, especially women."
There are no crystal control clusters on the walls near the entrance, nor at the entrance to the room beyond, which is tall and dark, and feels cavernous; in two directions, it's impossible to see the wall, and in the other... a pool of light falls through a connected door. It doesn't illuminate much of the long room, save the shadows that intervene that indicate furniture or other obstacles.
"Oh, but you should try it. Blood goes so well with the right spicing," he says cheerfully. "No lights until the opposite side, and I don't want any surprises. We'll have to go with a torch for the moment, and a quick snuffing." Once more to his supplies, and once more to light, igniting the torch as he peers into the darkness.
With the torch lit, the room is revealed as the ruins of the common gathering room of the temple. Tall pillars of stone still pierce the towering space to brace the ceiling, though two or three of the native stone columns have shattered and lie in pieces on the floor. The benches and hangings that welcomed the faithful to worship are scattered, upturned, smashed. The walls have been overwritten with graffiti in various unpleasant substances and colors. Old Realm scrawls declaim the Celestial Incarna, and Sol Invictus in particular, suggesting obscene and profane acts.
Sarye peers at the scrawl, and he frowns, a bit of rage entering into his eyes as he scans carefully, looking for deeper meaning-- whether in the old realm, or beyond it.
If this was the work of Immaculate Monks, they were very strange Immaculate Monks, for the dialect of Old Realm is distinctly Malfean, and the images and anger are directed at the betrayal and usurpation of the Primordials' rights over Creation. This was never done by the Shogunate.
Imtithal moves to light her own lantern, letting it hang behind her elbow and cast its light near her feet. She looks over to Sarye. "Can you read all that?" she asks, quietly.
"Not that I want to, but yes. I think I know who came in here before. Can you help me clean?" he says quietly, voice catching as he takes his precious water out and dampens a cloth, beginning to scrub viciously. "Foul kindred of jealous Ligier," he snarls. "We'll have to burn the cloth, too."
Imtithal's eyebrows arch, and her tone is hushed. "Demons?" she asks. "I am not sure we should linger..." She glances around, but nothing seems to be imminent in threat, and she sighs. "I will help, I suppose, but I'm not sure why it matters now." She pulls a short knife - more an eating implement than a weapon - from her robe, and moves to a wall near him, working to chip the dried stuff off the wall.
"It always matters," Sarye says obliquely. "Time does not change duty, nor does death an end to it bring, unless it is passed on-- and in my hands, it _is_," he says fiercely, as though his words and devotion could blister the blasphemies from the walls.
Imtithal eyes Sarye. "I suppose you wouldn't want to translate any of this nonsense," she says, moving further down the wall and continuing chipping and peeling away the foulness.
"Nor would you want to hear it. And, unfortunately, it is blasphemy rather than nonsense. We may be facing Teodozjia, or at least those that have listened to them too much," Sarye answers.
Imtithal's eye's widen. "And you want to linger and wash walls?" she asks. "Don't you think it would be better to keep moving?" She's still helping, but as she asks that, she does pause, turning towards him and taking a half step in his direction.
Sarye continues to scrub quietly. "They are blasphemy. If there is one here, it will find us, time or not; until then, I will not leave this place uncleansed." He turns to Imtithal. "Make no mistake. We are stealing from the past; and if it has no ghost, it has strength." He gestures at the various obscenities. "These are insults to the holiest of the holy. If we will take from this place-- and a temple, it was once-- I would rather have their blessings, than be one who passed them by."
Imtithal bites her lips and sighs. "If I get eaten by a demon for this," she grumbles. "One of your clan had better marry my sister." She goes back to chipping paint and worse things off the walls. At least she's not bothered to get her hands dirty, even if she's lacking in valor.
It has been hours before Sarye is satisfied with his cleaning efforts. Imtithal has to pause to refill her lantern several times, and she doesn't join him in climbing on the broken furniture to clean higher on the walls.
As yet, no demon has charged in to eat them, and Imtithal has slowly relaxed, hoping that all that threatened is long gone.
When Sarye is done, only a few of the blasphemies still cling to the walls, abbreviated ones high above the ground, and a few traces of those lower where the 'paints' have stained the stone themselves deeper than water or Imtithal's knife can reach.
"If you do not object," Sarye says when they are finished, "May I bring some of my tribe here afterwards? I do not like leaving -any- of this behind." He seems troubled-- but less so than when they started. "For now... I hope, at least, this place will be less hostile to our intrusion."
Imtithal gives him a baffled look, and shrugs. "Assuming that we do not, in fact, find a demon still here to eat us, you can scrub all the walls you want and bring help if you want, yes." She smiles dryly. "I'll take any goodwill we can get, after all.
They've finished cleaning, at last - at least as much as Sarye can get with Imtithal's help. And he has used no small amount of his water on the walls. The light in the room hasn't changed; it's still dark save for their lights - Imtithal has refueled her small lantern twice - and the small spot of light coming from the far entrance.
In fact, that makes it darker than it was before - there is no longer any light coming in from the small door where they entered.
Sarye leaves his torch out for now, letting Imtithal's lantern cast the brilliance ahead of himself. Nevertheless, he continues to search for crystals he might be able to sing on; not much hope, but a thin one. As he walks, he speculates, "We must be missing the main Essence flows; this is a route for travel of humans. I can feel some of it tingle in the air but-- what an engine this must be, when operating properly."
Imtithal frowns. "Why is the door no longer light?" she asks, her voice quiet in the echoing hall.
Sarye purses his lips and looks at Imtithal for a moment in the flickering shadows. Honesty seems best, so he tells her, "I suspect that it closes automatically, to keep out the heat and dust of the desert, or to keep the security of the temple. Best we find light sources of our own deeper." He sounds frustrated. "First Age crystals, I can sing to light. I do not know how they kept this lit, though-- unless it was the essence that no longer flows." He ponders. "Which leads me to wonder what the essence is _doing_."
Imtithal makes a face. "Someone has been messing with the Essence flows in here," she points out. She glances over at the doorway they came in, but takes a deep breath and moves with him towards the dimly lit door at the other end of the hall. "I guess we go deeper in. Do you think we will be able to get the door open?
"If we regain control? Certainly. If not?" He shrugs. "The temple is despoiled already; we can use a bench or two as a battering ram," he points out.
