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Sarye and Imtithal 10
Imtithal is in her bedchamber in the private family quarters of the townhouse; she's had the same room since her childhood, but it's gradually changed, from child's nursery, to the lady of the house, to now the mistress of the household. Her father's master suite is cleaned and closed off; Imtithal doubts it will be used again unless something forces the house to be sold. Her brother's rooms are in use by her sister, of course. The house was built for a larger family than survives; Imtithal and Khadiga rattle around the family quarters, and most the rooms are stripped of linens and left bare.
One of the benefits of reasonable wealth is a hot bath; Imtithal does not live in one of the first age properties that might still have some magical plumbing, but there are servants and kettles and fires and Imtithal has just enjoyed a relaxing soak to get the dust of the desert off her smooth dark skin. Wrapped in a comfortable robe, she's perhaps more relaxed than a Night should be at any time, and as she moves back into her bedroom, she simply says, "Come in," to the knock on her door, without stopping to think.
It is Khadiga, dressed for day in her own robes - she is still wearing the dark blue of mourning. It's been a little longer than custom requires, but as a widow, she is entitled to wear it as long as she wishes. Imtithal, as merely the daughter and sister of the deceased, laid hers off after little more than weeks.
Imtithal smiles at her sister by marriage. "Good morning, sister," she says, inclining her head."
The room is well lit by lamps; Imtithal is not good at scrimping, and since her sister has alleviated her concerns about their finances, she's stopped even trying to save lamp oil. She likes a well lit bedchamber. As she turns towards her sister, her sister drops the stack of paper she was carrying.
Imtithal frowns. "Khadiga?" she asks, coming forward towards her sister.
It takes her a moment to realize that Khadiga is staring at her - and at her forehead,
most particularly. As realization steals across her face, she puts a hand up briefly to cover the slim golden caste mark, and then sighs and says "Blast it," pulling her hand back down. It's too late to hide it. "Khadiga, sister," she pleads. "It's all right."
Khadiga catches her breath, still staring at Imtithal. "Is... that real?" she asks.
Imtithal closes her eyes. "Yes," she admits. "It's real, sister." She moves towards the couch at the edge of the room. "Come sit with me, sister," she says. "You seem a little faint."
The younger woman laughs a little unsteadily. "When did this happen?" she asks, but obediently follows the head of her household towards the seat. "Are the Immaculates right? Did a demon eat your soul?"
Imtithal laughs lightly. "There was a demon. It might have wanted to eat my soul. It most distinctly did not. It got /smote/." She reaches for her sister's hands, squeezing them. "When I went with the F'meeqi to go explore those ruins father found," she says. "Not that long ago. We found trouble. There was a demon, some cultists. At the end, when it was all done, the demon was no more, and ..." she pauses briefly. "I had this mark on my head, and all that goes with it." She doesn't feel right telling her sister Sarye's secret as well, even if he's not actually trying to keep it secret.
Khadiga doesn't struggle to pull her hands away, though she does look down, like she's struggling with the idea. A moment later, she laughs. "I'm glad to know you're not going mad, then. I was worrying about you, with the running around in the desert and consorting with the F'meeq - who are very noble, no one would question, but a little... crazed, maybe?"
The Night relaxes visibly. "I wouldn't exactly call them that," she says, softly. "And certainly not where they could hear." She flashes a wide smile at her sister in law. "But yes. I ...have reasons."
The young merchant woman inclines her head. "I will not pry too deeply, sister. I can not believe you, of all people, would be demonic. You have been so very /kind/ to me." She smiles slightly, something hidden in her eyes. "So I will trust you some more." She squeezes Imtithal's hands in return, finally. "I had come in here to ask you about some of the expenditures and whether they were really needed, but, I will assume..."
"I have reasons, yes," Imtithal answers, dryly. "But it's not all spending father's money, I assure you. I hadn't had a chance to pull these out yet..." She pauses and goes to a saddlebag casually tossed half under her bed; Imtithal follows her father's example of paying the servants well, treating them decently, and expecting them to be honest and reasonably loyal in return, and has no fear of thieves. "Here, sister. You should be able to sell these for enough to fund my latest project. You may wish to have them cut first, of course."
