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The sun has not yet risen over the city of Solku, and yet already the streets are busy with traffic. Pilgrims and worshippers stream slowly towards the Lambent Citadel in preparation for the dawn service of Sarenrae; the dull glow of fire accompanies the homely scent of fresh baked bread being produced by communal tabun ovens; a second stream of docksmen wheel handcarts towards the western gate - ready to disgorge the cargo of river traders that arrived during the night. Much of this continues with the inexorable slow rhythm as though the city was drawing and expelling breath... though the air is more stagnant and sits heavy of late.
The Night of Tears - draws nearer, where minds will be cast back near fifteen years to when screams clothed the air in sadness, and the desert drank deeply of spilled blood. The Pens was thick with camel, horse and bullock as travellers pious and pragmatic both delayed their departure until after the night of remembrance.
A scream rose above the background sussurant hum of the city in it's depths... but did not sound a second time. Those that heard it pretended they had not, or perhaps were not even roused from slumber by it... but the hourglass of fate had been turned... and sand was slowly trickling through it...
Erasmes stirs from his languid slumber to see his familiar awake, prostrating himself in the center of the room, basking in dawn's first light. Erasmes, bitter taste in his mouth, buries his face in a silk pillow and turns his back on the sun's harsh light.
"...close the shutters, Sajjad." he grumbles, giving way to his drowsiness. He opens one eye. "Do not give me that look, old friend."
The brightly dressed monkey presses a trinket, a white-cedar sunburst, into his master's hand.
Erasmes grimaces at the holy symbol in his palm, and pressing it back into Sajjad's grasp, he pushes his familiar off of the bed, where he lands in an indignant heap. "Utrukni, utrukni! Leave me be. If you wish to go..." he stops, with a lethargic yawn. "... If you wish to go I shall not stop you."
The goddess will not miss me for one mere day, and besides, the priestesses will try to press me into dealing with their little gnoll problem again. Let them fall before the raiders if they will not pay for proper sellswords. Here, the dates are sweet as desert water and the sheets are soft...
Erasmes begins to snore contentedly as his familiar clambers out the window and scurries onto the street.
"Shukran! Thank you!" Farah calls after the man, watching him as he goes. She cannot help but smile.
She rises sluggishly, her ragged blanket sloughing from her body onto the dusty ground as she staggers upright. Her body is stiff and sore, limbs gripped by a sense of overwhelming tightness, as if her skin were pulled taut across too much space. It was nothing she was not used to.
Slowly she gathers her belongings. A worn pack and a leather scabbard - between them, they contained everything she owned in this world. Both are slung over her shoulder as she stoops down to take the bread. She lets out a sigh as she breathes in its scent and feels its warmth.
"Sabāh el-khai, Farah." A voice greets her in a welcome tone, seemingly emenating from herself. It is neither wholly male nor female, but some layering of both, spoken in perfect unison. "You have had a visitor this night."
"I know. I saw." Farah converses little beyond that, wearing a blank expression as she goes through her regular morning rituals. She cleans the dust from her ivory-banded armour. She wraps the linen bindings around her arms. She ties her hair back, pulling it into a tight bun. And she dons her veil - a crimson hijab wrapped with care and deliberation - her only key to civil interaction.
The voice speaks once more, gently urging her haste. "Yalla, we must go."
"Patience." She says. "There is still time."
The reply comes after a moment of silence.
"Not as much as you think."
Erasmes finds that the knock does not persist, and he is permitted to return to the warm depths of slumber. Sajjad however slips from the room and makes his way through the velvet draped and cushion festooned innards of the Gilded Dreams. The guest wing where Erasmes is staying is on the ground floor, a short way from the common area where sheesha's now sit idle and the last of the patrons of the night before are peaceably resting in the depths of pesh induced stupor. Sajjad knows his way though, and the front door of the house guarded and unlikely to be set open for a monkey - he instead slips through the kitchen and unto the street outside.
The simian does not have far to travel this morning - the Citadel within easy gaze as soon as he clears the shelter of the Gilded Dreams. Padding along the side of the street he passes large domed houses of the rich, sounds of activity within as the pious among them prepare for their own journey towards morning prayer.
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Farah's thanks is waved off by a raised hand from the baker who does not even turn to note it. As she restores her veil, the creak of wooden hand carts and coarse tones of workers conversing can be heard as Dustyfoot awakens around her. She joins what is less than a tide as much as a scattering of tumbleweed of people blowing slowly through the streets - many sharing her direction for the moment, as her feet take her South winding through residential streets.
