Dark Seduction RPG

[piosenniel]

Durelin's Post:

The Priestess, Sevora, walked swiftly through the dimly lit corridor. She wore long robes of a sickly dark red, the color of dried blood, and of a black as in the deep dark of an endless abyss. They swayed without a sound. Around her head was a band made of a black wiry metal made to look like a strip of thorns. The tips of the spikes were the same blood red as her robes. At the end of the dark hallway was a large door of black iron leading into what was known as The Hall of the Black Sage. The corridor was meant to represent the long dark path of a life of a priest or priestess of the Dark Religion. At the end stood the gate to "wisdom". The door reminded them of the reward, for reward they saw it as. A sick, twisted state of mind where good and evil stood not. There stood only power, in their eyes, but blood and dark to the eyes of the sane. Their "wisdom" results in an everlasting death. Those large black iron doors did lead to that "wisdom," or the greatest example of the grotesque state of mind: the High Priest of the Dark Citadel.

Sevora reached the "gateway" and heaved the doors open, sending a loud, vibrating clang of iron striking iron around the hall, as they hit the black walls of The Hall of the Black Sage. At the harsh sound, the priestess smirked, a small curl of her lip. Her presence deserved to be announced, in one way or another. She stepped up to a small set of stairs leading up to a miniature stage covered by a putrid off-white color curtain, much like the pale skin of a corpse. On either side were large black chairs with the same thorny effect as Sevora’s headband, also with the bloodied tips. In them sat two old men of the Haradrim in robes the same color as the curtain. They were the councilors of the High Priest.

"Ah," came an oily voice from behind the curtain, "Sevora, one of the most beloved of The Priesthood of the Eye. I am glad you have answered my calling so promptly. I have important work for you." The voice had an uncanny hiss to it, behind all of the oil. It had the habit of making the listener feel that he or she is covered in muck, a nastiness that they needed to wipe off. But the priestess had heard this voice all too often. She was a loyal and valuable servant to her Lord of Darkness, her "God". Her reckless and blood - thirsty nature had brought her high in the order of the Eye, and she was overwhelmingly proud of that. No, yet again, she was called to serve the Eye, for she was eternally anxious to.

"Thank you, O Wisest one to the Eye," Sevora began a cold voice that seemed on the verge of screaming in rage, and bowing low to the ground, "for counting me, as a lowly servant, worthy of being in your presence. And furthermore, in giving me the privilege to serve our Dark Lord in a stronger way than my daily worships. I will not fail the Eye or the Priesthood. Death first, shall I taste." That was one of the greatest teachings of the twisted priests, "Coldness of death before burning shame of failure." Sevora had always had a way with words, buttering up those fat with groveling servants and riches. How else would she have gotten this far? The High Priest had because of his blood. He was a Dark Numenorean, one of the ruling class of Harad.

"I know of your unceasing loyalty, that is why I have chosen you for this," the oily voice hissed. But now the source of it was revealed. The pale curtain lifted to show a man with skin as pale as the curtain, if not paler. The skin on his face was tightly fitted over his bones, so that his bald resembled a skull. He was dressed in robes of black with a large collar ticking up behind his skull-like head. The collar also followed the thorny style, with large spikes rising above the "skull," tips of a bloody red. The red opal on the man's forehead completed the grotesque appearance with its innumerable shades of color swirling about like fire. This was the High Priest of the Dark Citadel. The "wisest" and most powerful of The Priesthood of the Eye.

"As you are well aware," the High Priest continued, "The War is beginning that we have long awaited, greatly desired," his eyes flashed with a lust for the war that would bring him so much power. "The Eye needs followers to fulfill his destiny to rule all. There are nomadic tribes in the outlands, ones your people, the Haradrim have long met to trade with. Now we will bring them the one true faith. They will serve for our purposes, but…" he paused for a moment with hungry eyes staring at something in his own mind, as if he were looking upon his next words. "But, you will meet some resistance, of that I am sure. The tribesmen are a stubborn race of barbarians, though most can be seduced. Of course, as our Priestess of the Sacrifice…you should manage admirably." The High Priest stopped and looked at Layla-Abida. Her eyes were filled with excitement. He smiled, a small cruel smile, at her hunger to deal out death. She returned his smile with one of immense cruelty and lust for bloodshed.

"You will need an escort," the "wisest" went on, bringing the priestess back to the present. "I have already sent a notice around the city. We cannot spare any of our guards here." He frowned at this, and his skin stretched downward making his eyes seem to bug out of his head. "You should also chose two of our priests to accompany you. Make sure they are of the understanding, and, hopefully, are of the warriors." The High Priest's eyes moved to Sevora once again, this time with a commanding look, as she replied coldly, "Yes, O Wisest of the Dark."

"Good," he said firmly, "You are dismissed, you must begin preparations at once."


"Yes, O Greatest Servant to the Eye," she answered with a different praising title for the High Priest. She bowed low, then turned sharply and walked swiftly and silently out of the great hall, back into the dim corridor. At last! she thought, I will get to ardently serve The Eye. I will bring Him men to serve Him, and slaughter those who refuse the Dark Lord. It will feel good to take blood from filthy infidels once again! Gliding down the dark hallway The Red Flame giggled like a little girl at the thought.

[piosenniel]

Arien's post:

Dristi walked in to the dimly lit square room. The far right side was raised, with crimson and black fabrics strewn around the higher level. There was a step covered in candles and then the floor which was painted blood red. The ceiling was high, and it was so dark it seemed as though it extended on into eternity. The walls were pitch black but had various weapons across them. Her figure slowly walked to the higher level, the smell and the smoke of incense whirled around her shrouded form. Dristi took her place on her cushions and then clicked her fingers.

“You may enter,” she said slyly. Five frightened priests entered the room, all in traditional dress. “You know why you are here do you not?” she did not wait for an answer although a few of them nodded, “ You are here to fight, each other. One of you will survive,” she smiled, “.. just one. You are being punished, rather than being sacrificed you will die failing. But I think it is quite fun. Welcome to the Sanctuary of Death, one but all of you will die on the Floor of Bloodshed and they will be forgiven for their crime.”

She looked at each of the priests, they looked absolutely distressed with the thought of killing their associates. “It is the only way you will learn!” she shouted at them, her voice echoed through the sanctuary. Then all was still.

“This is stupid…” whispered one of the priests.

Dristi had heard, her head lolled to the side and she gracefully got up. Slowly she walked down to the floor and up to the priest who had said it.

“Ohh, we have a smart one?” she said cynically looking the man in the eyes. Slowly she lifted her robe and took out one of her knives. She brushed it across the priests face then rocked it back and forth across his head, “Whished you hadn’t said it now, don’t you?” she put her hands on the mans shoulders and whispered into his ear. “I wont kill you, I like you. A lot.” the man smiled but he should have known better than to trust her, “I tell you what, I will kill the rest and then we can…” she wrapped her hands around him and then withdrew away and kissed him on the lips. She turned her back and the man was smiling intently, but the rest of the priests looked horrified. This man did not know what he had coming for him.

“Thank you,” he said trying to catch his breath which was now short and shallow from facing near death.

She turned round, the other priests stood awkwardly watching the spectacle. She came up close to him, kissed him once more. She clenched her knife in her fist, drove it deep into his heart. She released the knife from her grasp, he fell backwards and as he lay on the floor blood poured out from his mouth and the wound. “Opps, my hand slipped!” she said to the other shrugging her shoulder, “And he was so looking forward to it!” she took her soaked dagger from the now dead man and went back to her level, she cleaned it, then Dristi stared at the slaves “Take it away! You get to survive, count yourselves lucky!”

They left and she was alone by herself. She smiled and closed her eyes. For a while she stayed and prayed to the Eye.

"Oh Dark Lord, give me the strength to kill for you, to hate for you, to punish for you, to meet all of your deeds without faliure. My heart, my soul is always eternally yours...forever"

[piosenniel]

Arelindel's post:

Naramarth moved silently through the dark, shadowy corridors of the dark citadel, his feet making little sound as he strided between the shadows. Banners of blood red hang down the walls, still and foreboding in the dry, hot air trapped inside the citadel’s walls. The air burnt his lungs, a feeling which Naramarth loved. His hands went to his throat adjusting the ties that held his cloak in place, the hem of which was trailing lifelessly on the floor, making a soft swishing sound as he walked.

Naramarth quickened his pace, clenching his pale hands beneath his robes, something was happening in this place, the air had become drier recently if that was possible and whatever the change, Naramarth intended to use it to his advantage.

Naramarth suddenly stopped at a banner. He looked it up and down, admiring the work that had been done. He smirked to himself to see drops of blood on it, and not old blood, dry and hard but fresh, it made his skin crawl; tingle even with pleasure. One of the priestess had been playing with the slaves again. He cackled to himself as he continued on. The word had been spread that there was going to be a ‘trip’ to deal with the rebels of the desert. Naramarth hoped to be one the priests chosen to go. He would take great pleasure in dealing with the rebels who stood against the will of his Dark Lord and God. His hand reached through the folds of his robe, his pale skin glistened with oil even though the skin was brittle. He rubbed his hands together, loving the sound of skin against skin and bones snapping back into place. He was ready to honour his God and destroy the forces that stood against him.

Finally Naramarth reached the end of the corridor, in front of him stood a huge pair of doors. Glistening in the candle light to shone on them. They were made of dark metal like most important doors in the citadel. They were huge, reaching up to the ceiling, shrouded in mist and shadow that always hung from the roof beams. His hand ran over the design cut into the door; a huge eye lidless, rimmed with flame. Naramarth’s heart soared as he pushed against the weight of the door. Of all the chambers of the priesthood this was the biggest, the most important save the temple where they prayed and worshipped their God. This was the meeting hall and this was where Naramarth’s adventure would begin.

[piosenniel]

Lyra's post - Sammael

Sammael laughed, showing white teeth. He had noticed that this was one very effective way to catch a woman’s attention. It worked, she was watching him.
”More ale” he called to the tavern maid, flashing her a smile that often did the same job.

“Could you not just have called her? Why all this grinning like a lackwit?” Sammael glanced at Damodred. His voice sounded cranky, but that was nothing new. Sammael had worked with the old man for years, and although he might have begun with the idea that Sammael was not a warrior, he certainly knew different now.

“A smile now might lead to better things later” he said, giving an exaggerated wink. A few of the men around the rickety table laughed.
“Deal the cards, then, if you’re not scared I will take you for all you’re worth” Sammael continued, giving another wink to the maid as she brought the pewter jugs.
“Indeed, young man? There may come a day yet when you beat me, but I do not think it will be today!”

Sammael chuckled along with Damodred. It was true, he had little talent at cards, except for tricks. Still, it was fun and he had money from raiding. What else was it good for but having fun? And new weapons. Idly Sammael stroked the hilt of his new curved sword as Damodred shuffled the cards. A scimitar, the dealer had called it- from some far off land. It had a good weight, it looked good and seemed deadly. Yes, he considered, life was generally good. He could have been stuck holding up fabrics or jewels for traders, like his father.
I might never have known the sublime feeling of the fight, the victory! he thought, with an inward shudder. I might have…married. Relief filled him. Why would you want to limit yourself to one woman? That tavern maid had a pretty face, but then so did the other. And the woman sitting with her husband in the corner. Admittedly, men were not expected to be faithful, but there were obligations, responsibilities. Yes, children were nice but he had three nephews and four nieces! Who needed more? No, life was good as it was. In fact-

“Are you going to sit there mooning over a pretty face all night?”
Damodred’s prickly voice cut through his dreams. Nightmares! he corrected himself with a grimace, then picked up his hand. As usual it was terrible, as a far too expressive face told Damodred clearly. The old man shook his head.

******

“Join our quest to the Southlands. A chance to fight for the glory of the Eye and the progression of Umbar. Fight the barbarians and turn them to the true path-guard the Priestess and help her in her mission. Conquer the lands of the Heathen and gain their support or provide their destruction. The Glory of the Dark Citadel to all who follow us. Make yourself known to the guards there. Glory to the Eye”
The voice of the Guard stopped intoning the proclamation and began to roll up his scroll.

Sammael had listened consideringly, lowering his head respectfully at the mention of the Eye. The man had the light of someone who served the Eye burning in his eyes. Sammael admired him. He would have volunteered as a Guard for the Dark Citadel if they led a more exciting life. And, of course, if they had more time to spend in the inns of the city. After considered thought he had judged he was probably best doing what he knew, but he sometimes felt he wasn’t doing enough. This journey would offer a chance to serve the Eye, which he sometimes felt he neglected, but also provide the more practical adventure he loved.

He turned to Damodred. The little man was watching him, head cocked to one side like a bird.
“Well?” he asked, “This seems right up your street, Sammael. Are we in?”
Sammael nodded slowly, then broke into his trademark grin.
“Yes. We’re in. Come on, let’s go up to the Citadel”

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Lyra's post - Essenia

Essenia scowled as she walked through the town, dark eyes showing only suppressed anger. So far that morning she had had to draw her knife on three Corsairs who could only think of one reason why a pretty young woman would be walking where she was. One of them had lost his left hand. She sighed; it was a shame when that sort of thing happened to men that were fighting for Umbar. She never had any regrets harming anyone else. If they were not from Umber then what was the point of them existing? Soon, she hoped, she would again have the chance to fight for her country.

Ahead Essenia saw a man with a well made cloak of expensive material. Something of the way he walked reminded her of her odious husband. Her heart began to beat faster, but she refused to put up her cowl. If Taine was meant to find her, he would. And she had her daggers, seven in various spots, with which she could take her life. Surprisingly she had no desire to kill Taine. Perhaps it was the only consideration she showed to her children, not to take away both of their parents. With little emotion she watched the man turned to take a side road. Essenia let out a breath she had not realised she had been holding. The bearded man was certainly not Taine, and not one of his friends either. In fact, though, that was another reason to leave the town. Fate would catch her, if it wanted, but there was no harm reducing the likelihood. On a ship or in a raiding party there would never be any chance of meeting Taine. Essenia nearly smiled at the thought of her husband getting his hands dirty with any sort of work, let alone fighting. The fool man could barely kill a spider. Her gaze darkened. Not even for the sake of Umbar. People like him were almost as pointless as outlanders.