From the saddlebag, the Exalt pours out a pile of rough cold stones. Khadiga raises an eyebrow. "Rocks?" she queries, reaching for one, and tilts it from side to side. Her other eyebrow raises as well. "My. Are they all rubies?" she asks. "What, exactly, do you want me to fund with this?"
"A thaumaturgy lab," Imtithal says, with a grin. "I won't need many materials, usually, but it should be stocked for appearances, and occasional use."
Khadiga whistles lowly. "That /will/ be expensive," she says. "But if these gems sell well, we should be able to afford a decent setup. I didn't think... you know... Exalts... -needed- thaumaturgy anymore."
Imtithal shrugs. "Might as well say I don't need a house, or a horse, or a family," Imtithal says. "It is true that I have other ways of doing things, but it still has uses, and it's something I've always enjoyed dabbling in."
The merchant-woman spreads her hands. "As you wish, sister," she says. "But I note that if you would be willing to make extras, we could certainly sell some potions, possibly for a good profit. We'll have to discuss the materials and the output sometime, to see what would sell the best over component costs."
Imtithal smiles. "Anything," she comments. "I don't need many materials. I have advantages now."
The look on Khadiga's face is not quite greed. "Don't need components to produce thaumaturgy?" she asks, her lips curling up. "One hundred percent profit? You WILL make me some to sell, please?"
Imtithal nods slowly.
Khadiga smiles and stands again, scooping the gem-bearing rocks back into the bag. "Then... oh, I have so much research to do to figure out what you should make, and find the best prices for the equipment, and sell these gems..." She gives a quick and impulsive hug to her Exalted sister. "I'm so glad everything is okay," she says, and heads for the door, leaving Imtithal just a little confused about exactly what happened.
------------
Sarye waves the Singing Crystal Cutter once more in salute to the rapidly vanishing Imtithal, watching her race across the dunes on Aurora's back, a shadow of speed and flight in the lengthening shadows of her holy time-- the comings and goings of the Night. As his salute ceases, a playful thought occurs to him, and he shows off briefly for his kin. As the salute fades, so too does the Cutter, golden essence radiating through it as it dissipates into Elsewhere like a sand tower blown away by the wind.
As Sarye carefully banishes his sword to Elsewhere, he feels the resonance of Essence sing. The single mote he used to invoke the Charm creates a phantom, flickering circle of light on his forehead-- hardly visible-- but it sparks a song of power in his mind. Now lost in meditation, not even considering the shocked looks of his F'meeqi tribes-folk, he follows the resonance through the entirety of his arms and armor.
The holy, brilliant glow that surrounds the Zenith's armor begins to whirl, motes streaming in and out of visibility as they glimmercatch the sacred Celestial Battle Armor that fuels them. The radiance extends out, further and further, to catch every limb, even the stern orichalcum Thunderbolt Shield slung on his back. In a flash, the wind seems to pass from whirl to gust, always in some curious direction away from any of the onlooking simhata herders, no matter where they are in relation to Sarye as it blows his power armor and shield off to the notspace of Elsewhere.
The moment passes, and the F'meeqi stare. Sarye smiles sadly for a second, and then bows extravagantly, white robes flowing around him. "And do not the blessings of the Sun come and go as the time is appropriate?" he says to his kin, breaking the moment with the suggestion of an old song to greet the night and thank the Sun for the day that was and the day that will be. Deflecting the awe of his tribe takes a moment, but Sarye manages it, leading the song triumphantly before placing a hand on the arm of Waleed, his uncle.
"It is the time, Waleed," Sarye intones somberly, and his uncle nods.
"The Khan awaits, brilliant son of swords. Sun light your way."