A waft of oud can be smelt on the air as she turns one corner, where a Kelish girl is opening the doors of a shop with alchemical wares. A sign hangs above the door Attars and Tonics.
Khepri awakens earlier than everyone else, still on the adventurer's sleep schedule. As he tries to go back to sleep his mind keeps coming back to 15 years before during the war with the gnolls. He was not old enough at the time to remember everything while he was orphaned during the war, but he had been old enough not to forget many of the images and how scared he was. If not for the Sarenrae and the Lambent Citadel who knows where he would be now, if even alive.
Sighing Khepri gets up and begins to get ready for the day, knowing his mind was racing to fast to go back asleep. Khepri gets ready and heads out to the courtyard to join the others in the dawn ritual.
He moves through the crowd greeting as many of the people as he can before the sun rises and the ritual begins.
Brunhin has been awake for almost an hour now, reading his worn copy of the Order of Numbers, renewing his faith in the First Vault. Ach! Time to buy a new one. This is about to fall apart… he thinks as his gaze shifts from the words to the damaged corners of the tome.
Then, moving as quietly as he can out of courtesy for the other guests, Brunhin gears up for another day in the Market. He is becoming somewhat skilled in wearing the turban – a necessity, given his fair skin, to not get burns all over his face.
All equipped, he slowly gets down the stairs, waves to the other guests and to the innkeeper and gets out in the street.
“Chadeera, my favorite temptress! A good day!” smiling, he greets the grey-haired woman pulling flavored bread out of an oven and onto a display table “Yes, I’ll have the usual, thanks! Here, three coppers and the blessing of the Master upon you!”
He arrives at the New Market as the tardiest stall-owners are about to open - the narrow passages already filling with customers. Business never sleeps, yes he thinks while swallowing the last bite of his breakfast and even less so when businessmen are Saerenite. he cracks his neck and starts his morning round.
Siddig sighs and turns over, trying in vain to regain the pleasant warmth of his interrupted dream. A few more tosses and turns only delay the inevitable, and a growl from his stomach signals the battle is lost. Groaning, Siddig gathers his things -- the few personal items left to his name -- and makes his way towards the scent of breakfast.
Kif cannot help but be awakened by the noise of those rising around her, but she remains prone and keeps her face turned away, pretending that she is still asleep. She has no desire to field well-meaning questions about attending services at the Lambent Citadel. When the Sarenites have breakfasted and departed for the church, there will be time for her to emerge and pick through the leftovers. The staff are less likely to object to her pocketing tidbits for Gemal, as well, when the other guests have already had their fill.
The dormitory of the Lambent Citadel is filled with activity, but the acolytes go through their various preparations without many words being spent. Khepri moves through them and joins the slowly swelling crowd in the courtyard before the Lambent Citadel, his well meant greetings returned mostly in a kind yet perfunctory manner. Outside of the members of clergy and attached acolytes of a more martial nature the crowd emcompasses the full spectrum of Solku's citizens.
The innkeep and other customers greet him cooly, but without any malice - their minds already beginning to shed the cloud of slumber and focus upon the enterprise that will follow during the day. Chadeera smiles as she serves him his daily ara'yes the flatbread folded around a filling of spiced goat mince.
Within New Market the dwarf finds many of the stalls are indeed opening for business, the true swelling of customers will not occur until after the dawn.
The kelesh descends from his room into the large common of the Breakstride - trestle tables and benches half filled with those of the inn that have risen early. Mostly caravaneers though there are pilgrims and merchants also finishing up their repast. Breakfast in the Breakstride consists of a buffet table set up to one side - it's surface festooned with fresh baked flatbread and bowls of dips and salads to accompany. The earthy smell of the bread is contrasted by the sharp tang of herbed salads finished with oil and fragrant vinegars.
The staff is predominately young halflings in Kelish dress, clearing tables, taking fees and filling cups with kahve and spiced tea. They are overlooked by a retired caravan guard Khaled. He stands sentry behind the bar, face much sterner than his demeanor due to the prominent scar that runs from his half-ear across one cheek.
Kif steadfastly ignores the sounds of activity from both within her room and the common dining room outside for a span of roughly fifteen minutes. The pilgrims are generally reasonably quick to force feed and depart at haste... it seems that despite a pious regard for Sarenrae, a few minutes more sleep is prized more highly than a relaxed and stately approach to the morning.