Imtithal laughs a little, and shields the lantern a little more to keep from casting a ray into the next room as they enter the hallway. The suggestion reduces her stress a little. The hallway between rooms is not so much narrow as just diminished by the immensity of the room they just left; it stretches about 10 yards and has a nice upward climb, the floor ramped. There's no signs of destruction here, the fine stonework along the walls undisturbed, but also not particularly reverent to the Sun. The room at the top of the ramp is lit.
Sarye shrugs his shield off his back and onto his hand, drawing his blade as well. If Imtithal asks, he will shake his head to the suggestions of immediate danger; simply preparation. If Imti does not object, he will slowly enter the lit room before her.
Imtithal doesn't ask; she'd rather be silent entering an unknown room.
The first room was dusty; this room is also dusty, but the dust has clearly been disturbed. Another long, tall room awaits them - and in this room, crystals along the ceiling blow with a light that is much dimmer than it should be, with a strange, purplish tint closest to the crystals. Imtithal's face crinkles into a frown as she surveys the room. The blasphemies of the first room are thankfully missing, but so is everything else - no furniture, no nothing. There are two exits to the room, obvious immediately - a small arch to the left leads away from the center of the manse, and a grander exit at the end of the room appears to lead to another sloping corridor.
Sarye looks around slowly and paces the length of the room, moving near to the arch leading left to inspect that direction, just in case.
The disturbed dust passes entirely between the other two entrances than the one you entered by. Examining the entire room will indicate that the arched ceiling is mostly one kind of stone, but between the ribs of the structure, holding up the ceiling, there are squares that look almost like bricked in windows, along the right side of the room
The left entrance leads into a corridor which is flat and straight and passes a number - about eight - small doorways hung with curtains - that either have been replaced or still exist. Four to each side of the corridor, they are no more than 10 feet apart.
Sarye shakes his head and looks over at Imti. "Up or in?" he asks quietly, in being down the left, up being straight across.
Imti shrugs and answers as quietly as she can, "In looks like a dead end. But might be someone back there. Up is probably where we want to go ultimately..."
Sarye ponders for a moment. "Cover me, if you would?" he asks quietly of Imti, and begins to move slowly in to search the left entrance as she suggests, carefully moving up to the first doorway to check within.
Imti puts an arrow to her string and follows him quietly down the hallway. There is no cause for alarm at the first pair of archways; the curtains cover small cubicle like bedrooms - which seem to be actively used, from the fresh bedding on the cots, and the recently burnt candles near the beds. However, as Sarye pulls back the curtain on the third arch to check within, he startles a half naked man sitting on the cot.
Sarye inspects the man coldly, saying nothing at all as his eyes ruthlessly take in every detail of the unexpected individual, searching him for threat or identity-- or oddity revealing unnatural nature.
There is nothing ...inhuman... about the man, who does not appear to be Delzahn. But the book he was holding is in Old Realm. And the diagrams on the exposed open page are ...nothing the thaumaturges of his clan would /touch/. He is wearing on a chain around his neck a pendant which matches a brand on his naked chest - an unholy symbol of demonology. His eyes widen at the sight of Sarye, and he jumps up, drawing in breath to shout.
Imtithal is jumpy enough and she knows enough symbology to understand the foulness that he's wearing; aiming her bow over her protector's shoulder, she doesn't hesitate to shoot, aiming the frog-crotch arrow for the man's exposed and unarmored throat.
The stranger is struck dead on by Imtithal's arrow, but moves at the last second so that he's struck in the chest instead of the throat; it wounds him badly but lacks the force to strike deep enough to slay him. Catching his breath, he backs against the wall, and shouts, "Mistress! Mistress! Intruders!" desperately.
Sarye moves his body forward, rolling to the right and tucking the vulnerable upper thigh and side of his torso behind the heart of his shield and braces his right foot against the wall, pushing off of it and bringing his sword up from below, trusting to the ready guard of the hilt and shield-- and bringing a deadly long slash up to strike across the man's chest-- straight across his pendant, in fact, seeking to strike blasphemy and blasphemer at the same time. With his sword at the high edge of the arc, he brings the razor-edged blade back down straight across his already damaged throat.
Sarye neatly decapitates the man and slices the pendant in half; the shattered metal falls to the floor with a pair of dull clanks.
Imtithal, another arrow on the string already, turns to scan the rest of the corridor to see if anyone appears in answer to his call.
Sarye picks himself up from his lunging thrust and rushes back out. "Use the door for cover if you can," he yells as he moves to a half kneel, shield high and sword low and ready.
Whatever mistress the man was calling doesn't seem inclined or able to answer; after a minute, there is still silence as the two explorers wait, tensed for combat.
"There is at least one more, then," Sarye says quietly. "And either a thaumaturge... or worse," He adds, moving slowly towards the next door. "We must clear this place, so nothing is at our backs-- then burn the body, then go on," he continues as he opens the door with the lip of his shield.
Imtithal makes a face. "Cultists," she whispers with a restrained hiss, and spits towards the body, walking over to take her arrow back. "At least so far, no demons." She keeps the arrow on the string, following him.
The next room is also empty; all the remaining rooms prove to be likewise empty, though all but one of them seem to be in use on a regular basis. A few other copies of the same book show up.
"Burn it -all-," he snarls. Cleaning the blood from his sword, he gingerly touches the books, testing for magic of some sort with pure boldness. If he can move them without trap or curse, he'll pile them up on the dead body, trusting to Imti's cover.
Imti moves to the entrance back towards the hall as Sarye gathers them, keeping the arrow nocked. Nothing happens as Sarye moves the books, and she'll hand him back her lantern and some oil without comment as he piles them.
Sarye mixes some of Imti's oil with his own, sweeter smelling. He does not sing this time; there is not time. Instead, he mutters a few words-- as charitable as he can muster-- under his breath-- and lights the oil on the body and books. "He will not be the last; but he will take their blasphemy -with- him," he says grimly as he shuts the door on the cultist, and unsheathes his sword again.
Imtithal nods silently. "How many do you think there are?" she murmurs as he joins her again. She hangs the lantern from the bow's grip and moves forward into the hall. Oddly, for all her caution before, finding a human foe to defeat seems to have relaxed her; she doesn't fear mortals nearly so much.
"At least 6 more; I would suspect, though, as they were undifferentiated, this 'mistress' would make a seventh," he says grimly, stalking back up the corridor and towards the untaken direction-- and deeper in. This is no longer exploration; this is a -hunt-
Imtithal lets the bow relax, but keeps the arrow close to hand as she follows him up. "And the rest won't be quite so ...off guard," she murmurs. "Though I don't think anything heard his call but us." She looks up the ramp corridor as they reach the end of the room. "I wonder how big the place is.