Sarye returns the blessing as he heads out, "Light find you and keep you." With that, he makes his way up the winding passages to meet his khan once more. Despite only a light breeze, his white robes (recently cleaned) billow lightly, catching motes of light and essence in the folds and whipping around his body lightly. As is the custom of his people, Sarye sings songs-- at this point, ancient heroisms of the whole F'meeqi, in honor of his mission-- to identify himself and his destination as he heads up. The entire temple complex has odd harmonies and dissonances as the singing guides at least half of the F'meeqi at any one time.
As Sarye surmounts the winding steps of the Midala Temple Prime, he hears the 'echo'-- the return in songs from his khan and the khan's guards, welcoming him up. The communication is so smooth that Sarye does not even need to announce himself; indeed, the guards open the door to the cloister that the khan has taken over, with Sarye's implicit permission and welcome, simply singing his introduction, and the list of his deeds in song reaches its crescendo with the Exaltation.
Sarye, for his part, adds briefly the deeds before the fire-manse and the Salamander, then launches into an extravagant praise of the tribe's fidelity over the millenia, holding to the true faith and true honor when others surrendered to the pressures of heresy and time. He takes special care to sing of the wisdom of the khans, using the blanketing quiet of the desert and the long metaphors of unsung songs to hide the truth within the F'meeqi. Sarye's performance actually nets a few rounds of applause from the members of the khan's family, and a slight shift of the khan's veil indicating his own smile.
"Welcome, highest son of the F'meeqi," the khan tells Sarye, and, laughing behind his veil, Sarye replies, "And welcome to the Midala Temple, wisest father of the F'meeqi."
The khan laughs as well and says, "This is a great blessing, son of my kin, desert's blade unbroken. We will keep it safe as you have charged-- as our blood sings for us to do-- and well. The cleansing…" The khan's look darkens. "The cleansing is long in the doing, but I swear by the Sun's Spear and the Golden Lord's shield, the manse itself is helping us."
Sarye bows elegantly again, and replies, "Your oath is heard before the Unconquered, my khan, and so it will be done, if our only tools are our hands and our voices. But I suspect you are right; there is a purity to this place, and a strength of its own-- a pillar holding up the dome of the sky." The khan nods gravely as Sarye continues, "Thank you, my khan, for with the tribe here, I may go out and quest under Sunlit sky without fear for our people's safety. The hands of the Immaculates are harsh, and the Tri-Khan must deal with them, until Heaven sends down the blessed Khakhan."
Jazan Khan raises an eyebrow. "You do not intend to claim the title for yourself, then, song of the scimitar and sand-blowing wind?"
"No, bright khan of the blessed," Sarye replies, "The signs are not right for me to take up that title, nor is that purpose mine." He laughs again, as his people are wont to. "We may split from the main Delzahn at some point over that, but it will be in the family, at least; we are too close to leave forever."
"Indeed, bladesinger. We shall see how things develop, and for now, the F'meeqi once more take up with the simhata of the winds, hidden in the shelter of sand and Sun-- and, of course, this magnificent fortress-temple that we are honored to caretake." Jazan khan smiles, for to melt into the desert-- especially with the eternal supplies of the Midala central manse at their disposal-- is not the hardship for the F'meeqi that it might be for some of the larger tribes.
Sarye nods gravely and smoothes out his robe lightly. "Is there anything else you require, Jazan khan?"
The older F'meeqi considers this for a moment. "Only information, ibn Elrayir. How are we to treat your elegant and accurate sister and her deadly fires?"
"Carefully, Wisest of the Simhatakhans?"
"I was aware of that, son of my people's hope."
"I do not entirely jest, my khan," Sarye replies, and shrugs. "She is a woman, yes, but the F'meeqi have always prided themselves on knowing that women are both more reliable and more dangerous than most Delzahni understand. She is a Solar, yes, but the F'meeqi are not some gold-worshipping cult. We remember that the Sirocco saved us from his kin, and even then, he was most unusual."
The grey-haired khan nods slowly. "I see. So she is more than might be expected, but she still lives within the city-- but does the city hold her heart?"