“-for the glory of the Eye and the progression of Umbar. Fight the barbarians and turn them to the true path-“
The voice cut through Essenia’s thoughts. Glancing up she saw a man from one of the temples to the Eye, the usual fevered light burning in his own eyes. She was irritated by these men, who had chosen another’s glory over that of Umbar. They could very well talk about the progression of Umbar, but it came second to their Eye. She followed the Eye as well as any other in Umbar, it was a habit she had grown up with, but only so far as it benefited her land. Still, she pushed herself to the front of the small crowd.
“-guard the Priestess and help her in her mission. Conquer the lands of the Heathen and gain their support or provide their destruction. The Glory of the Dark Citadel to all who follow us. Make yourself known to the guards there. Glory to the Eye”
Essenia contemplated what the man had said. In truth she had heard only half of his announcement, but she felt the familiar excitement. New lands for Umbar, new glory for the Corsairs. Personal glory meant little to her, especially as she had to remain hidden. It rankled that she would, in fact, be serving the Dark Religion first and foremost, but the benefits for Umbar… Then she realised. No ships. No having to hide the nausea each time they bounced over a swell- the only remaining sign of her cosseted early life. For the second time in less than half an hour Essenia almost smiled.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Nerindel's post:

Ghurdan walked through the city streets of Umber with his latest offerings for the Dark one, Two Elven females and three Gondorian males from Dol Amroth. He yanked hard on the chains that bound them together, forcing them to quicken their pace. He was in a foul mood, This last raid had began well and the bounty was rich, but on the return journey he had been forced to throw half the plunder over board when Three war ships from Dol Armoth gave chase. They had managed to evade their enemies even sinking one of their ships, but not before they had damaged the Fire Spray's aft and downed her main mast. The Fire Spray had limped into port in a bad way, Ghurdan was mad with fury, but as he had also lost more than half his crew he could not afford to take it out on them. It was going to take at least an month to repair, this only made him madder but he gritted his teeth and hauled the prisoner up from the hull, shouting various orders to his crew, he knew they would obey him, as he kept their pockets lined with gold, but more than that they feared what he would do to them if they did not carry out his orders.


As he walked through the city he growled at passers-by in the hope that one of them would challenge him, so he would have someone to vent his anger on. But none of the passers-by would oblige him instead they lowered their heads and hurried passed or they crossed the street keeping out of the Corsairs way. Ghurdan, The Black Heart was well known and feared by the people of Umbar. "Cowards the lot of them" he spat, as he again yanked the prisoners chains. One of the Elven women stumbled and fell to her knees, He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to her feet, shouting viciously "Get up elf witch". As he pulled her up she spat in his face, her actions had finally broke his temper and he slapped her hard across the face, breaking her nose and leaving the fiery imprint of his hand on her delicate white skin. He was slightly surprised that the woman had not passed out, but he did not show it. Instead he prodded her roughly with the tip of his spear, making her stumble again but this time she was quicker to rise. A satisfied grin spread across his face as she rose.


When they reached the Citadel the usual Priest was there to meet him. he was an average sized man with short black hair, Wearing the normal Black and dried blood red robes of his order. A black mace with red spikes hung from his belt and Ghurdan did not doubt that he knew how to use it.

"So what gifts have you brought your god today," The priest hissed excitedly. Without replying he pushed the prisoners forwards.
"Ah, three Gondorians and two Elves. Yes, his exhaltedness will be most pleased." he said examining the prisoners, "This one is damaged" he hissed holding the elf woman's face and turning it to him. "She was insolent" he calmly replied. The priest said nothing and moved on to inspect the others.

The priest then turned to his young apprentice spitting on him as he spoke " Take the Woman to be prepared and take the men to be questioned!" The young man bowed low and then took the prisoners away, as he went two Citadel guards fell in behind them.

The Priest reached down and pulled a large money pouch from his robes and threw it to Ghurdan. Showing no emotion what so ever he caught it, the weight seemed right so he didn't bother to count it. He nodded to the priest waiting to be dismissed , but the priest now had something else in his hands and was grinning wickedly. It was a scroll, "A message from the High priest himself" the man hissed pushing the scroll into his hands and hurrying from the room. Ghurdan slowly unrolled the scroll, reading the blood red lettering on the page.
_____________________________________________

Black Heart

The Black Citadel again requires your capable skills, we wish you to accompany the Priestess Sevora, The Red Flame and two other priests or priestesses of her choosing.

They will be going to recruit new followers from a nomadic dessert tribe in the outlands, south of Harad. Your job is to kill any resistors and ensure the safety of the priestesses and or priests. Sevora is a valued member of our order and her safety is your utmost priority, not That we think she needs any protection but she will be travelling with six other warriors that may think the killing of a priestess will elevate their position and reputation!

Be at the Citadel's courtyard, when the sun is at it's highest in the sky.

Failure will incur the wrath of The Eye

High Priest of the Eye.
_____________________________________________

As he finished reading he realised that his hand had gone instinctively to the scare on his left cheek, the scar that Sevora herself had given him. As he ran his fingers along it he chuckled to himself , not only would he be serving his Dark lord again but he would be travelling with the woman that was most defiantly his match in strength and cruelty. With that thought he returned to the Fire Spray, to make ready for the journey ahead.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel's post:

It was early evening. Families were gathered in front of their tents, eating the day’s end meal. Children laughed and ran among the groups, stealing a bit of flat bread here, a slice of fruit there. The elders clucked at them in mock remonstrance, their wide bright smiles belying any real anger.

‘Little birds,’ they called out to them, ‘why do you steal a poor man’s last crumbs!’

The children shrieked with laughter at the question, their voices trailing off as they ran wildly into the tall grass toward the last rays of the setting sun.

Jamíla picked at her food as she watched the children. Though the approaching night was warm, she felt a chill creep across her shoulders. ‘Some unlucky breeze from the north,’ she thought to herself, though glancing up, the tall grass of the plains stood deathly still against the last inches of light, the tip of each stalk seeming to burn with a reddish glow. She shook her shoulders trying to shake off the cold feeling, and placed her right palm against her heart to ward off evil.

Until a very few years ago, life for her had gone smoothly. There were birthings to be seen to, and dying to be eased. Women seeking husbands, wanting babies. Men seeking wives, better fortunes, greater luck in the hunt. Rites of passage to be seen to. The ordinary things that made a full, good life for her.

But then came the first hints of shadow and despair. First on the ashy wind that blew sometimes from the north, bringing a faint sharp, bitter smell, then in the darkness that grew in her readings as she cast the bones to augur at the new moon’s rising. And now, among many of the young, a festering shadow had crept in to devour their spirits.

Jamílah stood and beckoned for her daughters to stand also. ‘Call your children in,’ she told them in a low, urgent voice. ‘Call them quickly. Keep them close. Some shadow comes for us, and soon . . . with bloodied hands . . .’

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid's post:

The rock had been growing steadily larger out of the flat and open grasslands all day. Now, as Ahmad bin Ishak rode into its shadow, it towered over him, a stark and craggy spike of granite in a sea of waving prairie grass. The rock, or the Tooth as his tribe called it, represented the last solid landmark before one entered the region of the shifting sands. With the tiny spring bubbling at its base, it also represented the last source of fresh water for miles.

Sensing the nearness of water, Ahmad's mount, a golden bay stallion called Sham, knickered softly and pulled at the reins. A trill of excitement ran down the string of horses he led as well. Ahmad smiled.

"Yes," he said in his own dialect. "All of you will be seeing water and rest before you know it." He reached down and patted Sham's neck.

The horse responded by shaking his small, graceful head and dancing a few steps sideways. Ahmad's smile broadened. Absently, he gave the horse's glistening neck an extra caress and dismounted.

"We've made good time," he added softly, but all the while, his dark, amber-flecked eyes scanned the horizons. A scorching wind blew in from the north, but there was nothing other than sand and swaying grasses as far as the eye could see. At least that is what he thought at first, but his attention was caught by what seemed to be movement, a cloud of dust, growing against the southern horizon. That should be his kinsman, Yusef al Rahman, riding up to join him. They were to take on the region of the sand together. Leaving the shadow of the rock, Ahmad moved a few steps toward the distant dust cloud. Whoever it was, he was riding hard and fast.

Ahmad had initially planned to camp at the rock that night and wait until dusk of the following day before entering the open sand. From there, he and Yusef would travel due north until they reached the Fatwa Oasis. A large and busy oasis, it was the ideal place for them to resupply from the traders who seemed to have semi-permanent encampments there. Also, it would give the horses a chance to rest, not to mention himself an opportunity to catch up with the news from the rest of the world. He planned to make the journey from the rock to the oasis at night when there were stars to guide them, and there was some respite from the oppressive heat. After all, they couldn't very well deliver a string of starving and heat-ravaged animals to the King of Harad. Some gift that would make... an insult more likely.

Keeping one eye on the rapidly approaching dust cloud in the south, Ahmad saw to the horses. Once they had been watered and tethered out to graze, he pitched his own tent and built a small fire. In addition to Sham and his packhorse, Ahmad had in his charge five saddlehorses that were intended as a gift to the King of Harad from Ahmad's father, the headman of the Painted Sand Tribe. Actually, the horses were not so much a gift as a bribe. For years, Ahmad's tribe had sent a tribute of horses to Umbar. Small and fast, they were better suited to the desert than the great horses of Rohan far to the north. As a result, the Painted Sand horses were much sought after in the region and considered immensely valuable. In return for the annual gift of horses, the tribe received a relative lack of interference from the Haradrim in general and were pretty much left to themselves to do as they would. But lately...

Ahmad glanced up at the now darkening sky. Lately, a shadow had fallen across the land and was spreading rapidly across the desert. Rumors told of a Red Eye and of how in the cities, fearful acolytes preached a new religion, one of bloodshed and stygian doom. New converts flocked to its banner every day. Even among the members of his own relatively isolated tribe, he had noticed a stark factionalism growing between the traditionalists and the followers of the new faith. The young men especially, many of them Ahmad's own peers, had taken to wearing their weapons openly. They refused to tend to the horses as they had always done in the past, preferring instead to hang together in packs on the fringes of the encampment, fingering their daggers and watching. Waiting. They reminded Ahmad of jackals.

Ahmad's father, Ishak bin Ishak, had noticed this, too, and been concerned enough to send Ahmad north with an additional string of horses. Ahamd found himself wondering if they were not already too late. After all, the moral decay had already infected the blood of his kinsmen. Soon it would eat away at the bone.

At first, Ahmad had been relieved to take on the task of delivering the horses, but now, two days out from his tribe's encampment, he worried for the safety of his aging parents and of his two sisters, Chani and Shushila. He should have stayed at their sides and let another play the part of messenger boy to the king.

Having laid out his camp, Ahmad again walked toward the rising dust cloud in the south. The rider would be upon him shortly. Ahmad could now hear clearly the hoofbeats of the galloping horse. He waited. Moments later, the rider reined his black mount to an abrupt halt before Ahmad. Caked in dust and sweat, his face fully covered but the eyes by his headshawl, the rider leapt from his horse. Quickly, he approached Ahmad. Crossed swords clanked softly under his robe.

"Hail, kinsman!" he said breathlessly. It was Yusef.

"Hail, cousin," replied Ahmad. His eyes flicked to the lathered flanks of the black horse. "You have been riding hard. What are the tidings? What prompts such urgency?"

Yusef lowered the tail of his headshawl to reveal his dark, dusty face. "Things go ill with our tribe. The night you left there was a knifing. Your father has the guilty man bound and under guard, but there are rumblngs of anger, especially among our peers. We must return at once."

Immediately, Ahmad pictured the hungry, watchful eyes of the Jackals, as he had come to think of them. He had known there would be trouble. He should never have left. "And my father? How is he?"

"Angry. He never walks the camp unguarded. Guards watch your family's compound at all times."

"And my mother? My sisters?"

"They are well and safe for the moment."

For the moment, echoed Ahmad mentally. "We return at once," he said brusquely. "There are dates and dried meats by the fire. Feed yourself while I break camp. We will move your saddle to another horse and start back immediately." Without giving Yusef a chance to respond, he turned and vanished into his tent. The first items he reached for were his swords. With the camp broken and fresh horses saddled, they were riding southward again within the hour, the great rock sinking into the grassland behind them like a fading memory.

[ June 06, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Aylwen's post:

“It hasn’t rained in four months,” Jasara’s grandmother spoke, from behind the tent’s curtain. A young Jasara lay scrunched up, under warm sheets that protected her from the night’s deathly chill. The memory was so real; Jasara felt she could almost touch the silky curtain that separated the areas of the tent.

“It will rain in two days. It will flood, or almost,” little Jasara whispered, repeating what something inside the girl had told her. Quick as lightning the curtain flew back, and her father’s worry-wrinkled face was visible.

“What did you say?” Her father grumbled, and the younger Jasara repeated the prediction. Her father dismissed the crazy ramblings of his tiny daughter, and returned to his meeting with the most important leaders of their large nomadic tribe.

Suddenly, Jasara woke from her dream, sweating. The sky was above her, and in the sleep-bag next to hers belonged to her ‘second-in-command’. All around her laying strewn about the short grasslands were the younger members of the nomadic tribe. They had long ago refused to use tents, justifying that they would rather ‘be eaten by the hungry beasts of the Eye than sleep in the way of the elders’.

Jasara remembered the outcome of her memory. The children of the tribe praised her and worshipped her like she was some deity when the rain came two days later. The leaders of the tribe dismissed the prophecy as though Jasara had never spoken up that night. Jasara would not forget that time; the time she had first seen the Eye in her dreams. It had a voice, this lidless eye did, and it haunted her. Whispering to Jasara in her dreams, it would tell her things…things that Jasara would not know any other way. Jasara told no one what haunted her so many nights and days.

The tribe was split in two. The children and the young adults of the wandering barbarians rarely listened to the pride-stricken elders. It had brought fury to the minds of the younger generation that the wisest of their kin would not believe a vision when it hit them in the face. They all thought it was because they were the young, the hopeless, and the stupid. All the young despised the elders, who believed that the young were so stupid that they’d need to be protected forever.