"It may become stressful, but I prefer to assume they did come-- and sweep every _inch_, no matter how long," he says between gritted teeth, rage in his heart, though his voice is no less lyrical as he begins the steps up, certain of her guard on his rear.
Imtithal chuckles quietly; she recognizes his rage. "No love lost for demon cults?" she murmurs questioningly. The next room - there is now a very definite spiral pattern emerging, and like the previous hall, this one has closed off openings near the ceiling on the right, towards the 'center' of the spiral - is also empty of furniture, and the reason why seems to be obvious - remains of massive bonfires burnt in the center of the hallway mark out the same sigil that the man had been branded with and wore around his neck. Only one exit leads off, at the far end. It's hard to tell what this room was intended for, with all its furnishing and decoration stripped
"Not a single one; not one breath more from them, not one more unholy heartbeat," Sarye says, and stamps heavily on the burn marks, trying to brush any remaining ash over the symbol.
Imtithal actually smiles at his intensity, and follows him down the length of the room.
It is late afternoon or early evening. Sarye and Imtithal have scattered dead raiders around an oasis, fed a simhata two horses, and captured one other horse.
<<OOC>> Letiwolf: I presume they'll probably have it lead behind her horse, not the simhata?
<<OOC>> jhyanmar: Yes. Corona still thinks of the mare as being only slightly above meat because the People are interested in it. Corona sometimes gets close to forgetting. :P
Imti doesn't hesitate to shift some of the bags from her own gelding to the captured mare; the mare may be more tired, but her father's war horse has to carry her as well. She leaves all her most crucial supplies - especially the food and water - on her reliable, well trained horse, though, and then makes sure both horses and she have drunk well from the oasis, before mounting. Again, though the sun is much lower and behind them, she pulls the hood up over her hair.
Sarye ensures that his veil is well-placed for the dust of the journey and double-checks the state of Corona; once he is certain that the simhata is content, he leaps back onto the lion-horse's back in a single, fluid motion that sets his robes and cape to fluttering behind him. "Let us go, then; I do not think we will have the chance to acquire many more horses before we arrive."
Imti nods silently, lightly kneeing her horse forward; she doesn't ride with the grace of a F'meeqi, but she is Delzahn, and her reins hang mostly slack as she guides the horse with her legs and seat. Tonight, she has kept the bow at her side and her quiver on her back. She starts out first, watching the deepening sky. "It might be tricky to see the proper mesa at night," she says, after a while of riding. "Fortunately, there is enough light in the sky I should see the outline. We'll have to leave the road then."
"There are different qualities to shadows, as there are to light; the shadow, after all, is cast from the light," Sarye says quietly. "And indeed, the moon may guide as as well," he agrees with Imtithal's assessment. Another twitch of his veil, deep in the shadows. "I have spent some time away from the roads and beaten paths.
Imti casts a look back over her shoulder. "Your mount is also better at loose sand," she says, patting the shoulder of her warhorse. "He'll be all right, but I'll have to watch his footing." She squints up at the sky, her vision not overly hindered by the falling light of evening. "If I'm reading the maps up, we'll leave the road around midnight, I think."
"He is a child of the Delzahn," is all that Sarye will say of the horse. His eyes stretch-- not as keen as Imtithal's, but keen nonetheless-- to search out the shadows around them, always casual, but never unaware.
Imtithal isn't having much luck drawing Sarye out, so after a minute of trying gently, she falls quiet and rides in silence, patting the horse occasionally and keeping her eyes open to watch the dark horizon for any sign of her intended destination. She has the map scroll out of her robes and partially open on the saddle before her.
Sarye lets the silence fall for a while, appreciating the coolness and the whispers of the night for the moment. Eventually, though, he hears what he was thinking of, and begins to sing. His voice is a high baritone, and alternates between the hushed grandness of a gathering storm, to the cool, crystal clarity of the oasis they just left. He sings of the setting sun, of a hunt that gathered forth and was shadowed under the light of the moon. It is an old lay of his people, concerning a gem that entitled the bearer to have the right to lead-- to dispute with even the khakhan, the song says. He isn't a practiced singer, just a talented amateur, but there is a lot of heart in it.
Imtithal lets him sing, listening. Her primary focus is on following the map and making sure they don't have to spend another day wandering in the desert. When he stops singing, eventually, she waits a minute to make sure he's done, then comments, "Your clan has many songs and stories that are not common to the rest of the Delzahn, do they not?"
"We keep to ourselves, we F'meeqi," he replies. "Our simhata do not fit well in formations of horses or camels, after all," he adds, chuckling, some of his reticence loosing. "And we remember more of the past; we remember that we were a people before the Khakhan, blessed be his memory and blessed more with his returning, and that even when faced with the Tri-Khan or the Khakhan himself, we have responsibilities as old as the glass of Chiaroscuro." His laugh erupts again, and he pats Corona, who snorts at his master's loudness. "I suppose that our cousins do not let us forget."
"The simhata were bred to be steeds to the princes of the earth," Imtithal muses. "I suppose they demand a certain devotion from mere mortals. She waves a hand after a moment of thought. "Though I never heard the F'meeqi spent a lot of time seeking out our various visitors from the Realm." She gives him a sidelong glance, her lips quirked in a smile. "Of course, few people do except opportunistic toadies and fools who listen too long to their monks. As if the rest of us who don't live in territories swarming with Exalts can afford to ignore the spirits."
She shrugs and stretches, leaning forward a little on her horse's neck; the road is packed hard and the evening air has cooled. She desires a little more speed from her mount, and the well trained horse responds, pulling ahead until Sarye urges Corona to catch up.
"The Realm is not what it could be," Sarye responds. "They do not produce many scions worthy of the cousins. We will wait until the right ones come. We have waited a long, long time; we will wait longer yet," he adds as he touches Corona's forward shoulders. The powerful predator increases his speed casually, running neck and neck with Imtithal's horse.
Imtithal laughs freely. "It has been a long, long time since I raced a horse in the desert, and I am much larger now, the horse is too laden, and it would be no fair match against your beast, regardless." She doesn't pull back her speed yet, though, shaking her head and letting the hood fall back. For now, she wants to feel the night air in her hair and on her face. Last night, she was too tired to appreciate the /joy/ of riding, outside the crowded streets of Delzahn. Her hair whips lightly behind her - she still is too responsible to encourage her mount to a full gallop - as she enjoys the ride.