The noise of breakfast fades though, replaced with a low hubbub of halfling voices as the servers are less pressed for time and turn to gossip.
Siddig takes a portion of bread and spiced hummus, with a cup of kahve on the side, and then finds a central spot to sit and listen. He tries to eavesdrop on the surrounding chatter, hoping for hints at lucrative work.
Unfortunately, one of the caravan guards sits nearby a few seconds later -- a large man with a strangely high-pitched voice -- and carries on talking in an uncomfortably loud manner, drowning out all the 'normal' chatter nearby.
Siddig finishes his breakfast and gets up to get a cup of tea. He sweetens it heavily, then walks over to Khaled. "A fine morning, my friend. The gods' blessings on you and yours. A quiet night and soft bed is more than I could have hoped for a day ago!"
Siddig waves off the lack of employment leads, knowing that it was unlikely there would be much talk of such pre-dawn in the Breakstride. Most of the caravans either take on men at the Trade Houses... with the town gates serving as a opportunity for the more desperate to sign on with caravns even as they depart the confines of Solku.
One of the serving halflings fills his glass with sweetened mint tea from a pewter tea-pot as the Kelesh man makes his way over to the bar where Khaled holds court. He gives a gruff grunt and nod before responding with a Sarenric aphorism "Ever the Dawn Brings New Light." his voice quiet and even... though he does not seem to be a deft conversationalist.
Farah pauses, curiously looking past the crowd to peer inside the store. She only lingers for a but a moment before carrying on, giving in to her Blade's prompting.
"What is so important that we cannot spare a single moment?" She speaks softly, not wanting to draw any attention, but her question is met with silence. Whether the Blade did not hear, or if it was ignoring her, she could not tell. "You are most difficult to deal with."
Khepri soaks in the energy in the crowd with this many Saranrae followers in one place. Even in the short time back from Zolurket, Khepri feels better having the support of so many around him.
Khepri looks for a spot to view the sun come up and prepares to spend the next hour in meditation and in prayer to Sarenrae.
Siddig nods his thanks for the tea, sipping the hot drink cautiously. "The Breakstride is a well-known haven for explorers and travelers. My caravan was ambushed and ransacked by bandits less than a day outside the city." He shrugs, nonchalantly. "Bandits are nothing new to experienced caravaners, but that day we had no warning. Have you heard aught of these reavers recently? I seek to reclaim my goods -- likely a lost cause -- or replace them... if I can find the means." Siddig raises an eyebrow to Khaled.
Kif lies still, keeping her breathing slow and deep, until the last of the early risers has left the common room. It's hardly the least comfortable position she's been forced to maintain: no sharp rocks or spiny plants to endure pressed beneath her, and only the threat of an awkward conversation at stake rather than discovery by a pack of gnoll slavers. It's only the enticing aroma of breakfast on the other side of the wall that keeps her from drifting back into slumber in truth rather than merely in guise.
Not much happens in the first half-hour of duty. With more and more stalls open and more customers rolling in, though, the chances for dishonesty increase. Brunhin keeps both eyes peeled during his round, greeting the many stall-owners he came to know personally, asking about the business and family.
He makes a point to learn by memory a few habitual faces and names every day That pot-maker… slim, thin mustache, wife and… Ach! Quite a mustache on the wife, too! Eh eh! Saw him already, must be a regular. “Blessings of the First Vault upon you, my friend!” he greets him “Quite a lovely collection of pottery you have here! That bowl is just what I need for my thirst!” he grabs a simple, polished bowl decorated with a floral motif “Let’s see if it works, uh?” with a mischievous grin, the dwarf conjures a small stream of water in the bowl and sips it. “That is great! A few well-earned coppers for you my fr… how may I call you?”
Both Farah and Khepri make their way to the open area before the Lambent citadel and await the coming of the dawn services. Unseen in another part of the courtyard a curious simian devotee finds safe vantage also.
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At New Market Brunhin begins to walk amongst the lines and alleys of the Souk.
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Khaled endures Siddig's story and words with the resolute stoicism of one who has worked a bar for a long time and heard most stories before. He shrugs at the questions asked "I hear much of what is said to happen beyond the stone walls... but little of it is tempered by truth. If you need answers on that you would be better to put it to those that ply the sands... rather than quench thirsts."