Jasara had become the appointed leader of the Young, and they worshipped Jasara and her ideas…or at least the ideas she conveyed. The girl had become their leader. Jasara did not return to sleep, and sat to watch the sun rise.

“Something wrong, Jasara? We can sleep for almost an hour still,” A boy nearby spoke raptly, and rolled over in his sleep-bag.

“Nothing is wrong. I just can’t sleep.” Jasara got up from under her blankets and pulled on the boots she had stolen from one of the old warriors, who had died shortly after the theft. Jasara rolled up her sleep-pack, and carried it with her as she walked towards the nearby creek. The short, dry grass crunched under her feet as she neared the creek.

Another day begins, I see. A hoarse, deathly whisper sounded in Jasara’s mind. Jasara nodded grimly, and went on to wash her face in the cool, clear stream.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Sophia's post:

The sun rose red over the eastern horizon, and Khasia was awake early. Jasara’s stirring had woken her, and she looked up to hear her softly telling one of the boys that nothing was wrong. Khasia gazed after Jasara as she strode toward the stream, wondering what was on her sister’s mind that woke her so early. Jasara was often distracted.

Khasia lay still for a long moment, savoring the feeling of her warm blankets before the day’s hot work began. Then she stretched and crawled out of her sleep bag. The same boy who had spoken to Jasara sat up again. “You too, Khasia?” he asked. Khasia bundled her sleep bag up and tied it securely before prodding the boy with her toe.

“It’s a fine morning, lazy, and I’m going to run.” Khasia loved to run, just for the feeling of it, and she often ran in the mornings before the sun turned too hot. It gave her solitude—a chance to get away from the irritating fawning of the other young people on her sister. She used the quiet to plan as well. Jasara couldn’t always be right, and where she failed Khasia intended to be right.

This morning was no different than most, and Khasia ran through the short grasses, her bare feet sending up small clouds of dust as they pounded the sunbaked ground. Her shoulder length hair was in braids and the hard knots of fabric she’d used to tie them off bounced against her neck as she ran. When she was a good distance from the tribe’s camp Khasia slowed. She was near the creek, north of the place where Jasara had been headed. When she reached the water she dropped to the ground and drank thirstily. A few of the small berries that grew on the low bushes beside the creek were a sweet reward after her run.

Khasia sat there for a few moments, thinking about the day ahead. It would be long and filled with irritating orders from people whose minds were as wrinkled and faded as their faces. Her face twisted and she spit the seed from a berry into the dirt, burying it absently with a brown toe. For now it must be endured. There weren’t enough of the young people to leave the old and start again. Safety resided in numbers, and for now the old ones were at least good for that.

Setting her face Khasia rose and made her way back to camp. Her pace was a slow jog, giving her plenty of time to mull over her thoughts while she ran. She gave the sun another glance, it’s color still red long after it would usually have turned a fierce yellow. The day was going to be strange, Khasia thought, and wondered vaguely what it would hold.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Helkahothion's post

Thorgom walked away from the camp for a bit. He had enough of all those man telling tales by the fire. Always talking about things they had done in the early days, too much of cowards to do other things. Thorgom hated those men. He was one of the few that would only brag about his body and his strength. People called him arrogant, but why would he deny the facts? He sat down and started taking out his frustration on a nearby tree. He bashed and smashed, cutting it into neat logs.

He placed his axe back on his back and took the logs. He went back to the fire and placed them with the firewood. He sat down with the others. One of the men, a little worm with an arrogant tone of voice, laughed at him.
"Frustrated that you can't do battle again? Why not sit with us and let it go. Your days are over. Everything must end eventually."

Thorgom took one of his throwing axes and it flashed across the fire. The man screamed. Everybody turned to the tree. The man's arm was nailed against it. His wrist pinned with one of Thorgom's axes. Eyes where filled with horror as the big man stood up and walked over to the tree. But he just took out the axe and picked up a burning branch from the fire.
"This might hurt a bit, master big mouth." He mumbled as he placed the fire near the stump that once held the man's hand.

The man screamed and many of the man fled from the fire. Thorgom just smiled at the ignorance. As he looked up, rain was setting in. He left the man with a nasty burn and walked to his tent.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

The Red Flame paced back and forth across the polished black stone floor. Her soft boots made muffled thumps and her robes swished across the stones. The wall of the same stone were hardly visible in the flickering shadows of the windoless room caused by the flames burning from the floor. Lines of man sized holes of fire formed a pathway to the center of the rectangular room, right to a large oval shaped stone carved into the shape of an eye. The Eye, with more path running around it, breaks in the flames on either side. Around the pathway curved large wooden seats made purpously to look charred. Sevora expected they had been. A sweet, misty smoke filled the air, sweet at least to the priestess's sense of smell. She had never been sure what the Keepers burned, but she expected it was a mix of dried blood and spices. She wasn't sure how they burned dried blood, but it still made this her favorite room in the entire Citadel. Today it was even better.

A few moments would bring the priest and priestess she had chosen to accompany her. The High Priest and the High Keeper would also come. It was the High Keeper's responsibility to oversee the meeting, though the High Priest would be the one to conduct it. It was also the man's (it could be a woman, but the postition was held by a man at the moment) job to carry out the Ceremony of the Missions. Whenever any member of the Citadel left on a mission the the Eye they must undergo a marking as a bringer of the faith to the infedel and must be made whole with the Knowledge that brings to them life without death.

The first to enter was the Priest Naramarth, grinning to himself. The man showed too many of his emotions, or perhaps he was just...happy. But all the same, his smile made her feel queasy, for it adorned his face almost constantly. It was such a feeling of pleasure, that queasiness. It felt so good. Yes, she had chosen rightly. The smile hid much. Sevora decided to don her own smile, one with mock warmness, the closest she could come to the real thing. She looked at him, her eyes cold, searching, while she gave him a seemingly warm welcome. "The Eye keep you in his Sight, Priest Naramarth," she said with a bow. Then she gestured to one of the chairs of black wood. "Please, sit in the heat of His burning Sight. May you be soothed by the tongues of his flame."

"I thank you, Priestess Sevora. His flames caress me to bring me life. Let them consume you to bring you eternal pleasure." He made a short bow and seemed to glide down the path surrounded by flames to where the Eye sat in the center of the room. He knelt to kiss it, then stepped around it and through the break in the flames to the right to his seat. Soon the Priestess Dristi arrived, and the process was repeated. After the arrival of the priest and priestess, however, there was no need for the ceremony, and Sevora also sat down. The Keeper did not speak; he was not allowed to. When he was made the High Keeper, the man's tongue was removed, so he only kissed the Eye before he took a seat. But he also gave the High Priest a bow, as did the others when the Highest One entered the meeting hall. The High Priest also had need only to kiss the Eye, since no others present were above him, or his equals. They could not speak to him without him speaking to them first.

This was not the smallest meeting the Hall of Undone Discord had seen, but the large room was still very empty. Every sound echoed to seem louder. A quiet voice was always more effective than shouting. "Ah, may you forever remain in His Sight, Children of the Eye," the High Priest began, smiling to show crooked yellow teeth. "The Red Flame, our Sister Sevora has called upon you to accompany her in her mission to the Eyeto bring the infidels to the Sight..." The High Priest paused a moment, licking his lips before returning them to an even wider smile. "...or to justice." Sevora suppresed the rush of yearning and excitement that ran through her and only smiled. She saw controlling your emotions as a key to power and to the utmost fulfillment of your service to the 'Lord'. "Sevora?" The High Priest turned to the Priestess, bringing her out of her reverie. "I believe you have informed your Brother and Sister of the Sight of what pertains to this mission?"

"Yes, Wisest One to the Eye," she answered, "though, if I may speak?" The High Priest gave her a short nod, and she turned to her 'Sister' and 'Brother'. "The task before us has been explained to you, but if you are not in the fullness of understanding, you must ask to receive that understanding without hesitation." She turned back to the High Priest. "Does the Highest give permission for the Sister and Brother to speak?"

"Yes, they may speak."

[piosenniel]

Dawn had come. The night passed safely through once more, though she had wakened often at the sounds of movement passing between her tents and the tents of her daughters. Jamíla’s hand strayed often to the knife by her pillow. And once she rose into a crouch beside her pallet when the sounds of low voices went whispering past the thin fabric walls. But they had gone on, and only the sounds of the night breezes moving through the grasses, pushing at the sands, filled in the dark silence.

Jamíla rose early from her uneasy dreamings. Tying back the flap of fabric that served as her door, she stepped from her tent. Her muscles were sore from their tense rest, and she stretched them, head to toe, in the pale light of the early day.

The sun, just clearing the edge of the world by a mere finger’s width, was caught in the space between the splayed thumb and first finger of her right hand. She could feel the heat of the new rising day push against her palm, warming, it seemed, the sun tattoo on the back of her hand, between those two fingers. A smile inched up from the corners of her mouth at this.

‘It will be a good day,’ she thought, ‘I have caught the first light.’

Her daughters’ families were already stirring, the sounds of the little ones coming sleepily to her from their tents. Shading her eyes with her hand, she narrowed them, watching as two figures approached from the east. Husam and Nasr, her daughters’ husbands! They drew near, and she could see they had been to the small spring , some distance off, their waterskins dangling from poles across their shoulders.

‘Wife’s-mother!’ Husam’s teeth gleamed white against his dark brown face, smiling, as he greeted her. He sat down his sloshing burden and gave two of the filled skins to her. Not to be outdone, Nasr pulled off a filled skin for her and digging in the pocket of his vest fished out a gift for her.

Caught in a small, twine meshed bag was a scrub lizard. He drew it out carefully, holding it out to her, his eyes glinting with delight. ‘I caught it by the spring, hidden in the grass. It was still cold from the night and could not move quickly enough to make its escape.

She held it on the palm of her hand, admiring the brown body with its cream colored stripes, its belly the color of the white sands. It was a handspan in length and healthy, well fed. Its bright blue tail flicked once and she clasped it more securely, her thumb securing it to her palm.

‘A good sign for this day, Nasr!' The scrub lizard was the totem for her clan. Maneuvering easily between the desert and the savannah, it lived long and well. 'I thank you both!’ She laughed and inclined her head to them, then sent them quickly back to their families to start their own day. Qirfah turned back to her, motioning her to come closer. ‘We almost forgot the best news. We saw the horses of the Painted Sand tribe being led away from the spring as we approached. They are camped a distance east of the spring, I think. We could see their cooking fires in the day’s first light. Ishak ben Ishak’s wife will certainly want to see you.’ They turned to walk back to their tents, Nasr calling back to her. ‘Come eat with us this morning, Wife’s-mother! Naar wishes to show you the little whistle I carved for him.’

She waved him off with a grin, promising she would come. The lizard, still in her fist, had begun to wriggle more as the heat of her hand warmed its blood. ‘No need to fight so,’ she told it. ‘Here,’ she said walking to the back of her tent, ‘I’ll let you go to find your own meal.’ Bending down, she placed it carefully on the ground, watching it scurry south, toward the safety of the taller grasses. Her brow furrowed and she walked slowly across the smoothed dirt and sand of their encampment. The tracks of the hurrying lizard crossed over the tracks of others, many others, and most of them human.

[ August 10, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Nerindel]

On his return to the Fire Spray, Ghurdan had locked himself in his cabin and poured over maps and crew lists, he wished to be well prepared. If this mission involved the red flame he would have to be cautious. He dipped a large black quill into the ink well that sat on his desk and taking a fresh parchment he began to write the names of the men he would be ordering to accompany him on this mission, he eventually had a list of fifteen of his most loyal crew.

A curt knock came from his door, "come" he called without looking up from the list. "you wished to see me, Captain" the young man who was Ghurdan's First mate asked as he entered the room. "Yes" Ghurdan growled, He rose from his seat and handed Zasfal the scroll he had received from the high priest. He watched the young mans dark green eyes widen with a mixture of fear and excitement. He then took the scroll from him and handed him the crew list he had just prepared and in a commanding tone he ordered Zasfal to assemble the men on the list at once. Zasfal turned and left at once to carry out his orders.

As Zasfal walked among the crew gathering together the men on Ghurdan's list he noted that his name was not among then. His face screwed up with anger, He defiantly wanted to be included in this mission,.He knew how much his reputation would increase on his return if they were successful and he did not doubt that they would return. After all they would be travelling with the most notorious and feared Corsair in all of Harad along with fifteen of his strongest and most loyal men.

Once he had gather together all the men on the list he went back to Ghurdan's cabin. He knocked hard on the strong black wooden door "come" was the harsh reply from the other side, stepping inside Zasfal informed Ghurdan that the men were assembled. As Ghurdan got up to leave he saw that Zasfal still stood before him. "What is it" he growled impatiently "Sir, I wish to be included in this mission" he replied gritting his teeth waiting for the mans sneering refusal, but it never came. "Granted" was the captains curt reply, as he walk calmly passed the first mate and exited the cabin to address the gathered men.

A satisfied evil grin was on Ghurdan's face as he left his cabin, he had hope that his ambitious first mate would insist on coming along and he also knew that leaving the young mans name from the list would have annoyed him greatly.

Ghurdan walked up and down the line of men that stood to attention before him, he nodded his head pleased with his choices, then he stood before them and in a loud and commanding voice he began.... "As you are all aware the war has begun and so we are once again being called into the service of our Dark Lord! We are to escort the Priestess Sevora and a few other noted priests, as they spread the word of our lord to the infidel nomadic tribes of the outlands, converting the faithful and eliminating those who dare to resist." at the last words a flash of lust cross his dark eyes. He watched as his men exchanged excited glances Then he continued "You have one hour to make ready and be back here, Dismissed!"

Ghurdan then returned to his cabin to Finnish packing his own gear. Before the hour was up Zasfal had come and reported that the crew where ready to leave. Ghurdan put on his red head scarf and lifted his spear then went out to again inspect his men.

The fifteen well muscled dark skinned men were all clad in black breeches, red opened waistcoats and wore red head scarves. Every man also carried a long black shafted spear much like the one Ghurdan himself carried, they also each carried a sword of their own choosing and a black handled belt knife. As Ghurdan approached, they put their packs on their backs and quickly lined up into five lines of three and awaited their captains order to move out.