Sarye's veil tugs back further as he watches Imtithal's beautiful face experience the joy of riding once more. He doesn't push Corona to compete, merely to stay even with her. "The night sky itself compliments your honor; surely, the House of Serenity was well-pleased at your birth," he says with a laugh. "Or perhaps Battles; when and if you decide to seek a man, you will surely inspire duels.
Imtithal's expression slips a little, but she pulls it back up into a wry smile, enjoying the ride too much to go dour on him. She hides nothing on her face, every emotion written raw across her features. "Maybe someday," she says. "I could not do so now. Not when I am so vulnerable." She shrugs and sits back a little, letting the warhorse slow, though keeping him at a reasonable canter. "I think we will be leaving the road soon," she comments.
Sarye narrows in on 'vulnerable'. "There is some honor other than your own," he hazards here, "At stake." He remains quiet for a moment and then says, "The offer my khan made was not in jest. If you are pressured, or anyone attempts to force the issue, even your own khan, come to us. We will be there if you need aid." He does not mention the one possibility of it proving otherwise-- if she proves false on this little treasure-hunt, she will have their wrath instead. But it is an obvious fact. He is sincere and earnest-- and, of all things, not hitting on her. Sarye has decided to treat her as a friend on this journey, and means it. "Good; that will get us closer to our destination, and the adventure which awaits!" he says.
Imtithal hesitates, and shrugs; if she had reason at all to distrust the F'meeq priest, she might not answer the question, but she has none. "My brother's wife's family was poor, hardly noble. Our khan might have opposed the match if my father had any more wealth or status at all, but it was seen as a true a love match and went unopposed. Now that they are both passed, my father's wealth is mine, and would become my husband's if I married. It would be a shame to take it out of the clan, and her family can not afford to have her return to them." She shrugs. "It is possible a husband of mine might be willing to support her, but how could I know for sure?" She pats the horse again and continues scanning the horizon. "I do think I see the right rocks over to the south of the road. Let's get closer before we cut off the road, though."
Sarye ponders as they get closer to the mesa and the turn-off point. "It is very simple," he declares at last. "If he fails to do so, we will convince him. Or perhaps, if you wish, arrange for a very, very swift widowing if you do not like him," he says cheerfully.
Imti laughs slightly. "But that would shame the clan I would then be a part of," she says, dryly. "And me twice over if I took the blame for it." She shrugs. "The generosity of the F'meeqi, though, is a great comfort to me." She means it, too. She is a woman of the Delzahn, and their world is not particularly kind to women alone; too many doors are closed to those who do not have menfolk. "I do not know that I deserve all that you and your noble Khan have offered," she says. "Let us hope we find something of worth in this ruin so that perhaps I do." She sits further back, slowing the horse more as she starts to turn him off the road, towards the looming shadow of the mesa against the deep blue sky.
"Worth is not found in wealth; only a means of supporting it," Sarye quotes cheerfully. "And if they insulted you, why, we would gladly champion you." He ponders. "Repeatedly, perhaps, but that is all the more to the fun." He gives a bloodthirsty cry in Old Realm that shatters the night, and sighs. "Sadly, I suspect you will be too clever to need our swords."
Imtithal casts a brief grin off Sarye. "Rest assured, if I find myself wishing for the right to challenge a fool, I will come to your clan first for aid. After all, I would hardly wish to ask anyone for aid who might /lose/." The gloomy thoughts seem to be shaken completely off by this point, and she asks him for a translation of the warcry after a moment's baffled expression.
Sarye chuckles, "Loosely translated, it means 'The chicken has six legs; it is a reject.'" His veil twitches again. "But the important thing is that it _sounds_ very threatening in the tongue of the ancients, and those who understand are usually too confused to do much. 'Fang and Steel!' is for more formal occasions."
Imtithal gives him a dubious look. "What?" she asks, "Really?" After a moment, she giggles. "You probably shouldn't tell people that," she says. "They might not fear you properly then, when you shout it."
"We do not expect to be assaulting you or your caravans at any point in the near future," he points out. "And who would believe you if you told them?" He laughs again and then hmms. "Is that the mesa up there?"
Imtithal laughs. "But see, I have seen you fight," she says. "I would know to fear you anyhow. Or count upon your defense, rather, since I do not expect you to be assaulting me or my caravans." She smiles. "It is, I hope, unless I have read the maps all awry. It's still further away that it looks; my father's notes show it as rather high."
"Then let us press on swiftly," declares Sarye, and he begins to speed up-- though he respects the strength limits of Imtithal's warhorse, and will not let Corona become as fleet as the large simhata desires. "I would reach our destination, and begin our destiny!"
Imtithal lets her horse pick up speed a little. but she simply will not permit the horse too much speed over the less even, unpacked sand in the open desert. She watches the ground before her mount closely, watching for holes or obstacles that could lame her mount if she is unwary, and continues.
The ruins are surprisingly close to the road for something that has in theory been discovered by no one but one man, but the mesa is forbidding and there is no water this side of it - and surprisingly close is still three hours of careful night riding. Imtithal leads Sarye to its very foot, jagged rocks tumbled down from the heights, surrounding it and making the footing for the horses less certain. As she turns closer, watching carefully for the shadowy opening she believes must be there, she eventually dismounts, so that she can lead the two horses carefully.
Finally, she finds it; the two explorers agree to rest here and enter when they wake, not wanting to enter the manse tired. Sparing of their water, they give their mounts a little to drink and set up a light camp. Tonight, they are undisturbed.
Sarye wakes early, as is his custom; if he must wake during the day, he prefers to do so before the heat of it has become true. In the early morning light, he finds a private area to put on a clean set of robes for the trawling to come, and carefully checks and cleans his weapons and gear.
As she breaks down her tent and sorts her belongings into 'to carry in' and 'to leave outside' piles - the former even smaller and something she can carry on her own - mostly her bow, her quiver, water, and a small pile of food, but also including a belted pouch - Imtithal looks up at Sarye. "How smart is Corona?" she queries, her brow a little creased. "I'm worried about the horses if we're in there... long."
Sarye chuckles. He does not answer directly; instead, he walks over and rubs Corona's muzzle, stroking it gently and whispering into the big felinoid horse's ears. After a few moments of this, he releases Corona, and says, "Watch," as the big simhata struts over to the horses.