Those that have gathered in the open square before the Lambent Citadel sense a burgeoning expectation as dawn draws near. The area is not completely filled with devotees, but a fair proportion of the population is present when a single voice calls to prayer from the front of the Lambent. With darkness still hanging in the air, a barrel chested female acolyte in a simple woolen shift puts prayer to song.
The tones are of a contralto, deep and sombre, and though she has no magical augmentation upon her voice... even those at the outskirts of the square can hear at least a faint echo of her honorific words. They are not in praise of Sarenrae... not yet, but instead speak of the coming dawn and the fact that the sun will come to burn away the impurity from hearts and minds and leave us vessels for Sarenrae's redemptive will.
After the first verse has left her lips, the chorus grows as the acolytes of the Lambent Citadel join in turn - adding a full range of timbre, high and low to the resonating call. Another verse passes through mouths and into the air before the remainder of the square joins the call for a third stanza. The air hums with energy as the combined voices of hundreds call out, imploring the coming of the dawn.
Perfectly timed with the crescendo of the third and final stanza of prayer comes the first rays of dawn's light to spill unto the Lambent Citadel's spire. As the light slowly descends the spire towards the dome the singing of the choir dies away to leave an emptiness within the square... and anticipation. Seconds seem like minutes before the sun progresses and strikes the dome of the Citadel...
The very roof flickers and seems to catch fire as Dawn flowers upon it. Red, orange and ochre tones dance and play across the circular dome standing resplendent against a now visible blue and cloudless sky. Though most of the square have seen the sight countless times... there is still a sense of awe and gravitas, before the silence is punctuated by o'erloud echoing footsteps of steel on stone as a procession of Paladin's headed by Lady Chanar Cynore strides from the gates of the Citadel and she prepares to deliver a sermon.
Siddig grunts at Khaled's wisdom then finishes his tea quickly. He stands and sketches a small (subtly mocking) bow before taking his pack and leaving the inn. He heads for the markets, eyes and ears open.
Through the wall, Kif listens to the drone of conversation until the churchgoers depart, leaving behind only the scattered voices of the Breakstride's staff and a few late risers, too lazy or heretical to be drawn to services at the Citadel. Rolling away from the wall and to her feet in a single swift movement, she hooks an arm through the straps of the pack containing all her possessions, kicks her feet into scuffed and stained boots, and is stepping out into the common room while still tugging at the leather at the back of her calves to set her heels in place. With only the barest of nods to the halflings, she picks over what the earlier diners left of breakfast with the quick eye of the experienced scavenger, dipping some bread to eat even as she browses and popping scraps into her pockets for Gemal.
Even through the thick walls of the inn, the sound of the choir in full voice penetrates. Kif's face sours as if it is a screech or caterwaul instead of harmonious music. Despite her best efforts to ignore the canticle, she finds her lips moving as her mind supplies the words to the half-heard hymn sung by the crowd at worship in the square. With a scowl, she turns her voice from whispered song to a muttered oath and glances defensively around the depleted room to see if anyone is looking.
Brunhin hears the sung tones of Sarenrae's benediction at the market... but far from being reverential, most of the shopkeepers hold it as a marker indicating that there will be a significant influx of people when the prayers end. Thus far nothing he has seen has given him cause for concern.
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Kif moves into the Breakstride's common to find that the buffet is somewhat decimated, but still bears enough foodstuffs to pick over easily. The servers and Khaled don't pay her much mind, letting her keep to her solace. There is not much in the way of meat on the breakfast table, though Kif does spy some sealed meatballs upon one platter that survived the pre-dawn consumption.
As expected there are not many other patrons in the inn - most having left for prayer or other early engagements. An older scholar at a corner table fussing over the last of his tea... a couple of caravan guards heads bowed over a diminishing breakfast plate.
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Siddig leaves the Breakstride to find the streets stilling as all who are headed to prayer are making haste and leaving them somewhat emptied in their wake. Musing he considers where he might best look for work... much of the hiring for caravan guards is handled either through the mercenary houses (such as the Serpentine Blades) or discssed on the floor of the trade guilds.
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The prayers led by Chanar Cynore begin rhythmically, words much practiced and often said spill out and are answered in kind by the devotees around the courtyard. Rather than the Taldorian tongue that much of the more northern lands use, the ceremony is in the harsher tongue of the Kelesh - giving the prayers a more combative and dangerous tone than those of many other religions.