Ghurdan took his place at the head of his men beside his already waiting first mate, "Well, Zasfal are you ready to die for your god" he teased, the young man just grunted. Ghurdan then raised his hand in the air and shouted "To the citadel". As he marched his small army through the city he sneered at the people rushing to get out of they're path, and he could hear doors slamming closed as people hid behind them. Zasfal on the other hand was laughing feeding on the fear enjoying the intense feeling of power. Ghurdan noted the young mans lust and made a mental note to keep a close eye on his first mate to make sure he did not try to get over ambitious.

As they marched through the citadels gates to the court yard he was pleased to note that he was the first to arrive the other warriors that the message had mentioned were nowhere to be seen. He then reminded his men to remember were they where and that if they valued their life's they should do what ever the priests and priestesses ask of them. He kept them standing to attention as they waited for the others to arrive.

[Arien]

Dristi’s face was blank, and showed no emotion. A haze of smoke lingered in the air, clinging to her cloak, face and hair. She leaned on the hard chair and listened to what was being said. She did not know the reason for coming on this little escapade, why she had been chosen. She knew Sevora barely. She had seen and herd of her, no doubt that she had experienced the same with her. The woman seemed to think highly of herself, and she was. She was closer to the high priest than her, and Dristi envied her. But for some other reason, she also liked her she had a sense of evil clinging to her. For otherwise why had she been chosen. The other Priest, a man she did not know. Their were too many Priest and Priestess’ to count in this place.

"Does the Highest give permission for the Sister and Brother to speak?"

"Yes, they may speak."

Dristi waited for the other to make a comment but he with held so she decided to talk, “I know for what I am here,” her voice was clear in the room, but soft. “But why I am I here? Does apart of me need to be on this…”she paused, and looked at Sevora cynically, “…this quest? In what way would my skills be needed? Do not get me wrong, I am truly honoured to be chosen and I will obey, but all I want to know is why, and I will bother you no more.”

[piosenniel]

The family sat contentedly around the small cooking fire. Breakfast was over, the bowls of thick porridge sprinkled with groundnuts were wiped clean with fingers, then scoured thoroughly with sand. A few drops of precious water were spent sluicing the sand away, and collected in a separate bowl.

Jamílah and her daughters took the precious liquid to where the great, old baobab tree grew at the edge of their encampment. Qamar whispered a few words over the bowl, dropping in a pinch of the grains they had eaten that morning. Qirfah did the same, handing the bowl at last to Jamílah. She dipped the fingers of her right hand into the water, and giving thanks for food that day, poured the water and the grains of food and sand it carried into the spreading roots of the great tree.

The baobab was the symbol for their tribe. A mighty tree that served all who asked of it. From its bark, rope was woven, strings for fishing nets and snares made, baskets woven, and even the rugs used for sitting on came from it. Cooking oil was pressed from the seeds of its fruits, and medicines and food got from its leaves and seeds. Graced with pendulous, scented white flowers it was a mother to all who sought shelter beneath its wild crown, birds, beast, and humans alike.

Layla, Qirfah’s daughter, came skipping up to where the older women had gathered, the other children following in her wake. ‘Mama!’ she cried, pointing excitedly to the great oblong fruit that hung down from the branches. She hopped from foot to foot as Qirfah pulled out her small knife and cut one down for them to share. The fruit was sweet and moist, and the children’s eyes glowed with delight as the pieces were handed round.

Beneath the happy sounds of children eating and the sounds of birds calling to one another in the upper branches of the tree, Jamílah heard a discordant sound, a darker, derisive laughter hidden in the tall grasses near the edges of the tree. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the direction from where the snickering came.

There, crouched down in the shadows of the grass, were two or three of the older youth, their faces caught in a sneer at the scene before them. One of them, seeing she had spied them out, spit on the ground beside him, his eyes rising afterward to challenge hers.

She raised her chin to him, her face a mask of casual indifference, and mouthed a new day’s blessing at him. He raised his hand as if to ward it off, as he and his two companions slunk off, the sounds of their leaving whispering after them like the quick feet of small scorpions skittering over the sand.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“So, what is it you’re suggesting?” Nasir questioned, tone frustrated and annoyed. He had woken up soon after Jasara and Khasia had, and had gone to join his leader by the stream. The two were talking furiously about current situations and relations with the elders of the tribe, arguing back and forth and bouncing ideas off each other.

“We need to rebel. We need to show them we are strong. An outright revolt. Something they will never forget,” Jasara reiterated. Nasir stared at her blankly, his black eyes emotionless in the morning sun. Nasir had always been a perfectionist, ever since Jasara had known him. He wouldn’t try his luck or take a risk; for fear that his luck would fall just short. The only time something risky took place was if Jasara thought it was truly necessary, otherwise Nasir would try and talk her out of it or keep it from happening altogether.

“Did...did you have a vision?” Nasir asked Jasara shakily. The only reason some of the young knew about Jasara’s visions and voices was because Khasia had foolishly told everyone she had come in contact with after Jasara’s first prediction. Few knew, however, that this nagging, cold, bitter voice was the major source of Jasara’s radical ideas. Jasara bit her lip, considering how she should answer Nasir. A slight nod was all she could manage.

Convince him…the only way the elders will know and recognize your true strength is if you show them. There it was again. That voice, the voice that made Jasara’s blood run cold even in the heat of the dry grassland sun.

“We don’t have enough children,” said a voice from behind the pair. Khasia, Jasara’s sister, stood behind them, inhaling deeply; she had probably just come from her morning run. Jasara did not particularly care for her younger sister, the sixteen-year olds calm, serene shell made Jasara nervous. The girl was trouble, anyways, for she was never taking orders unless she wanted to. Besides, Jasara hated when Khasia was right about something.

Ask Nasir where your little spy boy is, the deathly whisper commanded. Jasara nodded numbly to herself, and looked up at Nasir. “Where is Rijal?” Jasara asked absently, hoping and wondering if Khasia or Nasir could hear the seemingly booming voice that pounded in Jasara’s mind. As if by magic, the pounding of little feet soon became audible on the horizon, and soon the young boy Rijal became visible. Khasia and Nasir had turned to look, and when they saw the boy, they confusedly turned their gazes to Jasara, who shrugged simply. Rijal jogged up, and finally took a stop next to the gathered young.

“The Painted Sand Tribe is camped not to far east of here,” said Rijal, panting. Rijal, if not a good spy, was also quite useful to gather trivial information without gaining suspicion. Jasara grinned wickedly at the announcement. Recruits from other tribes were not that hard to find…

“Perfect,” murmured both Jasara and the voice simultaneously.

[ June 09, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Ealasaid]

With his tribe's encampment still a good half day's ride to the south, Ahmad made the reluctant decision to stop for a few hours' rest. He and Yusef had ridden through the night and well into the next morning. The exhausted horses had begun to stumble and, rather than risk serious injury to himself or Yusef from a fall, Ahmad reined his horse to an abrupt halt. Yusef galloped past, then, seeing Ahmad had not followed brought his horse around and trotted back to where Ahmad had dismounted.

"Trouble?" Yusef asked, lowering the end of his head shawl to reveal his bearded face.

Ahmad shook his head. "No trouble yet. The horses are tired. They should rest."

Yusef's eyes flicked toward the southern horizon. "We could be there by dusk."

"The horses will go lame or worse."

"The horses! The horses!" echoed Yusef in a mocking tone. "Are you more worried for your livestock than you are for your family?"

Ahmad shot him a cold look. "You may break your neck and kill your horse if you choose," he said calmly. "But you take your own horse, not one of the others. As for me, I will give the tribe's horses a few hours rest and, the gods be willing, arrive in camp before dawn with mine own self and my charges in tact. You may do as you will."

Yusef responded with an icy, narrow stare. Then he dismounted. "You mock me," he said angrily. "I was only thinking for the safety of your sister who is soon to be my wife."

"You said yourself that she is safe for the moment." Ahmad had already begun to unsaddle his horse. "Is she or isn't she?"

Yusef did not answer. Instead, he, too, began to unsaddle his horse, but he did it quickly with an angry, jerky motion that Ahmad watched warily from the corners of his eyes. Yusef dropped his intricately tooled leather saddle to the ground and sat back against it to watch as Ahmad set up the tethers for the eight horses. He pulled a water skin from the side of his saddle and took a long drink, his eyes never leaving Ahmad's back. To think,, Ahmad said to himself, feeling the stab of Yusef's stare between his shoulder blades like a dagger. This man is marrying my sister. The first time he beats her, he is a dead man.

When Ahmad turned back around, there was a conciliatory smile on Yusef's face. "On the way out yesterday morning, I passed the Baobabs' encampment," Yusef said casually. "You have a woman amongst the Baobab, don't you?"

Ahmad felt a sharp jolt of pain. When he looked again at Yusef, he saw that the smile had gone malicious. "I have no one amongst the Baobab," he answered quietly. "Only a few acquaintances."

"Oh, my mistake." Yusef stifled a belch and put the water skin aside, but he looked pleased.

Ahmad turned his face away and began to busy himself with removing the pack from the packhorse. What he had had with Qirfah of the Bush Lizard clan was not something he cared to discuss with Yusef. It had been a casual flirtation that had gone too far. It had ended badly, but not as badly as it might have if anyone other than her mother Jamilah had discovered it. After all, Qirfah had already been married to another man. According to the customs of Ahmad's tribe, had he known of the flirtations, Qirfah's husband would have had every right to kill her. Fortunately, the husband had never found out. Instead, Jamilah had sternly banished Ahmad from ever laying eyes on her daughter again. For Qirfah's protection, Ahmad had done as he was told, but he still dreamed of Qirfah at night, her shining black hair and the soft brown pools of her eyes. It pained him to know that she should be so close, yet so far out of his reach. Maybe that was the real reason why he had been sent away. His mother would have known that the Baobab would be camping there again this season. She and Jamilah were friends.

[ June 09, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Sammael glanced around at his travelling companions, assuming they had all arrived. There were a few men standing around, cleaning their weapons or looking bored, as well as… Sammael nudged Damodred and grinned. Fifteen men dressed identically in red and black, trying to look fierce.
“Do you think they’re the entertainment?” Sammael asked cheerfully.
Damodred was rubbing his back and grousing, but his face cracked a smile.
“Come on old man! Shall we ask the acrobats for a performance? Perhaps they can teach you.” Sammael laughed loudly at his own joke, and most of the other occupants of the small round courtyard stared at him. There was little room for laughter in the Dark Citadel.
“I am sorry for disturbing you, friends” Sammael said with an exaggerated bow and a mockery of a penitent face. “I am just the warm up act”
With a grin he winked at one of the man in red-and-black, who met his eyes stonily.

Unheeding Sammael continued to appraise the others. Suddenly his smile dropped. There were two women, dressed up like warriors and bristling with weapons. One seemed rather old and leathery looking, but the other had big dark eyes. With a grin Sammael went over to her.
“Ah” he said “So you’re the real entertainment”
The woman slowly turned her eyes to face him. They might have been big and dark, but they were empty. They almost made Sammael want to shiver. But the worst thing was that his smile had appeared to have no effect on her.

“I am not here for entertainment” she said coldly “and neither should you be. We are here to expand our territory and influence.”
Sammael affected a shocked face.
“I thought we were here for the exotic tribal women? Of course, I would not judge you for that.”
She just kept staring at him with an impassive face. It was very discomfiting.
“We are here to fight” she said unemotionally.
Sammael’s smile fell away. She wasn’t going to make this easy.
“Well that’s the problem. If you’re here to fight then we men have to protect you and that just makes our lives a bit harder. I would not argue if you wished to come along for the sport, but as it is can you not go find yourself a husband?”
Sammael was shocked to see that the woman’s back went stiff at the word husband. Interesting, he thought. Jilted perhaps. She will take some watching.

Shaking his head he returned to Damodred.
“This should be amusing, old man” he said with a grin as he clapped his companion on the back.

[piosenniel]

Qirfah sat in front of her tent carefully stripping thin strands from the long section of baobab bark she had cut from the tree that morning. Her sister, Qamar, sat a little way off at the small fire, stirring the contents of the large iron pot balanced over the coals on rocks. The children, played hunter and hunted in the grasses just beyond the fire, and she could hear the little growls of ‘lions’ as they stalked the ‘unsuspecting hunter’ with his blunt spear.

‘A little more of that ground up beetle shell, Mother.’ Qamar pulled one of the stringy strands of bark from the bubbling concoction in the pot, holding it up for general inspection. ‘Not quite purple enough yet. I think I put in too much of the blue plant.’

Jamílah ground a pinch of the tiny dried shells in the stone mortar and scraped them into the hot liquid. ‘That should do it,’ she said, sluicing out the mortar with a little water and setting it in the sun to dry.

It was a warm morning and the women were glad to be in the shade of a small scrub tree as they worked. Once done with their dyeing of the strands, they would hang them on the low-lying branches to dry and then weave them into the beautiful baskets for which the women of their tribe were famous. At their previous encampment, they had been able to secure a large supply of the dye stuffs they needed for the vibrant colors that they used. And now they were putting them to good use.

Besides the baskets for normal, every day use, each clan had their specialty. Their clan, the Bush Lizard, made elaborately designed large, long carry baskets with woven head bands to secure them along the bearer’s brow and down the back as they traveled from place to place. They were also famous for the beautiful woven baskets meant to cradle babies.

‘We will have plenty of strands for our cradles, Mother.’ Qamar looked thoughtfully at her older sister. ‘Enough I think for plentiful trading. And enough to make you a new one, Qirfah.’ She grinned at her sister. ‘When will you and Husam have another little one, and make me an auntie again?!’

‘Ah, well . . . who can tell?’ Qirfah turned the question deftly aside as she held up the pile of strands she had done. ‘Shall I cut another section of bark, or will this be enough, Mother.’

Jamílah looked critically at the mound of strands and proclaimed it enough. ‘Do the greens and the yellows next, you two. I think we have enough of the reds and blues and purples. Then hang them up to dry and we’ll begin the weaving tomorrow.’ She rose from her mat and went into her tent, coming out a few moments later with the large hinged basket that held her medicinal herbs. ‘Hmmm,’ she murmured to herself, fingering the twists of powders in their parchment papers and the little stacks of dried leaves and roots. ‘I hope she has gotten some of the willow bark powder from the traders in the north, and that little root from the eastern mountains. I will bring her one of my own cradles for her daughter soon to be wed.’