Corona, for his part, struts; no humility, he. The golden-maned beast walks right up to the terrified horses, but does not lay into them with claws. Instead, like a herding dog rather than the hunting cat he appears, he drives both horses with both physical presence and the occasional-- gentle!-- nip to the shadiest area nearby the mesa-- the best spot to wait out the heat of even midday. "He will watch them, and if they-- or he-- become too thirsty-- he will drive them to the nearest source of water, and then back. Horses are herd beasts; he will keep them together, and they will naturally not attempt to go in separate directions."
Imtithal laughs a little. "I was worried about the water more than anything else," she says. "Your simhata must be an incredible asset to your tribe, even if they are also your duty. He can find the water on his own, then?" She asks, but the greater concern has faded from her face. "Then we will want to leave them entirely untethered and trust him. I will stash my other luggage in the opening so that neither of them have anything to carry." She chuckles. "I imagine he's also smart enough to tear open the waterskins if he's thirsty enough."
Sarye ponders. "I should warn you, if you spend time amongst my tribe-- Corona is smarter than most. We can leave the waterskins for now, but hopefully, he will find some water nearby. Most simhata would tear the skins first."
"Just as well," Imtithal laughs quietly. "Your beast is growing on me, and knowing he's unique for his own kind will help keep me content with my horses." She shrugs and starts carrying bags - she's not strong enough to carry the larger ones except one at a time - into the narrow groove in the mesa that starts the passage up.
The groove is about two and a half feet wide, cut into the stone cleanly and clearly not natural. The chimney like shaft sinks back about two yards, before a pile of rubble crumbled at the back is all that remains of the lower reaches of a staircase that once led up. About nine feet off the ground, the rest of the staircase resumes, carved into the solid stone. The force that shattered the lower staircase also chipped and scarred the surrounding stone, the only place it's not cleanly cut.
Sarye laughs softly again, but does not illuminate Imtithal as to the reason for his bemusement. He moves silently to help her transplant the bags up, and then follows her to the shattered base of the stairways. "Hmm," he says, testing the rope in his carry satchel. "Grapple up?" he inquires. "Or is there another way?"
Imtithal looks up the shaft, contemplatively. After a moment of examining the scarred rock, she says, confidently. "I can get up it and tie off the rope for you." She no sooner decides that she can, than she begins putting action to her words, pushing her feet against one wall. The stone was deeply pitted and cracked by the force of the destruction, but time has weathered the best hand and footholds back towards smooth. Nonetheless, the slender woman clings with a chameleon's grasp, choosing between all three rock faces for the best hold as she scrambles vertically.
Imtithal initially slips as she starts up, only catching herself from spilling into the rubble pile with a quick twist to brace herself on both sides, her expression angry and embarrassed as she proves herself less that competent, but then, without descending the rest of the way to the ground scrambles up agilely right over the top. "Throw the rope up," she says, shrinking to one side to give him more room to toss.
Sarye's veil twitches slightly, and he twists the end of the coil over itself after removing the grapple. With the coil thus secured, he hurls it up carefully towards Imtithal.
The niche in the rock was probably once a candle holder; it's a deep nook cut in the stone with a central support. left to hold the light. Imtithal loops the rope around the central support twice, then three times, tying the ends off together and tossing the long one down to her companion.
Sarye carefully secures himself with the rope and pulls himself up along it, his boots planted against the chimney as he makes his way up and over elegantly. "Very well. Easier from here, yes?"
Imtithal shrugs. "The stairs are intact," she says. "I don't know if things will be /easier/. I wonder if they were deliberately destroyed?"
The path ahead is a continuing staircase cut ever deeper into the mesa face. The shaft overhead goes clean up with sheer smooth sides - except for the candle-niches every few feet at the staircase level, in which no candles remain. The stair climbs another hundred feet or so towards the heart of the mesa, then a tall, shadowed archway and door bars the way.
"There were wars, once, in which the world was reshaped," Sarye comments quietly as he stalks up the steps, one hand on the hilt of his scimitar. "Time may have done this... but who could tell the difference?"
Imtithal shakes her head. "The rest of the stairs are in excellent shape," she points out, unwinding the rope from the candleholder and following him up as she coils it around an arm. When she does, she adds it to the load carried by her belt, making sure it won't tangle her bow if she needs it in a hurry.
The door is apparently made of wood, but it is wood that has suffered no ravages of time. The green jade banding on it, and white at the base, may have some influence on that. There is no visible handle, but a marred place indicates where there may have once been one.
"Time is not erosion alone," Sarye points out quietly, and is about to go on, when they come to the door. "Lady, you have good eyes as an archer borne. How sensitive are you to the deceptions of mechanisms and magic?" he asks, his eyes serious as he looks over the door.
Imtithal frowns. "If it were mortal magic we feared, I'd be confident I could detect it," she says, "but obviously I've never studied the magics of the Solars." She smiles as if she would laugh again, but reins it in. "Traps... well, I've got good eyesight." She shrugs slightly, and taking his meaning, looks over his shoulder - the passage too narrow to pass unless he turns to the side - checks over the door. First, she seeks the patterns of geomancy, the geometrics of the jade banding, the patterns in the stone, the meaning of the positions of the candle-nooks, the degree of the arch, the variety of wood and any directional harmonies it might add greater than the obvious 'east'. Then, she checks again, searching the stonework for gaps that would indicate poison needles or jets of flame, stones that appear rigged to fall, or anything else that seems amiss and unnecessary for an honest portal.
"Essence flows-- or it becomes corrupt. I am confident that you would have a better chance of checking than I," he says. "Tell me when-- or if-- I can try the door."
Imtithal clucks her tongue. "I don't see any traps, but the essence flows should be ...it's very strange. It's not in the making of it, but the essence flows are flowing back incorrectly." She waves a hand in a flattened oval. "I'm not sure what will happen if you try to open it. The door is ...not happy with it?" she says.
Sarye shrugs. "Well. We never know until we try then. Please, stand back." He gives Imtithal a moment to move aside, and then leans back slightly, kicking the door with tremendous force-- kicking off from it to hurl himself backwards and away from the door, flipping backwards into the air to gain space and stability.
Imtithal squeaks a little as Sarye moves, pressing herself against the wall. As the door flies open, she gasps a little.
The door swings easily into the room beyond, slamming against a wall and ricocheting a little back. As it does, there is a foul smell and a strange sizzling noise, and beyond the door, you can briefly see a network of wires and dangling, swinging elements, but the room is mostly dark and as the door bounces back it's hard to see what all hangs there.