At the conclusion of the venerations of Sarenrae, Cynar delivers a short sermon - focusing upon the importance of vigilance, the everpresent threat of gnolls to the West... and lastly of the upcoming commemmoration of the Battle of the Red Hail. The service is then closed with another song - led once more by the contralto - as Cynar and her entourage disperse back into the Citadel Lambent.
The crowd then slowly begins to dissipate and Solku itself awakens with the sun to a new day.
From the boughs of one of the temple's towering date trees, Sajjad's mouth hangs open in wonder as the multi-hued sunrise cascades off of the Lambent Citadel.
Erasmes dreams. Gone are the bitter taste in his mouth and the sharp pain behind his eyes. Lucid, he finds atop a tall tree in the temple gardens. A thousand faces stare at him imploringly. He is in the slave markets of Okeno, as shades of men cry out for salvation as their bestial masters howl in laughter. He walks through a magnificent city with streets of paved brass. Domed palaces burn brightly in a thousand colours under a sky of flame. Is it not wonderful, Sajjad? he thinks he says, marvelling at brightly garbed ifrit and towering genies, voices all joined in a familiar song.
The hymn grows louder, and Erasmes wishes he knew what they were singing. A thousand and one voices in a thousand one tongues sing out, some in a voices like crackling fire, some in the tongue of the Padishah, others in the echoing harmonies of the heavens, and others in tongues even he cannot recognize. The gathering looks up to the burning sky, filled with the fire of many suns. A towering figure soars above, as the people rejoice. He tries to see its face, but the sunlight is too harsh. A reverent silence fills the City of Brass. Erasmes wonders what they are waiting for. He pushes through the crowd, straining to see the fiery angel up above, but he cannot see it. He wonders if he will ever see again. Blindly, he reaches out into the sky, and suddenly...
The pain behind his eyes rushes back. He does not start upright, but fights the dawn with everything he has, sluggishly trying to shield himself from the light from the eastern window. With a sudden, wrenching terror he opens his eyes to make sure he was not blind before sitting up, cursing his foolishness. "groan... Sajjad, I thought I had told you to close those shutters." he mutters, to his empty room. Sighing, he picks himself up, washing his face in a nearby bowl and calls for the servant to bring papyrus and ink. "... you would not believe the dream I had. I was walking in the City of Brass, among the great genies. No! Be still, tongue! Only poetry can do it justice. Yalla! Yalla! Fetch me ink!"
Farah lets out a small sigh as the ceremony draws to close. For a while she stands there expectantly, waiting for something to happen. But as the crowds thin and the citizens of Solku return to their lives, nothing does.
"Was that all you wanted me to see?" Farah folds her arms, listening expectantly. No reply comes. "La afham... I will never understand you."
She shrugs and turns, disappearing once more into the scattered throngs of Solku.
Mpf! That sure sounds beautiful. thinks Brunhin as he walks through the market I’ll have to catch it once before leaving. Saerenites love a good show, I guess… he looks down at his elabo-rate vest and the golden key he brings with himself I should be one to talk. Ach! To each his own.
He keeps his watch, knowing fully well that the crowd will soon swell and get more confusionary.
Kif moves into the Breakstride's common to find that the buffet is somewhat decimated, but still bears enough foodstuffs to pick over easily. The servers and Khaled don't pay her much mind, letting her keep to her solace. There is not much in the way of meat on the breakfast table, though Kif does spy some sealed meatballs upon one platter that survived the pre-dawn consumption.
Kif takes a flatbread and deposits several of the meatballs in it before folding it over as a packet to keep in the grease. A bit of her old squeamishness stirs at the sight of the meatballs. She has since eaten half-cooked game field-dressed, but at least she knows what she's eating. With ground meat and heavy seasoning, you never can tell: Dog? Horse? Cat? Geier? She shakes off the question with a shrug; Gemal will neither wonder nor care, as he'll happily scarf up offal from the ground when the hunters have cleaned their quarry if he isn't closely watched.
She ignores the scholar and the caravan guards, giving Khaled a lingering glance as she goes outside to fetch her dog from the Breakstride's kennel. For some reason, the man amuses her; she can't help but feel that he cultivates his long scar as another man might a beard: as a sign of virility, even if he is now reduced to protecting salads and breads instead of merchants' treasures. Aye, if size counts, yours is longer, she taunts him in her mind, but mine are more numerous.
Siddig pauses on a street corner, leaning against the wall in the shade. He frowns at the herds of Sarenrae faithful headed to morning prayers, but stops short of sighing.