Qirfah listened closely as her mother named off her inventory of healing herbs, a sudden flame of hope flickering within. Her hands, normally steady, shook a little as she divided the pile of strands into two equal groups. She kept quiet, her eyes fixed on the two growing piles as if they were the whole world to her.

Qamar’s eyes narrowed at her sister’s studied indifference to her mother’s mention of trading herbs and an impending wedding. She stirred the pot of brilliant purple strands thoughtfully, thinking about what her husband had mentioned that morning on his return from the spring.

The Painted Sands are near and Mother is going to see Briellah. That means Ahmad is near, too near. She stole a glance at her sister, studying her tense form. She will bear close watching.

Qamar drew a deep breath, exhaling it slowly, and looked to the east.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Khasia's eye's were narrowed as she stared at her sister and her little pawn, Nasir. What was Jasara suggesting? A split in the tribe and there would not be enough food for all, there wouldn't be enough hunters or enough people to gather the things they used to make items for trade. "We can't Jasara." she said, flatly. Khasia loved it when she was indisputably right, and Jasara seldom gave her an opportunity.

Rijal's arrival was untimely and unwelcome, however, and Khasia's self-satisfied smile faded at his news. The Painted Sand Tribe? Jasara's sudden look of glee made Khasia's stomach lurch. She looked down at her dusty toes, if more rebels could be recruited from the other clan, Khasia mused thoughtfully. Perhaps it could be done.

Leaving her sister and Nasir by the stream, Khasia walked back toward their camp. Old Jamilah and her daughters were sitting beneath the largest tree, dyeing bark to weave baskets with. Jamilah infuriated Khasia. The girl twisted her face into a sneer as she passed them by, but the woman didn't look up, her deft fingers working the strips of bark. Khasia burned with anger, she demanded to be acknowledged, at least noticed! But Jamilah was unruffled as always, her face serene.

Stomping harder than necessary in her irrtation, Khasia returned to her meager stack of belongings. She had inteded to spend the hot morning weaving her own baskets, but after such a performance, decided she'd work on mending the children's clothes instead. Shoving aside a half finished skirt she was making for herself, undyed like everything Khasia wore, she reached for the stiff bone needle and a tunic of Rijal's. That boy was always squirming into some tight corner and tearing holes in his clothing. She held up the tunic. A gaping hole in the elbow needed fixing, Rijal's whole skinny arm would fit through the hole. A few others flitted by, tossing torn garments on her pile. Khasia sighed and gritted her teeth as she pushed the needle through the thin fabric of Rijal's sleeve.

Piosenniel's post

Jamílah looked up from her weaving as Khasia passed. She watched the girl walk stiff-shouldered past her, an air of studied indifference mixed with anger trailing in her wake.

Tsk! So angry the young ones are these days! she thought as her fingers wrapped the finishing edging on the cradle she had made to bring to Briellah. She had woven in the bush lizard motif around the edges of the hood that would shade the baby’s eyes. Smiling, she laid it aside, to sort through a few other baskets and herbs that she would bring with her.

The smile left her face as the image of a coiled green mamba came to her, its unmoving cold eyes looking directly into hers. Highly aggressive, its venom deadly, it was a creature to be treated with caution and great respect.

Her eyes flicked up, drawn to the figure of the small, slender girl sitting a short distance away. Her frizzy, dark haired head was bent to one side as she held up a small shirt ragged with wear. Sitting in front of her plain-cloth tent, Khasia plied her needle, her lips moving grimly with some unheard words.

The image of the snake and the tensely coiled muscles of the angry girl slid together in her mind. And she regarded the young woman carefully.

Laying aside her sorting for now, Jamílah rose from her mat and went into her tent. Poking among her weaving supplies, she picked out a large number of newly dyed fibers, binding each color in separate small bundles. Tying the lot together with a piece of twine, she walked thoughtfully over to where Khasia sat, her bone needle flying over the pile of mending.

‘Greetings, little sister,’ she said, squatting down in front of the young woman, giving the traditional greeting from a married female to an unmarried one. ‘We have been busy dyeing strips from the tree these past few days, and have more than we will need. The tree belongs to all, and I wish to share our bounty with the tribe. Already, I have given some to Qalb, and to Na’ar, and their daughters.’ She laid the bundle down in front of Khasia, pushing it closer to her with the tips of her fingers.

‘Your baskets are so beautifully woven, Khasia. It would be an honor to have this small offering grace them . . .’

[ June 12, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

Sevora sat calmly in her seat, but her eyes were intent on Dristi, studying her every move, her every breath, searching for any sign...of anything. No sign appeared, and Sevora wasn't surprised. She would think very badly of any member of the Order if they could not even keep their thoughts and feelings conceiled. It was quite a simple thing, really. But sometimes...well, everyone slipped up at one point, and that one point was what Sevora did not want to miss.

"...all I want to know is why, and I will bother you no more."

"A simple thing, you ask, Priestess Dristi." Sevora rose from her seat and began sharply almost immediately after Dristi's words, seeming to cut her off. She softened her voice before continuing, which turned it into a bland drawl. "Many times those are the most important, the basis of all we must know. But," she paused, giving the word a greater affect.

Her eyes bore into the other Priestess. "But, I do not see the importance in knowing why you were chosen. It is a childish thing, like you want to hear appraising words, like you want to hear that it was the greatness of your skill and dedication that brought you into this hall."

Her voice was still a drawl, emotionless. Her face showed nothing, her eyes burning only with their usual cold light. She was only slightly disgusted, at any rate. "You were chosen to take part in this mission in the Glory of the Sight because you were seen as fit for this duty as a member of the Order of the Eye, the Burning Sight. You need not know more."

Dristi showed no more emotion than Sevora knew she, herself, did, and she felt a bit of respect in that. She found anger to be the hardest emotion to keep under control, and the other Priestess was certainly bursting with the emotion, or she wasn't anything like what Sevora expected.

She turned her lifeless gaze to Naramarth. "Do you have any applicable questions, Priest Naramarth?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jasara watched as Khasia stalked off, leaving her sister and Nasir by the creek. Jasara hated her sister’s attitude. Khasia never thought the ideas Jasara proclaimed would work, even when Jasara knew they would. Despite the fear the voice gave her, Jasara had a strange sort of trust in the voice. It led her to say the things she did. Jasara, under normal circumstances, would never have spoken up that pre-flood night if she had not trusted the voice.

“We should go, and even if we can’t convince anyone tonight, the Painted Sand Tribe will be camped there for a while,” continued Jasara after a long silence that had followed her sister’s leave. Nasir eyed Jasara warily and wearily, but in the end simply nodded his agreement.

“I have to go get my sword. Perhaps Najah should come too,” was all Nasir said as he and Jasara stood in unison. They made their way back towards where several of the young were just waking from their late sleep. Most of the young were already up and about doing chores. One of the young they passed by, Najah, was shuffling by with a bow in hand and quiver over her shoulder. She was directing a group of younger children to a clearing for a morning target practice.

“Wait! Najah!” Nasir called to the girl. Najah whirled around, and joined the duo. Nasir quickly explained the situation to her, and the girl told the other young to be ready when she came back. Jasara had remained silent, and the trio was soon on their way east towards the Painted Sand Tribe’s encampment. Before they left the ‘boundaries’ of their own tribe, they passed by Khasia, who was fervently stitching and repairing clothing.

“Khasia! Come along! We’re off for some fresh rebel meat!” cried Najah, and Jasara sighed when the archer called out for her sister. Najah was no doubt frightened to some degree of being so near to Jasara in such small numbers, especially with the stern Nasir. All of the children praised or listened to Jasara’s orders, but few could tolerate being so close to the ‘prophet’. At the calling, Khasia quickly threw down the torn and tattered skirt she had recently begun to stitch and ran up to join the group.

It had not been a long walk when the small group reached the back end of one of the outer tents of the encampment. The sun was high, and the ground under Jasara’s feet began to heat up as the girl wished she had remembered to wear her boots. People of the Painted Sand Tribe milled around, talking and walking and working from tent to tent and everywhere betwixt and between. Two girls walked particularly close to the gathered, hiding young from the Baobab Tribe, and Nasir called out to one.

“You! Girl, over here!” He cried. Jasara squinted her eyes against the sun and noted that the girl Nasir had beckoned could not have had much difference in age from Khasia or Najah. Her companion looked as if she were a few years older than Rijal, but younger than the first girl. Then again, Rijal was such a scrawny thing that the second girl might have even been the same age. The two girls stared blankly at the four at first, and the younger one mumbled something about being convinced to leave home without her kinsman escort before they made their way over to Jasara, Nasir, Najah, and Khasia.

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan stood in the shadow of one of the great black pillars that encircled the court yard, watching as other warriors and corsairs arrived. He wished not to reveal his presence until the priestess Sevora arrived, So he let Zasfal pace up and down impatiently in front of his men.

"Come on old man! shall we ask the acrobats for a performance" he heard a sickly cheerful young man tell his older companion, he followed their gaze to his crew, he saw Zasfal hand grip tightly about the hilt of his curved sword. His young first mate was clearly angered by the other mans jest, The uniforms were his doing and he saw the mans jest as a great insult, but even in his anger he still had the presence of mind to seek his captains permission before acting.

Ghurdan scowled at the young man and shook his head, He knew full well the penalty for angering the Priestess. His eyes narrowed as he thought of a new use for Zasfal. He watched as the two Warriors walk away clearly unaware of the events that had passed between Zasfal and his Captain.

"Zasfal!" Ghurdan hissed, the young man walk over confidently, "Yes, sir" he said bowing slightly. "I want you to keep an eye on that young warrior!" Zasfal grinned wickedly as has hand moved towards his daggers. "No!" Ghurdan scolded, he then told Zasfal what he required of him. The young man's grin widened further and he nodded, admiring his captains way of thinking. "Now!" Ghurdan said sharply.

The young man lowered his head and as he raised it, his wicked persona was replaced with that of a cheerful and friendly young dandy, a persona he used often to gather information for his captain. Ghurdan simply nodded his head, showing no emotion at all to the man's sudden change in demeanour. Without replying Zasfal walked of to carry out his captains orders, Ghurdan noted the slight skip in his step as he walked, it added to the new persona. The young mans ability to take on any persona was the main reason why Ghurdan kept him alive.

As he watched Zasfal mingle with the gathered warriors, he thoughtfully stroked the scar on his face recounting his last encounter with The Red Flame. The woman's restrain on her emotions was impressive. Anger was one emotion that he himself could not control and he didn't try as he found it a strength rather than a weakness especially in battle.

His thoughts turned once more to the young warrior and his older companion, he would enjoy putting the young whelp in his place during their journey and if his friend intervened all the better. His eyes narrowing as he watched Zasfal introduce himself to the two men.

"Good day to you all" Zasfal said bowing dramatically. "My name is Zasfal, I answer the call of my god!" he announced loud enough that all about could hear, then grinning boyishly he winked at the female warrior that the pair had been conversing with and whispered "And the notoriety it may bring." The young female warrior clearly didn't approve, shrugging he turned to the two male warriors, "And you are" he asked smiling like a young lad who naively believed this journey would bring him respect and notoriety.

[arelendil]

"Do you have any applicable questions, Priest Naramarth?"

Naramarth's attention had not moved from the priestess since she had welcomed him, though he did not show it. He stood up to answer the priestess.

"No, your greatness." His eyes dark and expressionless. "I know my duty and i follow the eye's command without question. His will is my deed." Naramarth bowed. He was all too used to the way one had to act in this chamber but emotions were best worn inwards and Naramarth knew it. Nothing could show but complete devotion to the dark power.

Naramarth loved this room like no other. it smelt different, sickly sweet and tangy. the fires and smoke were always moving. this was the only room where there was even a hint of a breeze.

Naramarth licked his lips, savouring the taste. Then he bowed and returned to his motionless silence.

[Arien]

How dare she humiliate her in front of them? Childish? All she wanted to know is why she was being dragged along to convert a stupid bunch of tribesmen. It’s not like they are a trained army! In fact she would enjoy staying here and training more priests. She would not say anything, not in front of the high priest at least, less she wanted to be banished. She was lucky to be received this time and her luck would not be so great now.

"No, your greatness. I know my duty and I follow the eye's command without question. His will is my deed." The other priest had said. Dristi’s rage built inside, he was trying to suck up to them, making himself more loyal than her. But he wasn’t, not to the eye.

She sat in silence and waited till Sevora gave them their next command, but oh she would pay for what she just put Dristi through. Childish?

[Lyra Greenleaf]

"Good day to you all"
Sammael turned at the interruption to see a young man with brown hair make a bow more suited to royalty. He exchanged glances with Damodred.
"My name is Zasfal," the man continued "I answer the call of my god! And the notoriety it may bring. And you are?"

Sammael grinned. "My name is Sammael, the old man is Damodred and unfortunately for the pair of us, this woman dislikes men too much to part with her name. Alas, I also doubt we will gain much noteriety on this journey, we only go to convert Heathens to the true path."
Zasfal returned the smile, and the two men began to talk idly. Damodred watched with a sneer, and the woman melted away into the shadow of a large black pillar.

After a while Damodred pulled Sammael away by the shoulder, leaving Zasfal half way through a sentence. Sammael looked at him and shrugged, internally thinking that he looked rather like a fish with his mouth gaping so.
"Well Damodred?" he asked. "What is so urgent, may I enquire. Only if you've quite finished dragging me around like a child. I'm surprised you didn't choose to lead me by my ear."
"If you didn't act like a child..." Damodred said absently, then looked over his shoulder at Zasfal who was now leaning on the wall staring at them. "There's something not right about him" Damodred said finally. "He's not honest"

Sammael alughed aloud. "Of course he's not! Are you? I'm not."
"Laugh all you like." Damodred said firmly, not offended. "That man is trouble. And he was standing with the crew in red and black when we first walked in"
"Standing by them, no doubt." Sammael said quietly. "If it makes you feel better then reassure yourself that Zasfal is merely someone I can talk to, not a friend. He is too..." Sammael paused, thinking. "He is too like me for anything else. He will be driving me mad within a day."