Sarye dusts himself off and his veil twitches as he gets back into order. "Fouled air, but not, I think, too explosive, or old magic would have started that with a fiery blast," he says, utterly unconcerned as to his own personal safety. "Give it a moment for the air to circulate."
Imtithal's got a heavy frown on her face. "That's not right," she says, bluntly. "Those wires don't belong there. That's what's fouling the essence at the doorway. It's... I think it was contained by the door; it's going to spread." She takes two steps back down the stairs, watching the doorway warily. "Someone's done something to foul the natural essence here. It's some kind of spiritual pollution if you walk into the contaminated Essence."
Sarye quirks an eyebrow. "Have you a purification ritual, or protection of some kind? Or should I try to rush in and cut the wires off as fast as I can?" he inquires.
Imtithal shakes her head intently. "/Don't/ enter it," she says, perhaps forgetting that she shouldn't try to order a man. "I..." she fumbles with her belt pouch, peering inside. "I could do a basic ward, but I don't think it would help..." She shakes her head and shrugs, grabbing for her bow. "I can break the wires from here, maybe. It might make things worse, but..." She nocks a broadhead arrow, the wider blade better to cut the wires. "We might want to be ready to run," she comments as she draws the bow back.
"In or out?" Sarye asks cheerfully. He does not seem too disturbed by either prospect.
Imtithal doesn't answer his question directly; she releases the arrow, squinting her eyes as the bolt flies clean through the partially ajar door, and slices through several of the wires, the lines under tension snapping audibly as they're parted. For a moment she holds herself tense, then relaxes. "That's... better," she says. "It's probably safe to enter."
Sarye bows to Imtithal, and, as he would neither insult her or show fear at all, simply strides in, hand casually back on his hilt. He even whistles as he walks in and ahead.
A small hallway inside leads straight, and ends in a wide open room; the archway between the hallway and the open room once had a rich fabric curtain, but it hangs in tatters from its rod. Across the hallway, save those strands that Imtithal sliced through with an arrow that now hangs tangled in one wire, wires crisscross the hall, still impeding progress - and dangling with dessicated corpses of rats, bones that look rather human, obscene and profane symbols, chunks of tangled hair, and in a position of honor in the center, an entire human hand making an obscene gesture, dried as if it was buried in the desert sands for a year first.
Imtithal, following close behind Sarye, widens her eyes, and murmurs, "That would do it."
"Hmm," Sarye says quietly. He's slain enough dead things in his time-- and, best yet, Imtithal cannot speak Old Realm. It is most convenient, all things considered. "Wait here a moment, please," he asks Imtithal and walks forward towards the blasphemous pile. Slowly, he walks around the carnage, making as close to a circle as he can, humming softly to himself. As his pitch grows deeper, he pulls out another flask from his carry sack, a carefully stoppered one. Patiently, for the dead hold no horrors for him that has not been seen on black nights in chiaroscuro, he lets the sweet-smelling oil run from the flask. Precious it is to his poor tribe, but their duty is all the more precious still, and he cleaves to it-- always.
The oil drops in a constant, steady stream onto the bodies, and Sarye carefully anoints every skull he can find, but otherwise can only guess at the proper number of bodies. As best he can, he accounts for each with a light dousing, and then pulls a small length of lightly gold-dusted candle cord from his pouch. Dipping the wick into the oil, he lets it soak before pulling it out again and swiftly capping the flask once more. Once it is secured, he pulls a match out, and strikes it in another circular motion against the wall, leading the guiding arc and spark together to light the wick. Now his humming stops...
And the singing begins. Deep and reaching, especially in the long tunnel, he sings in Old Realm; a sincere prayer to a long-distant deity. He asks-- neither begs nor demands-- with all of his heart for release for those who stand before him-- whether enemy or kin, whether blasphemer or victim. Only release, and cleansing of a once powerful place.
And with the end of the song, casts the lit wick into the oil.
Imtithal bites her lip as she watches him, and breathes a sigh of relief as the flames lick through the oil, clearing the air; there is no foul scent from the burning remains, only the scent of the oil wafting through the room. She looks over at Sarye, when she is sure she will no longer be interrupting the ritual. "I don't /think/ that was part of the original design," she says.
"Probably not. But would not the Immaculate Monks claim it must have been?" he asks quietly. "But perhaps, in here," he says, listening the Essence as it passes, "We should pay more attention to things that are written beneath the sands. Shall we go on?"
"If it wasn't," Imtithal says, edging up next to him; most the remains have burnt so cleanly that there is little ash even remaining, "then someone else was in here and wanted that door polluted," she points out. She glances nervously at the room beyond the hallway. "Maybe a long time ago."
"Or perhaps yesterday," Sarye suggests, cheerfully. "I have not killed anything in twenty-five hours. All know this is an unhealthy length of time for a F'meeqi," he says, not trying to be serious at all as he moves forwards, trying to find any of the crystal controls that First Age buildings had for light; if they still function, it will be easier than burning through his torches.
Imtithal follows, after him, rummaging in her own bags for a small, glass-sided lantern. It's designed to be carried on the saddlebow of a horse, but she hangs it from the grip on her bow. "If we find anything to kill, I will of course surrender the killing to you," she says, with a smile. "We Radeen can go slightly longer, especially women."
There are no crystal control clusters on the walls near the entrance, nor at the entrance to the room beyond, which is tall and dark, and feels cavernous; in two directions, it's impossible to see the wall, and in the other... a pool of light falls through a connected door. It doesn't illuminate much of the long room, save the shadows that intervene that indicate furniture or other obstacles.
"Oh, but you should try it. Blood goes so well with the right spicing," he says cheerfully. "No lights until the opposite side, and I don't want any surprises. We'll have to go with a torch for the moment, and a quick snuffing." Once more to his supplies, and once more to light, igniting the torch as he peers into the darkness.
With the torch lit, the room is revealed as the ruins of the common gathering room of the temple. Tall pillars of stone still pierce the towering space to brace the ceiling, though two or three of the native stone columns have shattered and lie in pieces on the floor. The benches and hangings that welcomed the faithful to worship are scattered, upturned, smashed. The walls have been overwritten with graffiti in various unpleasant substances and colors. Old Realm scrawls declaim the Celestial Incarna, and Sol Invictus in particular, suggesting obscene and profane acts.