Sarye ponders his khan's question. "The city has its fingers at her heart, but I fear that it has offended her in some way. As much as the light guides both of our souls, I do not know her well enough to say how deep or how much or why." He laughs for a moment, and then sings the opening verses of 'Tread ye Careful in the Night,' a cautionary children's song.
The khan laughs in appreciation, and the two change the subject, carefully discussing affairs and the management of the Temple.
One of the benefits of reasonable wealth is a hot bath; Imtithal does not live in one of the first age properties that might still have some magical plumbing, but there are servants and kettles and fires and Imtithal has just enjoyed a relaxing soak to get the dust of the desert off her smooth dark skin. Wrapped in a comfortable robe, she's perhaps more relaxed than a Night should be at any time, and as she moves back into her bedroom, she simply says, "Come in," to the knock on her door, without stopping to think.
It is Khadiga, dressed for day in her own robes - she is still wearing the dark blue of mourning. It's been a little longer than custom requires, but as a widow, she is entitled to wear it as long as she wishes. Imtithal, as merely the daughter and sister of the deceased, laid hers off after little more than weeks.
Imtithal smiles at her sister by marriage. "Good morning, sister," she says, inclining her head."
The room is well lit by lamps; Imtithal is not good at scrimping, and since her sister has alleviated her concerns about their finances, she's stopped even trying to save lamp oil. She likes a well lit bedchamber. As she turns towards her sister, her sister drops the stack of paper she was carrying.
Imtithal frowns. "Khadiga?" she asks, coming forward towards her sister.
It takes her a moment to realize that Khadiga is staring at her - and at her forehead,
most particularly. As realization steals across her face, she puts a hand up briefly to cover the slim golden caste mark, and then sighs and says "Blast it," pulling her hand back down. It's too late to hide it. "Khadiga, sister," she pleads. "It's all right."
Khadiga catches her breath, still staring at Imtithal. "Is... that real?" she asks.
Imtithal closes her eyes. "Yes," she admits. "It's real, sister." She moves towards the couch at the edge of the room. "Come sit with me, sister," she says. "You seem a little faint."
The younger woman laughs a little unsteadily. "When did this happen?" she asks, but obediently follows the head of her household towards the seat. "Are the Immaculates right? Did a demon eat your soul?"
Imtithal laughs lightly. "There was a demon. It might have wanted to eat my soul. It most distinctly did not. It got /smote/." She reaches for her sister's hands, squeezing them. "When I went with the F'meeqi to go explore those ruins father found," she says. "Not that long ago. We found trouble. There was a demon, some cultists. At the end, when it was all done, the demon was no more, and ..." she pauses briefly. "I had this mark on my head, and all that goes with it." She doesn't feel right telling her sister Sarye's secret as well, even if he's not actually trying to keep it secret.
Khadiga doesn't struggle to pull her hands away, though she does look down, like she's struggling with the idea. A moment later, she laughs. "I'm glad to know you're not going mad, then. I was worrying about you, with the running around in the desert and consorting with the F'meeq - who are very noble, no one would question, but a little... crazed, maybe?"
The Night relaxes visibly. "I wouldn't exactly call them that," she says, softly. "And certainly not where they could hear." She flashes a wide smile at her sister in law. "But yes. I ...have reasons."
The young merchant woman inclines her head. "I will not pry too deeply, sister. I can not believe you, of all people, would be demonic. You have been so very /kind/ to me." She smiles slightly, something hidden in her eyes. "So I will trust you some more." She squeezes Imtithal's hands in return, finally. "I had come in here to ask you about some of the expenditures and whether they were really needed, but, I will assume..."
"I have reasons, yes," Imtithal answers, dryly. "But it's not all spending father's money, I assure you. I hadn't had a chance to pull these out yet..." She pauses and goes to a saddlebag casually tossed half under her bed; Imtithal follows her father's example of paying the servants well, treating them decently, and expecting them to be honest and reasonably loyal in return, and has no fear of thieves. "Here, sister. You should be able to sell these for enough to fund my latest project. You may wish to have them cut first, of course."