Without another word Sammael turned and walked back to where he had left Zasfal. Damodred followed with a grim face.
"Sorry about that." Sammael said with an easy smile. "Damodred thought there was something fishy about you. I told him it was probably because you had come from the harbour. He wasn't brought up well enough to know such personal comments were rude. Now, what were we talking about...?"

[ June 15, 2003: Message edited by: Lyra Greenleaf ]

[piosenniel]

‘Mami, look!’ cried Ajdal, his fat baby fingers reaching up to brush the colored strands that hung from the low branches of the tree as he ran beneath them. ‘Look, look!’ his sister Naar, took up the cry, her arms outstretched like a great bird flying. ‘We are touching the rainbow!’ Little fingers riffled through the nearly dried strands, sent them quivering in hued delight. Ashum, clapped his chubby baby hands together, laughing at the colors shimmering in the bright sun.

Qamar rested in the shade of a rocky overhang, her back against the cool rock, and watched her children at play. She checked them frequently, shading her eyes against the sun to make sure they kept in sight. There were vague stirrings of uneasiness in the tribe of late, and there were some young ones she did not trust. Shifty-eyed, disrespectful. Their attention she noted was often on the young children. Like jackals she thought, waiting to pick off the weaker. She had already spoken to her mother about these vague feelings of hers, and the she, too, had voiced the same uneasiness. Her mother had promised to speak of it to the other tribal elders, and Qamar wondered if she had done so yet.

Layla and Ihab came running from their tent, Qirfah following close behind. Ihab pulled at his mother’s skirts, and she crouched down to speak with him as Laylah went laughing to join her cousins among the multicolored streamers. She waved gaily at her auntie, drawing Qirfah’s attention to the three of them.

Perhaps it was a trick of the sun as it caught the tableau of mother and son in profile, or her suspicious side had been aroused, but the sight of those two, their heads bent together laughing made her sit up with a gasp of surprise. His small dark eyes were fixed on his mother’s face and his long, thick lashes brushed his cheeks, when he blinked, in a way that niggled at the back of her mind. And his mouth, the curve of his lips, from the side as he smiled seemed familiar . . .

Qirfah stood, waving her son off to his playmates, then came to sit by her sister. Her countenance was thoughtful as she gathered her skirts and sat down, as if she were sorting out the many thoughts in her mind, seeking the best way to bring them out.

Qamar sat silently, pretending to watch the children at play, her eyes sliding often to regard the storm of thoughts and feelings that played across her sister’s face. She held her breath, fearing what Qirfah might want of her. Her eyes flicked once again to the children.

Oh, please, let it not be so . . .

[ June 24, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Khasia looked at the bundle of fibers that Jamilah was holding out to her. Though she hated to admit it, the dyes that Jamilah and her daughers used were much better than hers. She looked longingly at the deep blues and greens which would work perfectly into the border of a large storage basket she was working on. The scarlet could be used for any number of projects, but best of all were the pale yellows, which would be perfect for the patterns on the cradle she planned to start work on next. Looking around to see if any of her peers were watching, Khasia reached out tentatively and took the bundle from Jamilah.

"Thank you." She looked up at the woman as she spoke. "I will enjoy using these in my work." Khasia purposefully did not mention honor, and thought that probably Jamilah noticed the omission. However, she didn't mention it, and Khasia turned to stow the bundle in the large covered pot where she kept her other materials. Several unfinished baskets were scattered in the area, all woven expertly in geometric patterns unlike the more organic shapes used by most of the tribe-members.

Jamilah reached out one hand and touched a palm sized basket woven in deep purples and blues. "This is lovely, Khasia." She said, turning it in her hand and running her fingers over the tiny knob on the lid. Khasia smiled, she was proud of that basket, the tiny detail work had been difficult and she had spent many hours perfecting the curve of the lid.

"I made one the last time the traders came. They paid well for it. The women of Umbar use them to store jewels in, I think." She took back the basket, and placed it carefully on the stack with the others. Jamilah nodded, still looking at the small basket. Slightly irritated at her visitor's extended stay, Khasia moved restlessly, picking up her bone needle again, and stitching rapidly down the side of a torn skirt.

Jamilah rose, seemingly taking the hint, but before she went she fixed Khasia with her eyes. "It is a pleasure to work with you." Khasia stabbed her needle into the fabric with renewed force. How was she to answer that one? Of course working with the old healer brought her no pleasure, but the gifts and compliments she had brought did.

"Khasia! Come on!" The cry came from where Nasir, Jasara, and Najah stood with gleeful looks on all their faces. Khasia looked up quikly, and then turned to Jamilah.

"I should go. My sister needs me." Without waiting for a reply she tossed the skirt she was mending onto the heap with the other clothes and ran in the direction of Jasara and her group.

[Helkahothion]

Thorgom woke up. He had overslept again and was late. He looked over the top of his feet and saw the light coming in his tent. He got up and dropped back on his bed again. He was in no mood to get up. But work had to be done. The wood was almost gone, and food stocks were running low. He made a second attempt to get up and succeeded. He stumbled to the tub with water and plunched his head in. His hair was soaking wet and he wrangled it out above the tub to prevent his tent from turning into a puddle.
He went over to the chair in the corner and took his clothes up. He clapped the dust of that was gathering on the shoulders and pulled them on his body. His pants was soon hanging loosely from his waist.

As he walked outside, he squinted his eyes against the light. He immediately took his axes and armed himself. The wood was not everywhere, so after a little searching, he had chopped enough and went to look for some food. Not many animals where around at this time. He had to look very good to find something. Finally it was there: A dear. Thorgom took on of his throwing axes and sneaked up to the dear. When he was about 8 feet away and just a bush between them, the axe flew trough the air. It struck the neck and the dear was dead at the moment of impact. Thorgom smiled pleased and went over to retrieve the axe.
He heaved the dear on his shoulders and bound it's feet together. He went back to the camp with a broad smile on his face.

[Durelin]

Sevora gave Naramarth a small smile. A smile or a smirk, he could take it as he wished. What fools had she chosen for this? The man was at least attempting to be honey-tongued. She would find out soon whether he actually was so or not. She suspected not, since winged words didn't get you very far in the Citadel. The man wouldn't have had such a reputation or any sort of position at all. Fools? Or just 'cloudy-headed' from the presence of the High Priest? She had to suppress a real smile because of that thought. At least she was in command of the two presently and for quite a while into the future days. Of course, they would never be equals, Sevora was superior to many and had been for quite some time. She constantly used this superiority to her advantage. This trip would be routine, if pleasant.

"Thank you Priest Naramarth, Priestess Dristi."

And yet...she did have some kind of respect for them. Dristi veiled her anger well. They were like Sevora, if not very much.

"Wisest of the Order of Sight," she began, turning to the High Priest with a low bow. "We, the Children of the Sight, are ready to serve the Eye without question, without hesitation, and with all our bodies, minds, and souls. Our lives matter not."

The High Priest gave her a small nod and a friendly smile, most unseeming on that pale, drawn face, all coldness and severity. His eyes still burned with a strange heated light, cold yet searing hot. To Sevora the gaze felt...good. Right. The High Priest turned to the Keeper sitting next to him. "Keeper Asmodion, you may mark them and give them the blessings."

At these words, each of the Priest and Priestesses drew back his or her sleeves on the right arm. Sevora was not close enough see whether the others had been a part of this ritual before, but all of the Order knew the precedings. Meanwhile, Asmodion pulled out a long curved knife from a locked compatment in his chair. The High Priest brought out a small bowl of gnarled wood and his own knife, identical the the Keeper's. First the Keeper came to Sevora, and she held out her arm, staring at the man, matching his coldness. Using the tip of the curve, Asmodion ran the blade slowly down Sevora's arm, next to a long scar. it was from the same blade. Seconds went by which seemed like minutes. The man was good at what he did, but members of the Order were not to be effected. Sevora did not move a muscle, but kept them relaxed. Really, this was nothing, and that was the way it should be.

The blood trickled down her arm, and Sevora watched it. She couldn't explain the feeling she had at that sight, but it was so wonderful, so full of pleasure! She could stare at such for eternity and never grow weary, she was sure! But movement from the Keeper brought her back to reality. He caught several drops on his finger, then placed it just below Sevora's right eye. Pulling his finger down, he smeared the blood in a line three quarters of the way down her cheek. Catching a few more drops of her blood, he did the same below the left eye. Then Asmodion pulled down Sevora's sleeves again and turned to the High Priest.

The Highest One had pulled back his own sleeves, revealing skin that seemed striped. All those lines were scars, some were still red and puffy, done recently for this ritual. Picking an area with all healed scars, the man sliced down his arm in the same way as the Keeper. They were both practiced with this, being in their positions for many years. He did it just as slowly too, and to himself. But then, how hard was it? Sevora was sure she would have no problem slicing her own arm, it was only her arm, of course, and it was in service of the Eye. What better thing to do, anyway? She could watch the trickling, then, the sweet honey of life, so beautifully read. She closed her eyes, smiling a real smile, then snapped her eyes open. Her face went blank again, all in an instant. She had to watch herself.

The High Priest now picked up the wooden bowl again, and placed it under his arm. For a few long moments, everyone watched, standing motionless, as the blood was caught. The precious blood of knowledge. Then he handed it to Asmodion, who placed it in Sevora's outreached hands. She cradled it in her palms, staring at it for a moment, smiling a real smile for the second time in only moments, and then put the cup to her lips. She took one long swallow, then handed the bowl back to the Keeper. Licking her lips, she savored the taste. It was so sweet, better than she had ever remembered. And she knew it held so much. It held so much knowledge and power, giving you a deep connection with the Eye. It fried her blood and seared her bones, it made her stomach freeze, her fingers numb. The painful pleasure was overwhelming. She smiled openly and couldn't help but tremble. She did her best to stifle a sigh, but air still passed between her lips with a small hiss. Why hold it in? came a whisper in her mind, cold and hoarse. It's sound only increased the tingling, burning, and freezing all throughout Sevora's body. Why hold it in? the voice repeated. Sevora threw back her head and let a long, wheezing laugh. It was the first time she had laughed in three years. Pleasure was a weak word.

[piosenniel]

Jamilah watched with interest as Khasia ran off. There had been that brief moment when a spark of light shone through, when the girl’s spirit had shown itself in her eyes. But then those others had called her away, and the shadow had fallen over her features once again.

Qamar had been right in her estimation of these young ones. Something had infected them, something dark. Absentmindedly, Jamilah rubbed the moon tattoo on her left hand, wondering what medicine she knew might prove useful against this strange ailment of the spirit. It was a puzzle to her. More insidious than the usual complaints she dealt with. She sifted through her memories, finding nothing with which to compare it. This was such a deep sickness, something that rent the very fabric of the world she knew.

In the distance she could see her daughters as they sat in the shade watching their children play beneath the branches of the baobab. And scattered about, hands bent to the completion their daily tasks were the other families of the tribe. Strong, healthy roots sent up healthy shoots.

An old story came to mind, one from the dreamtime of her people, before time flowed only one way, from past to present:

The great, old baobab grew tall and strong, its branches reaching outward as the edges of the sky rested on it. The People walked tall and proud beneath it. Its fruits made them strong, its medicines kept them healthy. It clothed them. Gave them shelter. And so they thought it would be forever.

Then, one day, or so it was told, the sky tilted, the great tree canted to one side, tipping dangerously, crazily. The leaves curled and began to die. The fruit rotted just as it flowered. A great cry went up from the People and they were afraid, calling on the elders for help.

The elders gathered their strength and sang a song of healing as they walked slowly about the great tree. And there it was they found it, as they spiraled in, beneath a section of the roots. A fat, poisonous spider, dark as night, had sunk its fangs deep into the roots and sat sucking the lifeblood from the tree. Swollen, and slow, from its own greed it could not escape them. They raised their bush-knives with a great cry and fell upon it, killing it. But so deep was the hurt it had done the tree that the withered roots could not be made whole by time. And so the elders took up their knives once again. And this time they carefully cut away the damaged parts, peeling back a thin layer of healthy root.

They tended it carefully and in time the tree flourished and flowered. And the People, too, grew strong and walked tall beneath its branches, as did their children, and their children’s children.

Jamilah watched the distant figures of the young ones as they hurried to whatever dark plans lay in their minds. She wondered what shadowed creature had got hold of them. Would the elders be able to drive it from them? How many of them would they need to cut away from the tribe before the poison that they now bore became fatal to them all.

‘Tonight, after the evening meal,’ she said firmly to herself, ‘when the hunter’s moon is up. We will meet then.’

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Essenia leant against the wall, her face perfectly calm. These men, who were coming to help win lands and honour for Umbar, were fools. But then all men were to one extent or another.

One had mentioned marriage and a thick tendril of icy-cold fear had clutched at Essenia’s heart, the most emotion she had felt for a long time. He was just the sort of man who would associate with Taine, stupid and rich. His clothes were well made of rich fabrics. His companion who just stood and glowered seemed vaguely sensible, but no doubt on further inspection he would show the same weakness. The insolent one had dared to speak of women as a liability in war, when in fact it was men who let emotion rule them and men who were weak. Essenia dismissed all men from her mind. They were beneath her notice.

She had never felt the call of the Eye herself, although she practised the dark religion it meant little to her beyond a way to make Umbar great. One day they would take over the land of Gondor. They had had success against them a number of times, but then some weak fool of a man lost all that the corsairs had so carefully built up. It almost made Essenia angry, but in her heart she knew that the day would come when all the world would be part of Harad and then they would no longer need the Eye.

North was the way of rich pickings and true glory, but south would do for now. If they were ever to leave this accursed place, that was. Essenia felt the atmosphere soak into her bones as if from a detached point of view. More and more this happened, when her body let her down by feeling emotion, Essenia held herself distant and coldly watched until it faded. It was undoubtedly the best way to live.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Lyra Greenleaf ]

[piosenniel]

Families sat round their small fires, enjoying the last of the day. It was a glorious sunset over the long stretch of sandy plains that lay beyond the grasslands. The sun, caught for a moment, on the tips of a small rise of hills, blazed up, lighting the scrub that grew there like beacons set against the approaching night.