A bit of a conundrum, this is. Mayhap I should just check in and fess up to the lost cargo. Gah! Faliz and the others would never let me live it down, especially after that incident in Bug Harbor...
Looking right, in the general direction of the trade guilds, he sighs. No... not yet. If someone recognizes me there, I'll get dragged into the family whirlwind.
He looks left, pondering. Mercenaries are always in demand... but what lousy pay for lousy work can I expect? I need something faster! I've got no ties to the underworld here, but...
Kif finds Khaled meet her lingering glance, though he proffers but a slight smirk before turning from it. She moves into the now swiftly heating air outside to skirt the wall of the Breakstride to it's adjoining kennel. The entrance is covered by waxed canvas hung freely, which when pushed aside sees her within. Apart from Gemal, she sees a half dozen other canines - ranging from a pedigreed terrier to a pair of mutts of indisciminate birth.
The dogs are kept ostensibly to a stall apiece, though the ropes that adorn their collars allow a fair degree of flexibility of motion. All of the occupants greet her with the yip and happy pant of an animal becalmed.
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Siddig ponders his predicament and what means he might use to recoup his losses. While Solku is a lawful city and fairly run... it is clear that most of the markets within Kelesh lands are morally grey - especially where slavery is still tolerated. That being said, the trade of pesh and other alterants of mind and body are where profits are healthy and competition even more so. Unfortunately that market is also relatively secret.
If Siddig was to chase the quickest dollar that could be made... especially without invitation to consortium... then it would best be approached in the evenings at dens of iniquity such as Gilded Dreams where hushed deals and confidence are in good measure. Failing that a quick and practiced eye could likely find some sport at the First Market or outside of the city walls at The Pens.
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The call is answered with reasonable swiftness, and Erasmes finds himself furnished with ink, quill and parchment by a scantily dressed Kelesh slave girl.
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Farah does not share the enthusiasm of her blackened blade, and travels a short distance to the West towards First Market where a copper spent sees her furnished with a skin of lukewarm water by a street vendor. While she drinks her fill... she notices that an older acolyte of Sarenrae has stopped in his walk to regard her for a few moments. As she looks up and meets his gaze, he averts it and turns to move away.
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Brunhin's expectations are soon met as the crowd swells around him, merchants and customers both swarming into the market once the crowd has dispersed from the dawn prayers. The market fills with the clashing sound of many tongues spoken by many tongues, and as the heat of the morning slowly swells... the air in the market becomes pungent with redolent spices and the sweaty stink of livestock.
Ach! says Brunhin as the people start crowding the market It’s going to be one of those days. Well, good for the businessmen, I guess. Let’s do my job. The dwarf keeps walking through the aisles keeping eyes and ears as alert as he can.
Kif finds Khaled meet her lingering glance, though he proffers but a slight smirk before turning from it. She moves into the now swiftly heating air outside to skirt the wall of the Breakstride to it's adjoining kennel. The entrance is covered by waxed canvas hung freely, which when pushed aside sees her within. Apart from Gemal, she sees a half dozen other canines - ranging from a pedigreed terrier to a pair of mutts of indiscriminate birth.
The dogs are kept ostensibly to a stall apiece, though the ropes that adorn their collars allow a fair degree of flexibility of motion. All of the occupants greet her with the yip and happy pant of an animal becalmed.
Kif smiles at the dogs' welcome, already more comfortable in their company than among the human inhabitants of Solku. She drops to her knees to rub Gemal's long muzzle before loosing him from his restraints. "I know, I know," she croons to the thoroughly unfussed canine. "It's barbaric keeping you shackled out here like a slave. A sevenday, perhaps less, and we will head back to the fort where we can live like civilized people, eh? Yes, you glutton, I have your breakfast," she laughs, as he eagerly sniffs out the pocket where she secreted the meatballs. "Come outside first. I haven't enough for everyone," she explains in a stage whisper, glancing at the other inmates of the kennel. "No, I'm sorry," she tells the other dogs as they push back through the canvas curtain. "Perhaps when your companions have finished paying homage to the lady in the sun, they'll give a thought to their responsibilities in this world."