Sarye peers at the scrawl, and he frowns, a bit of rage entering into his eyes as he scans carefully, looking for deeper meaning-- whether in the old realm, or beyond it.
If this was the work of Immaculate Monks, they were very strange Immaculate Monks, for the dialect of Old Realm is distinctly Malfean, and the images and anger are directed at the betrayal and usurpation of the Primordials' rights over Creation. This was never done by the Shogunate.
Imtithal moves to light her own lantern, letting it hang behind her elbow and cast its light near her feet. She looks over to Sarye. "Can you read all that?" she asks, quietly.
"Not that I want to, but yes. I think I know who came in here before. Can you help me clean?" he says quietly, voice catching as he takes his precious water out and dampens a cloth, beginning to scrub viciously. "Foul kindred of jealous Ligier," he snarls. "We'll have to burn the cloth, too."
Imtithal's eyebrows arch, and her tone is hushed. "Demons?" she asks. "I am not sure we should linger..." She glances around, but nothing seems to be imminent in threat, and she sighs. "I will help, I suppose, but I'm not sure why it matters now." She pulls a short knife - more an eating implement than a weapon - from her robe, and moves to a wall near him, working to chip the dried stuff off the wall.
"It always matters," Sarye says obliquely. "Time does not change duty, nor does death an end to it bring, unless it is passed on-- and in my hands, it _is_," he says fiercely, as though his words and devotion could blister the blasphemies from the walls.
Imtithal eyes Sarye. "I suppose you wouldn't want to translate any of this nonsense," she says, moving further down the wall and continuing chipping and peeling away the foulness.
"Nor would you want to hear it. And, unfortunately, it is blasphemy rather than nonsense. We may be facing Teodozjia, or at least those that have listened to them too much," Sarye answers.
Imtithal's eye's widen. "And you want to linger and wash walls?" she asks. "Don't you think it would be better to keep moving?" She's still helping, but as she asks that, she does pause, turning towards him and taking a half step in his direction.
Sarye continues to scrub quietly. "They are blasphemy. If there is one here, it will find us, time or not; until then, I will not leave this place uncleansed." He turns to Imtithal. "Make no mistake. We are stealing from the past; and if it has no ghost, it has strength." He gestures at the various obscenities. "These are insults to the holiest of the holy. If we will take from this place-- and a temple, it was once-- I would rather have their blessings, than be one who passed them by."
Imtithal bites her lips and sighs. "If I get eaten by a demon for this," she grumbles. "One of your clan had better marry my sister." She goes back to chipping paint and worse things off the walls. At least she's not bothered to get her hands dirty, even if she's lacking in valor.
It has been hours before Sarye is satisfied with his cleaning efforts. Imtithal has to pause to refill her lantern several times, and she doesn't join him in climbing on the broken furniture to clean higher on the walls.
As yet, no demon has charged in to eat them, and Imtithal has slowly relaxed, hoping that all that threatened is long gone.
When Sarye is done, only a few of the blasphemies still cling to the walls, abbreviated ones high above the ground, and a few traces of those lower where the 'paints' have stained the stone themselves deeper than water or Imtithal's knife can reach.
"If you do not object," Sarye says when they are finished, "May I bring some of my tribe here afterwards? I do not like leaving -any- of this behind." He seems troubled-- but less so than when they started. "For now... I hope, at least, this place will be less hostile to our intrusion."
Imtithal gives him a baffled look, and shrugs. "Assuming that we do not, in fact, find a demon still here to eat us, you can scrub all the walls you want and bring help if you want, yes." She smiles dryly. "I'll take any goodwill we can get, after all.
They've finished cleaning, at last - at least as much as Sarye can get with Imtithal's help. And he has used no small amount of his water on the walls. The light in the room hasn't changed; it's still dark save for their lights - Imtithal has refueled her small lantern twice - and the small spot of light coming from the far entrance.
In fact, that makes it darker than it was before - there is no longer any light coming in from the small door where they entered.
Sarye leaves his torch out for now, letting Imtithal's lantern cast the brilliance ahead of himself. Nevertheless, he continues to search for crystals he might be able to sing on; not much hope, but a thin one. As he walks, he speculates, "We must be missing the main Essence flows; this is a route for travel of humans. I can feel some of it tingle in the air but-- what an engine this must be, when operating properly."
Imtithal frowns. "Why is the door no longer light?" she asks, her voice quiet in the echoing hall.
Sarye purses his lips and looks at Imtithal for a moment in the flickering shadows. Honesty seems best, so he tells her, "I suspect that it closes automatically, to keep out the heat and dust of the desert, or to keep the security of the temple. Best we find light sources of our own deeper." He sounds frustrated. "First Age crystals, I can sing to light. I do not know how they kept this lit, though-- unless it was the essence that no longer flows." He ponders. "Which leads me to wonder what the essence is _doing_."
Imtithal makes a face. "Someone has been messing with the Essence flows in here," she points out. She glances over at the doorway they came in, but takes a deep breath and moves with him towards the dimly lit door at the other end of the hall. "I guess we go deeper in. Do you think we will be able to get the door open?
"If we regain control? Certainly. If not?" He shrugs. "The temple is despoiled already; we can use a bench or two as a battering ram," he points out.
Imtithal laughs a little, and shields the lantern a little more to keep from casting a ray into the next room as they enter the hallway. The suggestion reduces her stress a little. The hallway between rooms is not so much narrow as just diminished by the immensity of the room they just left; it stretches about 10 yards and has a nice upward climb, the floor ramped. There's no signs of destruction here, the fine stonework along the walls undisturbed, but also not particularly reverent to the Sun. The room at the top of the ramp is lit.
Sarye shrugs his shield off his back and onto his hand, drawing his blade as well. If Imtithal asks, he will shake his head to the suggestions of immediate danger; simply preparation. If Imti does not object, he will slowly enter the lit room before her.
Imtithal doesn't ask; she'd rather be silent entering an unknown room.
The first room was dusty; this room is also dusty, but the dust has clearly been disturbed. Another long, tall room awaits them - and in this room, crystals along the ceiling blow with a light that is much dimmer than it should be, with a strange, purplish tint closest to the crystals. Imtithal's face crinkles into a frown as she surveys the room. The blasphemies of the first room are thankfully missing, but so is everything else - no furniture, no nothing. There are two exits to the room, obvious immediately - a small arch to the left leads away from the center of the manse, and a grander exit at the end of the room appears to lead to another sloping corridor.