Jamílah left her family, the adults talking quietly among themselves as the children played hide and seek in the tall grass. She heard Qamar call out to hers, ‘Stay near! Where the fire lights your way!’

The other elders of the five clans had also risen, making their excuses to their families, as they hurried off to meet at a small clearing some distance away. They had all been worried about the changes they saw in the younger members, and they feared that the shadow they carried would spread to others, and bring great harm to the tribe.

In the growing darkness of oncoming night, beneath the bright, full moon they gathered – the Bush Lizard Clan, the Grey Parrot Clan, the Wild Dog clan, the Civet clan, and the Wind Scorpions. Four armed warriors stood at the cardinal points, keeping back any who would draw near.

Taking the talking stick in her hand, Jamílah rose to speak her concerns. Never one to mince her words when action was needed she began at what to her was the heart of the problem.

‘It is Jasara I wish to speak of first; Jasara and the shadow which looks out from her eyes . . .’

Jamílah recounted the first feelings of unease she had had many months ago when she threw the bones, as the day began, to augur the start of a new season. There had been dark meanings scattered on the dirt floor of her tent, shadows behind shadows. And though she had thrown them several times they had always come out in the same pattern. ‘Be wary!’ they warned her. And always, in some insidious form or another, she thought she saw a great eye, always open, always watching.

Then there had followed the incident of Jasara’s prediction and her growing number of followers among the young. Jamílah’s fears deepened as she watched them fall under the girl’s influence. She remembered when the then small group of young followers moved out of their families’ tents saying, “that they would rather ‘be eaten by the hungry beasts of the Eye than sleep in the way of the elders’.” Their casual mention, that feeling of acceptance by them, of the Eye made her look closer at them and at their actions.

The shadow has grown larger and stronger in Jasara,’ she continued, ‘and now it takes hold in the others. They are becoming ghosts to my eyes, uneasy spirits, unable to make their own decisions.’ She looked slowly and pointedly round the small circle, holding each clan leader with her gaze. ‘They are as ravenous as jackals, these shadow people. Stealing in to take the children that they can. Families can no longer let their children run free, safe among our tents. They hold them close now, their eyes are wary, their own spirits uneasy. And they are angry that this should be allowed to go on.’

Having said her piece, Jamílah stepped back to her seat, and sitting down, handed the talking-stick to the person on her right.

Ismat, of the Grey Parrot Clan, spoke next, voicing the same concerns as had been gone over by Jamílah, and listing the names of those young who had gone missing from their families. In turn, came the similar stories of what they had noted happening and which families had lost children from Asim, of the Wild Dog Clan and Hafsa, the Civet Clan leader.

Finally, the talking-stick was passed to Faruq, the oldest of the elders gathered. Hafsa leaned near him, offering her hand to him as she passed the stick, to help ease his old bones from their sitting position. He waved her off with a nod acknowledging her offer, and rose slowly to his feet.

‘I won’t go over again what each of you has said. The same complaints and the same fears have come from my clan also. There is something, though, which none of you have mentioned. And I think only because you have not visited yet with our newly arrived neighbors, The Painted Sand Tribe.’ Taking a small drink of water from the hollowed gourd offered up by Asim, he went on.

‘Late this afternoon I went to speak with Ishak ben Ishak, to set up a little trading fair between our tribes. He told me that young, ragged looking members of the Baobab had been sighted, wandering near their camp and even into it. They were dirty, he said, and gave no signs of respect to the adults they encountered. Not outwardly rude, just out of the ordinary for the sorts of behavior they have come to respect from our young ones. His wife, Briellah spoke up, too, as we talked. Saying that several of the women had told her how these ragged and dirty ones had called enticingly to their children, being even so bold as to come up to them as they stood with their parents, urging them to come with them. Disquieted, and angered at the boldness, several of the Painted Sand men drove the little group from their encampment.’

The other elders looked at him and shook their heads. Jamílah’s eyes narrowed at this news and she stood up. ‘It is bad enough that this problem eats like a canker at our own tribe. We cannot let it spread to theirs, too. One of us must speak with the shadow children and if they will not choose to come back to the tribal ways, then we must cut them off from us.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ismat, whose own young son had left the family tent and now slept with Jasara’s group. ‘I will speak to them,’ he offered, ‘though I cannot say it will do much good, for all I have spoken to him before.’ The others nodded their heads at him, murmuring words of support.

‘Let us consider what Jamílah, the Healer, has said,’ came the voice of Faruq, cutting through the mingled sounds of the group. ‘She would be the last to recommend the course of action she has suggested, I think – wanting instead to see how the rift could be healed. But she, like the rest of us, must put the needs of the tribe first.’ He laid down the talking-stick, saying they should meet again in two days time. ‘Talk to your friends and family, see what they are thinking, then come back on the appointed day. We will discuss it once more and make our final decision.’

The moon’s light had been obscured by a ragged passing cloud. Carefully, the Elders found their way back to their tents, their hearts heavy with what they might have to do. Jamílah lay awake a long time turning the meeting over in her mind.

‘Tomorrow,’ she thought to herself, ‘tomorrow I will gather up my herbs and medicines and seek out Briellah. There is more than one tribe at stake here. We must see what we can do.’

[Nerindel]

Zasfal watched with interest as Damodred pulled Sammael away like a young child who was late for supper. As the two men spoke he gathered his thought's, It had been clear in the older mans face that he held no trust towards him and so he shouldn't Zasfal thought. A slight sneer escaped but he immediately adjusted it back to the warm friendly smile of the dandy he was pretending to be.

"Sorry about that." Sammael said with an easy smile. "Damodred thought there was something fishy about you. I told him it was probably because you had come from the harbour. He wasn't brought up well enough to know such personal comments were rude. Now, what were we talking about...?"

Zasfal laughed at Sammael's jest, all the while thinking that he'd have to keep a closer eye on the older man, obviously the brains of the duo. He thought Sammael a fool when he had first seen him, but he was not only a fool but he was arrogant and cocky with it, his old friend had given him good advice and he had not taken it. Zasfal's grin widened and he went on ...

"I believe I was telling you about the time I drank Damrod 'the Mûmak' under the table, then spent the evening in the company of his two lovely daughters. I believe the huge man became a fixture to the Dark Sail inn, out cold for two days they say!" he said laughing heartily, many of the other warrior sneered at his laughter but he ignored them.

A mischievous glint crossed Zasfal's eyes as he spoke, the events he had just recounted had been a bit more messy than he had told then. Damrod had lost to him at a game of cards and Zasfal had unreasonably demanded his daughters as payment, the man had been furious but Zasfal had told him that he would not take his daughters if he could out drink him. Zasfal could still remember the huge mans laugh as he thought him a fool for suggesting that he could out drink 'the Mûmak' so called for the amount of liquid he could hold. But off course Zasfal had paid the innkeeper to fill his mug with watered down ale.

When Damrod had regained consciousness he had vowed to kill him and went from inn to inn enquiring about his where abouts, He also remembered Ghurdans fury at the attention being drawn to the fire spray, "Deal with it " Ghurdan had spat at him and Damrod had been found dead in an alley a week later, the cause of his death had been multiple blows to his head and face with a blunt weapon.


"And what of you! you and your protective friend must have a tale or two to tell?"....

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

Meanwhile Ghurdan was growing impatient at being kept waiting, he grabbed a passing Citadel Guard. The stunned guard immediately recognised the notorious captain, but before the man could speak Ghurdan spat at him in a commanding tone "Are we to be kept waiting till the Eye raises on a new day!" The young guard, obviously new to the citadel had managed to compose himself and answered confidently " The red flame and her chosen are preparing for their journey" " enough! when did the ceremony begin?" he broke in. The young man hesitated a little surprised that the sea captain knew of the ceremony "Em, about two hours ago."

"So we will be waiting for the eye to rise on a new day," he growled as he walked towards his crew. "At ease" He cried as he stood before them, He could feel the eyes of the other warriors in the courtyard on his back, but he ignored them and went on "It seems we are to have the honour of camping under the protection of the great eye." Murmurs swept through the crew as to why they were waiting, there was many rumours about what the rituals intaled ranging from human sacrifice to the drinking of their lords blood, Ghurdan walked emotionlessly among his men listening to their thoughts they were all loyal to the eye as was he, he was probably the only man not in the priest hood who knew of the rituals as he had seen many performed but not all some where reserved only for the priests and priestesses like the one he believed the priestess would be undergoing just now.

"You" he grunted at one of his younger men, the young man bolted straight and walked confidently up to his captain, "Aye sir" Ghurdan took a pouch from his pack and threw it to the young man saying "Go to The Dark Sail and tell the innkeeper that I want him to bring as many kegs as the coins can buy to the citadel. The young man grinned as he felt the weight of the coins he held in his hands, much ale would be flowing this evening he thought as he hurried off to the inn.

Ghurdan then turned, the eyes of the other warriors watching the Corsairs every move, he continued to ignore them and opening the large black doors of the citadel he went to the black and red marble hall of worship. the hall was practically empty a few low ranking priest were knelt in front of the Emblazoned eye that hung above the black alter. As Ghurdan knelt before the alter he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, but he did not react to it.

"It is good to see you here my son" a soft but menacing voice whispered in his ear "You know my allegiances" he spat "I have a gift for you" she whisper, he did not need to look at her to see the twisted grin he knew she would be wearing. She pushed the elven woman that he had brought to the citadel that morning, "Your offering" she hissed.

Without any acknowledgement to his mother he took the woman to the front of the altar, the few priests that were there stood up and made ready to witness the offering. He slowly removed the elven woman's blindfold as she beheld the cruel captain again her grey almond shaped eyes widened with fear, he abruptly turned her to face the eye and ordered her to kneel, she shook her head defiantly so he forced her to her knees.

The old priestess that was his mother silently walked up to the alter and took a small wooden bowl and a red handled, black bladed ceremonial dagger from the alter, she handed the dagger to her son and held the bowl to the woman's fast beating chest. "Behold The Eye, The Master And Saviour Of all!!" she scream with delight as Ghurdan slowly ran the blade across the elven woman's white throat. He held the convulsing body of the elf while his mother filled the bowl with the blood of their victim. "Oh Great One Accept this Offering that we may do your bidding without fail" he said dropping the lifeless body of the elf to the floor.

The two younger priests that had witnessed the sacrifice hurried over to take the body away, bowing respectfully to the older priestess. Ghurdan looked up to see his mother looking at him with her emotionless eyes she pushed the bowl to his lips he drank, the warm sweet taste of the woman's life blood tingled through his body as though her life essence was flowing through him giving him the woman's strength and youth. As his mother took the bowl from his lips he looked at her cold dark eye and just for a fleeting moment he was sure he had seen pride. He grinned as she dipped her long pale finger into the blood and painted an eye on to his chest.

As she place the bowl and dagger back on the altar Ghurdan wickedly asked "You were not chosen for this mission ?" She turned on him sharply but she still held her composure as he knew she would "No I have more important matters to attend" "Yes in the high priests bed chamber, no doubt" he sneered at her, She slapped him hard across the face causing the side of his lip to bleed, he lifted his head licking the blood from the side of his mouth. "You are dismissed" she hissed, he nodded then went back to the courtyard.

He was not surprised to see that it was now starting to get dark and he had arrived back in time to see his men eagerly unloading a cart full of ale, many of the other warriors were also helping them and in the corner of the court yard he saw two tables laden with food, he cocked his eyebrow at the young man he had sent for the ale, but he only shrugged saying " The guards had brought it out!"

He then filled a mug and turning to all present he cried "to the Eye!"
"The Eye!" they all replied lifting their freshly filled mugs.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Helkahothion]

Thorgom was still full of the dear. With a smirk on his face he was half-dreaming in front of his poor tent. He had some money left and could go to the Inn. But then again, he could also stay where he was and mind his own business. He had not been to the Inn for a long time and little news did he receive from the outside world. He was in doubt weather to go to the Inn or stay where he was. At the Inn, he had been in a fight a while ago. Not that he was afraid. But Thorgom always liked his rest.

After a while curiosity defeated reason and he broke up camp. The tent that had been standing sturdy in the ground was rolled up into a package that he now carried on his side. Little possessions did the man have. He needed little. The only thing that drove was lust for life and thirst for battle. But battles were nowhere to be found. Thorgom kicked the traces of the fire and took the bones in the package of the tent. They could always become a useful item.

The Inn was not a nice place for fair folks. The outside was as rotten as the inside and most of the visitors were no different. Thorgom hated the building, but some people he know staid there so it was one of the few places he could get company. He opened the door and peered into the room. It seemed that it was a busy day. Thorgom walked to a vacant table and dropped his tent with the bones next to him. He took his axe, since it did not sit very comfortable with a big axe on your back, placed it leaning against his chair. One of the servants of the Inn approached him to take his order.

"I'm fine. I have just eaten and only drink what I gather myself."

The waiter objected that he should at least order one thing from the map, but Thorgom tapped his axe and send the little man off. He sat back and took a bit of the dear meat he kept dried in his pack. Not sooner as the man was gone, another approached him.

"Can I sit here Thorgom?"

Thorgom signed the man to sit down. As he was busy getting in the chair, Thorgom carefully lowered his hand to his throwing axe. He was always careful with new people. He despised every form of contact with strangers anyway. But this man had been so polite to ask permission before prompting down on the chair. The man proved no threat and Thorgom was pleased by the company. But good news came him to mind. It appeared that there was a war starting. Thorgom's lust for battle was immediately burning like a bright flame. As the man kept talking on about things, he fished out the important parts.
It appeared that religious members of the dark lord where looking for followers. Thorgom would follow anyone if it would lead him into war. He blurted out a quick thanks and took his leave.

The road to the citadel was not very far as Thorgom remembered it. He took a quick pace, hoping he was still in time to join them. The ground shook under his massive feet and the throwing axes bungled to all sides. The axe on his back was tightly fastened and was one of the few things that was not being a nuisance. As he proceeded, he could see a vague form of the citadel up ahead. It was already night and as he approached, he saw that people were standing outside. Still catching his breath, he approached one of them. He grabbed the closest arm since he was too tired from running without pausing.