From the saddlebag, the Exalt pours out a pile of rough cold stones. Khadiga raises an eyebrow. "Rocks?" she queries, reaching for one, and tilts it from side to side. Her other eyebrow raises as well. "My. Are they all rubies?" she asks. "What, exactly, do you want me to fund with this?"
"A thaumaturgy lab," Imtithal says, with a grin. "I won't need many materials, usually, but it should be stocked for appearances, and occasional use."
Khadiga whistles lowly. "That /will/ be expensive," she says. "But if these gems sell well, we should be able to afford a decent setup. I didn't think... you know... Exalts... -needed- thaumaturgy anymore."
Imtithal shrugs. "Might as well say I don't need a house, or a horse, or a family," Imtithal says. "It is true that I have other ways of doing things, but it still has uses, and it's something I've always enjoyed dabbling in."
The merchant-woman spreads her hands. "As you wish, sister," she says. "But I note that if you would be willing to make extras, we could certainly sell some potions, possibly for a good profit. We'll have to discuss the materials and the output sometime, to see what would sell the best over component costs."
Imtithal smiles. "Anything," she comments. "I don't need many materials. I have advantages now."
The look on Khadiga's face is not quite greed. "Don't need components to produce thaumaturgy?" she asks, her lips curling up. "One hundred percent profit? You WILL make me some to sell, please?"
Imtithal nods slowly.
Khadiga smiles and stands again, scooping the gem-bearing rocks back into the bag. "Then... oh, I have so much research to do to figure out what you should make, and find the best prices for the equipment, and sell these gems..." She gives a quick and impulsive hug to her Exalted sister. "I'm so glad everything is okay," she says, and heads for the door, leaving Imtithal just a little confused about exactly what happened.
------------
Sarye waves the Singing Crystal Cutter once more in salute to the rapidly vanishing Imtithal, watching her race across the dunes on Aurora's back, a shadow of speed and flight in the lengthening shadows of her holy time-- the comings and goings of the Night. As his salute ceases, a playful thought occurs to him, and he shows off briefly for his kin. As the salute fades, so too does the Cutter, golden essence radiating through it as it dissipates into Elsewhere like a sand tower blown away by the wind.
As Sarye carefully banishes his sword to Elsewhere, he feels the resonance of Essence sing. The single mote he used to invoke the Charm creates a phantom, flickering circle of light on his forehead-- hardly visible-- but it sparks a song of power in his mind. Now lost in meditation, not even considering the shocked looks of his F'meeqi tribes-folk, he follows the resonance through the entirety of his arms and armor.
The holy, brilliant glow that surrounds the Zenith's armor begins to whirl, motes streaming in and out of visibility as they glimmercatch the sacred Celestial Battle Armor that fuels them. The radiance extends out, further and further, to catch every limb, even the stern orichalcum Thunderbolt Shield slung on his back. In a flash, the wind seems to pass from whirl to gust, always in some curious direction away from any of the onlooking simhata herders, no matter where they are in relation to Sarye as it blows his power armor and shield off to the notspace of Elsewhere.
The moment passes, and the F'meeqi stare. Sarye smiles sadly for a second, and then bows extravagantly, white robes flowing around him. "And do not the blessings of the Sun come and go as the time is appropriate?" he says to his kin, breaking the moment with the suggestion of an old song to greet the night and thank the Sun for the day that was and the day that will be. Deflecting the awe of his tribe takes a moment, but Sarye manages it, leading the song triumphantly before placing a hand on the arm of Waleed, his uncle.
"It is the time, Waleed," Sarye intones somberly, and his uncle nods.
"The Khan awaits, brilliant son of swords. Sun light your way."
Sarye returns the blessing as he heads out, "Light find you and keep you." With that, he makes his way up the winding passages to meet his khan once more. Despite only a light breeze, his white robes (recently cleaned) billow lightly, catching motes of light and essence in the folds and whipping around his body lightly. As is the custom of his people, Sarye sings songs-- at this point, ancient heroisms of the whole F'meeqi, in honor of his mission-- to identify himself and his destination as he heads up. The entire temple complex has odd harmonies and dissonances as the singing guides at least half of the F'meeqi at any one time.