Sarye looks around slowly and paces the length of the room, moving near to the arch leading left to inspect that direction, just in case.
The disturbed dust passes entirely between the other two entrances than the one you entered by. Examining the entire room will indicate that the arched ceiling is mostly one kind of stone, but between the ribs of the structure, holding up the ceiling, there are squares that look almost like bricked in windows, along the right side of the room
The left entrance leads into a corridor which is flat and straight and passes a number - about eight - small doorways hung with curtains - that either have been replaced or still exist. Four to each side of the corridor, they are no more than 10 feet apart.
Sarye shakes his head and looks over at Imti. "Up or in?" he asks quietly, in being down the left, up being straight across.
Imti shrugs and answers as quietly as she can, "In looks like a dead end. But might be someone back there. Up is probably where we want to go ultimately..."
Sarye ponders for a moment. "Cover me, if you would?" he asks quietly of Imti, and begins to move slowly in to search the left entrance as she suggests, carefully moving up to the first doorway to check within.
Imti puts an arrow to her string and follows him quietly down the hallway. There is no cause for alarm at the first pair of archways; the curtains cover small cubicle like bedrooms - which seem to be actively used, from the fresh bedding on the cots, and the recently burnt candles near the beds. However, as Sarye pulls back the curtain on the third arch to check within, he startles a half naked man sitting on the cot.
Sarye inspects the man coldly, saying nothing at all as his eyes ruthlessly take in every detail of the unexpected individual, searching him for threat or identity-- or oddity revealing unnatural nature.
There is nothing ...inhuman... about the man, who does not appear to be Delzahn. But the book he was holding is in Old Realm. And the diagrams on the exposed open page are ...nothing the thaumaturges of his clan would /touch/. He is wearing on a chain around his neck a pendant which matches a brand on his naked chest - an unholy symbol of demonology. His eyes widen at the sight of Sarye, and he jumps up, drawing in breath to shout.
Imtithal is jumpy enough and she knows enough symbology to understand the foulness that he's wearing; aiming her bow over her protector's shoulder, she doesn't hesitate to shoot, aiming the frog-crotch arrow for the man's exposed and unarmored throat.
The stranger is struck dead on by Imtithal's arrow, but moves at the last second so that he's struck in the chest instead of the throat; it wounds him badly but lacks the force to strike deep enough to slay him. Catching his breath, he backs against the wall, and shouts, "Mistress! Mistress! Intruders!" desperately.
Sarye moves his body forward, rolling to the right and tucking the vulnerable upper thigh and side of his torso behind the heart of his shield and braces his right foot against the wall, pushing off of it and bringing his sword up from below, trusting to the ready guard of the hilt and shield-- and bringing a deadly long slash up to strike across the man's chest-- straight across his pendant, in fact, seeking to strike blasphemy and blasphemer at the same time. With his sword at the high edge of the arc, he brings the razor-edged blade back down straight across his already damaged throat.
Sarye neatly decapitates the man and slices the pendant in half; the shattered metal falls to the floor with a pair of dull clanks.
Imtithal, another arrow on the string already, turns to scan the rest of the corridor to see if anyone appears in answer to his call.
Sarye picks himself up from his lunging thrust and rushes back out. "Use the door for cover if you can," he yells as he moves to a half kneel, shield high and sword low and ready.
Whatever mistress the man was calling doesn't seem inclined or able to answer; after a minute, there is still silence as the two explorers wait, tensed for combat.
"There is at least one more, then," Sarye says quietly. "And either a thaumaturge... or worse," He adds, moving slowly towards the next door. "We must clear this place, so nothing is at our backs-- then burn the body, then go on," he continues as he opens the door with the lip of his shield.
Imtithal makes a face. "Cultists," she whispers with a restrained hiss, and spits towards the body, walking over to take her arrow back. "At least so far, no demons." She keeps the arrow on the string, following him.
The next room is also empty; all the remaining rooms prove to be likewise empty, though all but one of them seem to be in use on a regular basis. A few other copies of the same book show up.
"Burn it -all-," he snarls. Cleaning the blood from his sword, he gingerly touches the books, testing for magic of some sort with pure boldness. If he can move them without trap or curse, he'll pile them up on the dead body, trusting to Imti's cover.
Imti moves to the entrance back towards the hall as Sarye gathers them, keeping the arrow nocked. Nothing happens as Sarye moves the books, and she'll hand him back her lantern and some oil without comment as he piles them.
Sarye mixes some of Imti's oil with his own, sweeter smelling. He does not sing this time; there is not time. Instead, he mutters a few words-- as charitable as he can muster-- under his breath-- and lights the oil on the body and books. "He will not be the last; but he will take their blasphemy -with- him," he says grimly as he shuts the door on the cultist, and unsheathes his sword again.
Imtithal nods silently. "How many do you think there are?" she murmurs as he joins her again. She hangs the lantern from the bow's grip and moves forward into the hall. Oddly, for all her caution before, finding a human foe to defeat seems to have relaxed her; she doesn't fear mortals nearly so much.
"At least 6 more; I would suspect, though, as they were undifferentiated, this 'mistress' would make a seventh," he says grimly, stalking back up the corridor and towards the untaken direction-- and deeper in. This is no longer exploration; this is a -hunt-
Imtithal lets the bow relax, but keeps the arrow close to hand as she follows him up. "And the rest won't be quite so ...off guard," she murmurs. "Though I don't think anything heard his call but us." She looks up the ramp corridor as they reach the end of the room. "I wonder how big the place is.
"It may become stressful, but I prefer to assume they did come-- and sweep every _inch_, no matter how long," he says between gritted teeth, rage in his heart, though his voice is no less lyrical as he begins the steps up, certain of her guard on his rear.
Imtithal chuckles quietly; she recognizes his rage. "No love lost for demon cults?" she murmurs questioningly. The next room - there is now a very definite spiral pattern emerging, and like the previous hall, this one has closed off openings near the ceiling on the right, towards the 'center' of the spiral - is also empty of furniture, and the reason why seems to be obvious - remains of massive bonfires burnt in the center of the hallway mark out the same sigil that the man had been branded with and wore around his neck. Only one exit leads off, at the far end. It's hard to tell what this room was intended for, with all its furnishing and decoration stripped
"Not a single one; not one breath more from them, not one more unholy heartbeat," Sarye says, and stamps heavily on the burn marks, trying to brush any remaining ash over the symbol.
Imtithal actually smiles at his intensity, and follows him down the length of the room.