"My name is......Thorgom.....I would...like to.....speak with your......eh....leader...I hear you need people." The man stumbled.

[Ealasaid]

Ahmad had not meant to fall asleep. Not having slept in close to two days, his intention had been just to lie down for a minute or two of rest, but the darkness coupled with the soft whisper of the wind through the tall grass had lulled him into a light sleep. He lay on his side with his head pillowed on the seat of his saddle. His dagger lay sheathed on the soft earth under his hand. He awoke with a start. Something moved stealthily through the grasses to his right. Slowly, he unsheathed the dagger, careful not to stir otherwise and waited. Listened. The dry stalks of grass rustled slightly and stopped. Feigning sleep, Ahamd waited and watched the darkness as the sounds grew nearer. Finally, the grasses parted to reveal Yusef. There was a cool, deliberate set to his face, and his dagger was drawn.

Ahmad's grip tightened on the hilt of his own dagger.

"Cousin?" whispered Yusef. When Ahmad did not stir, he crept closer. The dagger moved nearer and nearer toward Ahmad's face and throat. Ahmad coiled his body, readying himself to strike first should the dagger come any closer. Just then, the moon sailed out from behind a curtain of clouds. The moonlight glinted off the dagger in Ahmad's hand. Yusef's face changed as though someone had drawn a mask over it. The deliberateness evaporated to be replaced by a look of friendly concern.

"Wake up, cousin," Yusef said quietly. "The moon is high. We should be moving. I fear there may be hyenas about."

"Hyenas," echoed Ahmad. He sat up.

"Yes. Hyenas." Yusef sheathed his dagger. "I think they are after the horses."

"Hyenas," Ahmad said again doubtfully.

Yusef nodded earnestly, his narrow eyes glinting in the moonlight. "They are after the horses. We should move."

Ahmad stood up and looked toward the place where the tethered horses still grazed contently, showing no sign of anxiety. His head was still fuzzy from lack of sleep, but he knew that if hyenas really stalked the small herd, they would not be scattered about on the ends of their tethers, grazing and happily swishing their tails. Even so, Ahmad had already begun to doubt what he had seen and heard there in the grasses: the stealthy sounds, the look on Yusef's face. Surely it was a dream. It had to be. Looking at Yusef, he nodded. "You're right. It's time we moved on."

They saddled their horses and were quickly underway again on the final leg of the journey that would bring them back to their tribe's encampment. As he rode, Ahmad watched the stars. If he had calculated their location correctly, they would arrive back into camp well before dawn. That would give him plenty of time. He could return the five gift horses to the tribal herd, see to the pack horse, and still have time to ride under cover of darkness to the Baobab encampment on the far side of the spring. It wasn't that he did not believe Yusef's report that the Baobab had arrived. It was just that he needed to see it for himself. In the time that had passed since he had been banished from Qirfah's presence, she had never been far from his thoughts. If he couldn't see her, he at least wanted to see her tent, to know that she was there and safe. He could do that much and no one would ever be the wiser.

Thinking of her, he gave his mount a firm kick. The horse surged forward.

[Lyra Greenleaf]

"I believe I was telling you about the time I drank Damrod 'the Mûmak' under the table, then spent the evening in the company of his two lovely daughters. I believe the huge man became a fixture to the Dark Sail inn, out cold for two days they say!"

Sammael laughed along with Zasfal and listened to his tale. He was obviously putting a shine onto the truth, but that was only to be expected. Sammael grinned secretly at the thought that this “Mûmak” was probably the size of Damodred. It was what he would do himself, except that he appeared to have a knack of getting into trouble and his tales needed no embellishments. Still, despite his misgivings he clapped Zasfal on the back.
“A tale well told” he said with a grin. “When we get the chance we shall see which of us can drink more, yes?”

"And what of you! you and your protective friend must have a tale or two to tell?"....
A slow smile spread over Sammael’s face as they stood in the growing dark.
“Indeed we do. But Damodred would not be any good at telling them, his descriptions are dry, his facts are too honest and his sour face spoils the whole effect. So if you do not mind I will tell you a tale to make your hair curl” he added with a grin at Zasfal’s long curly hair. It was an affectation Sammael had never liked, it got in the way when you tried to fight.
Zasfal indicated his assent.

“Very well” Sammael began with a flourish and cleared his throat loudly. “I am sure you think I’m a fool” he said and looked directly at Zasfal. An expression flickered through the other man’s eyes that convinced Sammael he was right.
I think no different of you, he added internally.
“Once upon a time” he continued aloud “Damodred thought the same.”
”Who says I changed my mind?” the old man muttered with a grimace, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He knew what tale was following and the message it contained, and if Damodred himself didn’t come out of it looking too rosy then so be it.

“My tale begins seven years ago. It ends, also, seven years ago for it took but one night. I had been employed by the Dark Citadel then too, and I was sent on a mission with the old man. The purpose of the mission is immaterial; suffice to say we received glory and honour on our successful completion of it. On the way we stopped at a little tavern in Near Harad, full of farmers and traders. The two of us were got up as traders too, with fabrics, ribbons and some of those fancy baskets from the south. We were in the common room, I with one of the tavernmaids on my knee and Damodred getting blind drunk on his own. As far as I can make out he was drowning his sorrows at being paired with a fool for such a dangerous journey.

Anyhow all of a sudden I heard a commotion from the other end of the room. It appeared that the old man had challenged one of the locals, a big man who would make your Mûmak look like a mouse, no doubt. I decided to leave him to it, being naturally of a more trusting nature and being also otherwise engaged. The men were crowding around waiting to see the old man get pummelled, but of course he was fine. He used some of those wrestling moves that he has learnt from the Eye knows where. They may not be quite fair but it gets the job done.

Well the only problem was that the locals were not too pleased about the result and a number of them pulled knives. It was at that point that I regretfully had to leave the wench Amarya, who was a lovely girl, fair in the manner of Near Harad- fair of skin and hair, that was, for we have women here who are far more beautiful. I pushed my way through the crowd to Damodred.
‘The two of us can take them, right?’ I said to him.
‘Oh yes’ he answered, a gleam in his eye.

So I drew my long knife and held in front of me, while Damodred sat down to put on his boots, having taken them off to do his wrestling tricks.
‘Who’s first?’ I asked, full of bravado. ‘And who will take on my companion?’
That was then they began to laugh and, seized with a sudden fear I turned around. There was the old man, head down on a table, fast asleep! That was when I began to worry. With a sigh I picked the old man up and put him over one shoulder, having first shaken him to see if he would wake. Once again I lifted my knife.
‘So it looks like it will be one at a time, then’ I said. ‘Who’s first?’

A young man stepped up, with curling hair like yours halfway down his back. He drew a shoddy sword. It took me but a few moments to knock it from his hand, then I picked it up awkwardly and pinned his jacket to the wall while he fumbled for his belt knife. The next man was more skilled and it took a while to beat him. During the fight I hit Damodred’s head on one of the walls a few times, which is why his brain is less developed than it should be. After a while, though, I did manage to get the knife into his cheek. The only problem was he had his back to me at the time. I don’t think he sat for a while.

The next few men were easy to beat, farmers not warriors. One I cut along the face and gave him a fine scar to show his friends, the other I pinned to a table as I had the first boy. He, incidentally, had got away and slunk off, ashamed no doubt, by this time. Finally the fifth man approached me roaring with mirth. He could barely stand for laughing. As he got closer he clapped me on the shoulder which did not have Damodred on it and said ‘Enough! I have not been so entertained in years’. It turned out he was the innkeeper, Amarya’s father, and we stayed there that night. And the next too, for Damodred had such a headache the next day he could not stir from his bed. I would like to visit again, for I have never met that girl’s like.”

With a wistful look on his face that was not entirely feigned Sammael ceased his tale. He remembered that night, and what followed, very well- and there was not one word of a lie in what he had said. If Zasfal did not believe that he had bested four men with Damodred on his shoulder that was his choice. He would see soon enough that Sammael could hold his own in a fight. To the side he could see the woman from earlier was watching. He winked at her as she stood in the shade of a huge pillar. As he continued to glance around he saw that more than one man had been listening to his story, but now their attention was taken by men of the Citadel bringing out tables and food. Then a cart rumbled into the courtyard carrying barrels of ale. Sammael’s eyes lit up.

“Come, Zasfal. Shall we see which of us can eat more before we drink?”
Without looking to see whether the other man followed Sammael walked over to the tables of food. He bowed his head and crossed his hands over his chest, the sign of respect to the Eye. Half turning he saw Zasfal looking at him askance. Few men made the sign of respect before eating, but Sammael believed it had helped his luck, for he was surely blessed with that! It was just sense anyway, especially in the Dark Citadel. You never knew who had been watching and seen that. Sometimes you had to make your own luck.

[Ealasaid]

Ahmad and Yusef arrived back into the Painted Sand encampment well before dawn, just as Ahmad had expected. Yusef disappeared quickly in the direction of his tent, leaving Ahmad to deal with the horses on his own. That suited Ahmad fine. His exhausted mind was a confusion of thoughts and feelings, memories and half-forgotten dreams. The last thing he needed was to have to listen to anymore of Yusef's barbed comments, or worry about what Yusef might be up to when Ahmad's back was turned. Grateful to be rid of him, Ahmad rode on toward the area where the tribe's communal horses were kept. When he got there, he found Salman and Ratib, two elders from the Rain clan, slumped sleepily in their saddles, watching over the grazing animals. Ahmad greeted them courteously, and, while he wondered why elders should be out watching the horses, he said nothing. Watching the horses was a job for the very young men of the tribe.

But then most of the young men had been acting strangely lately. There was the knifing that Yusef had told him about, the one that had taken place in the evening of the day Ahmad had left for the north. According to the story Yusef told, it had happened shortly after dark as the moon first rose over the peaks of the distant mountains. A quarrel had broken out between two young men of the Rain clan. No one was sure what the quarrel was about, but when it was over, Mahir lay dead and Fouad stood over him, a bloody dagger in his hand and a wild light in his eyes. A mysterious red stone lay in the dust at his feet. It had taken four Rain clan elders to subdue him, but finally it had been done and Fouad had been taken away, bound. The red stone had disappeared, and, as far as Yusef knew, Fouad had not spoken since. At one time, Fouad had been a friend of Ahmad, so the news was that much more troubling. Fouad had never been the violent type. The image of his childhood friend, standing bloodied over the body of his own kinsman, haunted Ahmad's tired mind as he went about his work. Slowly, the vision changed, the mad eyes of Fouad overlapping and bleeding into the cold eyes of Yusef. The drawn dagger. Ahmad gave his head a quick shake. He was too tired. He had to clear his head.

But, then, there was Qirfah. Just as Yusef had said, the Baobab encampment lay to the west, on the far side of the spring, the white tents visible in the dark distance as the two men rode in from the north. She was there. Ahmad could feel her presence in the core of his being, and he knew he would have no peace until he at least saw her tent. The time that had passed since he had last held her in his arms had been too long, yet still no woman could compare to her. He knew that he had given his word to Jamilah, but the desire to see Qirfah again, to hold her again, tortured him. Too often Qirfah's smile danced before his eyelids when he tried to sleep, the memory of her scent still clouding his head as he awoke. If he couldn't see her, he at least needed to be near her, however briefly.

Like a sleepwalker, he finished releasing the tribe's horses back into the herd and saw to the unloading and grooming of the packhorse. It was still dark when he returned to his own horse and rode out of the Painted Sand camp toward the camp in the west. Sham's unshod hooves made a muffled clop-clop sound in the dust as he approached the outer circle of tents of the Baobab encampment. Ahmad dismounted, leading the horse and listening intently for the faint, watery tinkle of glass on glass. Some years before, the Baobab tribe had camped at the foot of an old volcano. In the clear waters of the stream at its foot, the tribe had found a wealth of obsidian, volcanic glass. While many members of the tribe had taken the obsidian and made arrowheads and ceremonial knives, Qirfah had selected only the narrowest, longest shards and, hanging them with twine from a small branch, fashioned herself a windchime. Ahmad knew that the windchime always hung by the door of Qirfah's tent to remind her of that beautiful place and the way the waters of the stream had flowed over the obsidian shards, making them sing.

A steady breeze had been blowing throughout the night. He knew that the windchime would be singing. It would lead him to her.

[ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[piosenniel]

Qirfah

The breeze was hot, and from the east. The sort that drove the tiniest of sparks from a ill tended campfire into a raging blaze through the tall dry grass if left unheeded.

Despite the labors of the day, Qirfah was restless. Her children slept soundly, the innocent dreams of the very young playing behind their eyes. She could hear them murmuring softly to some unseen playmate, calling out to them to come and finish up a game. In the warmth of the tent, they had thrown off their light covers, and lay stretched out in their innocence on their mats.

She smiled toward them in the darkness, rising up from her own mat. Husam’s hand came up to hers and she knelt down, tucking it back across his chest. ‘Go back to sleep, Husam,’ she whispered to him. ‘I am only going out to check that our fire has gone out completely. The east wind has risen.’ Half asleep, he sighed and turning on his side fell quickly back to his own dreamings.

Qirfah drew her long silken robe over her night clothes and stepped quietly out into the fresh night air. The ashes in the fire pit were dead and cold, no need for her to worry over them. The moon was bright overhead, the previous scattering of clouds blown away as she lay on her mat. Above her shown the Drinking Gourd, that big gathering of stars that pointed always to the north. It was turned upright from where she stood, holding in the promise of water – there would be no rain soon for the thirsty grasses, or so the storytellers said when they wove their tales about the fire.

The glass of her little wind chime caught the breeze, and tinkled softly in the darkness. Fully awake now, she walked quietly to the old baobab tree that spread its great limbs into the camp a short distance from her tent. She leaned back against its trunk, in the shadow of its crown, looking out at the silvered expanse of grassland in the moonlight - the gulf that lay between her and the little spring. The wind passed over the tips of the grass bending them in great, undulating waves moving toward her again and again.

Lost in thought, her world narrowed in around her, the sounds of the night fading away to a distant murmur . . .

[ June 19, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]