As Sarye surmounts the winding steps of the Midala Temple Prime, he hears the 'echo'-- the return in songs from his khan and the khan's guards, welcoming him up. The communication is so smooth that Sarye does not even need to announce himself; indeed, the guards open the door to the cloister that the khan has taken over, with Sarye's implicit permission and welcome, simply singing his introduction, and the list of his deeds in song reaches its crescendo with the Exaltation.
Sarye, for his part, adds briefly the deeds before the fire-manse and the Salamander, then launches into an extravagant praise of the tribe's fidelity over the millenia, holding to the true faith and true honor when others surrendered to the pressures of heresy and time. He takes special care to sing of the wisdom of the khans, using the blanketing quiet of the desert and the long metaphors of unsung songs to hide the truth within the F'meeqi. Sarye's performance actually nets a few rounds of applause from the members of the khan's family, and a slight shift of the khan's veil indicating his own smile.
"Welcome, highest son of the F'meeqi," the khan tells Sarye, and, laughing behind his veil, Sarye replies, "And welcome to the Midala Temple, wisest father of the F'meeqi."
The khan laughs as well and says, "This is a great blessing, son of my kin, desert's blade unbroken. We will keep it safe as you have charged-- as our blood sings for us to do-- and well. The cleansing…" The khan's look darkens. "The cleansing is long in the doing, but I swear by the Sun's Spear and the Golden Lord's shield, the manse itself is helping us."
Sarye bows elegantly again, and replies, "Your oath is heard before the Unconquered, my khan, and so it will be done, if our only tools are our hands and our voices. But I suspect you are right; there is a purity to this place, and a strength of its own-- a pillar holding up the dome of the sky." The khan nods gravely as Sarye continues, "Thank you, my khan, for with the tribe here, I may go out and quest under Sunlit sky without fear for our people's safety. The hands of the Immaculates are harsh, and the Tri-Khan must deal with them, until Heaven sends down the blessed Khakhan."
Jazan Khan raises an eyebrow. "You do not intend to claim the title for yourself, then, song of the scimitar and sand-blowing wind?"
"No, bright khan of the blessed," Sarye replies, "The signs are not right for me to take up that title, nor is that purpose mine." He laughs again, as his people are wont to. "We may split from the main Delzahn at some point over that, but it will be in the family, at least; we are too close to leave forever."
"Indeed, bladesinger. We shall see how things develop, and for now, the F'meeqi once more take up with the simhata of the winds, hidden in the shelter of sand and Sun-- and, of course, this magnificent fortress-temple that we are honored to caretake." Jazan khan smiles, for to melt into the desert-- especially with the eternal supplies of the Midala central manse at their disposal-- is not the hardship for the F'meeqi that it might be for some of the larger tribes.
Sarye nods gravely and smoothes out his robe lightly. "Is there anything else you require, Jazan khan?"
The older F'meeqi considers this for a moment. "Only information, ibn Elrayir. How are we to treat your elegant and accurate sister and her deadly fires?"
"Carefully, Wisest of the Simhatakhans?"
"I was aware of that, son of my people's hope."
"I do not entirely jest, my khan," Sarye replies, and shrugs. "She is a woman, yes, but the F'meeqi have always prided themselves on knowing that women are both more reliable and more dangerous than most Delzahni understand. She is a Solar, yes, but the F'meeqi are not some gold-worshipping cult. We remember that the Sirocco saved us from his kin, and even then, he was most unusual."
The grey-haired khan nods slowly. "I see. So she is more than might be expected, but she still lives within the city-- but does the city hold her heart?"
Sarye ponders his khan's question. "The city has its fingers at her heart, but I fear that it has offended her in some way. As much as the light guides both of our souls, I do not know her well enough to say how deep or how much or why." He laughs for a moment, and then sings the opening verses of 'Tread ye Careful in the Night,' a cautionary children's song.
The khan laughs in appreciation, and the two change the subject, carefully discussing affairs and the management of the Temple.