Walking out into the sunny street, Kif removes the bread-packet she wrapped the meatballs up in and tosses them, one by one, to the whip-thin dog, who gulps them down eagerly, wagging his tail with enthusiasm. When he has finished, she tosses him the greasy bread for good measure. "There, now, are you satisfied?" she asks him. "There are others more in need than you, handsome one: May you never know their want." She sets off in the direction of the eastern gate and the Pens beyond, taking the long way around to avoid the throng dispersing from the citadel.
After prayers are over Khepri spends some time mingling, talking to anyone who lingers. After a short amount of time he wanders into the market looking for something to eat before returning to the citadel to help where he can.
Siddig ponders for a few more minutes, eyeing the rising sun with trepidation. My time's limited. With that, he shoves off, headed for the First Market.
Farah glances at him for a moment with her good eye as she readjusts her veil, staring him down as he turns away.
"Khanzeer..." Farah mutters under her breath, pulling her veil up over her nose. "That's right, keep walking..."
Her Black Blade tuts, clearly unimpressed by her disrespect, but says nothing.
Spending time looking over the patrons of the market Brunhin does not sense much amiss and the ebb and flow of the commerce seems to be as it should.
There is one curious moment though... across an alley and at a bread stall he sees a figure in a hooded cloak move linger a second, before moving on. Plain as day upon the stall shadowed by a stack of flatbread is a silver coin that was not there before the cloaked figure slowed.
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The other canines within the kennel keen and whine, but do not bother Kif overly... and she is able to liberate both herself and Gemal easily. The few people that she passes upon the backstreets do not look upon her with any degree of surprise, and she blends somewhat into the colorful background that Solku presents.
She passes by houses, warehouses and businesses of relative repute - real estate within the near distance of the Lambent considered higher class within the walls. At the Eagle Eye she notes a couple of patrons with what appear to be hefty hangovers being pushed and cajoled towards the compound of the Condor Company by a hefty and scarred Kelesh man. A sour looking dwarven man smirks from within the bar's confines. Neither pays her any particular mind.
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Khepri lingers a moment before moving in search of some sustenance. He needs not travel towards the market in this case though, as several mercantile Kelesh are already purveying goods adjacent to the Lambent Citadel. A few bear large earthernware vessels of long stewed dishes of meat and vegetables and there is a charcoal griller also with a variety of spitted meats of varying description and provenance.
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Siddig does not have far to travel, the First Market being nearby to the Breakstride to the North. As he crosses the street he hears the call of songbirds chirping and a swell of business as the pilgrims of the dawn service have dispersed to more mercantile pursuits.
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The man that Farah dismissed does not linger, and moves into the day and to his business.
Khepri moves to the vendors near the citadel, visiting his favorite this morning, the charcoal grilled skewered meat. After picking a couple of varities, he finds a place to sit and enjoy his meal.
Farah seeks out a patch of shade somewhere by a near-travelled path, getting herself ready to perform during the lunch hour. It would be nothing special, some twirling and dancing lights perhaps, but with any luck it might be just enough to pay for her evening meal.
"Don't push yourself." The blade speaks aloofly. "It is a wonder that body has lasted this long."
"Your concern is noted." Farah says dismissively. The blade was right, though. Even now as she limbered up, she could feel it in her bones. Her muscles felt taut. Every movement she made felt like they were being pulled beyond their limits. The flames had done more than just mar her beauty. It had crippled her. She was brittle, like charcoal. At any moment, she might just crumble away...
"It is not you I am concerned about." The blade replies. "Even the sharpest blade is useless without a hand to wield it."
Typical.
"Enough of that now. I am not so weak that I cannot stand to spin." She reaches into her pack, retrieving a small book. "Now quiet - I must concentrate."
Readied Spells (4/4/2); CL 4, Concentration +9
Cantrips (DC 13) - Dancing lights, Arcane Mark, Detect Magic, Mage Hand
1st-level (DC 14) - Expeditious Retreat, True Strike, Shocking Grasp, Vanish
2nd-level (DC 15) - Frigid Touch, Mirror Image
Brunhin raises an eyebrow when he notices the coin That’s curious. Probably none of my business… but it can hide something shady. Just a routine check then.
Trying to keep an eye on the man who left the coin, he closes in to the bread stall and buying a little snack analyzes the coin left there. After taking a good look, he resume his round, shadowing for a few minutes the man who left the coin.
Erasmes proceeds to record his dream in lilting verse, insisting on total silence as he writes. Closing his eyes in pensive silence, he pens a colorful, if unremarkable piece before entering the smoke-filled common room, seating himself in the middle of the gathering.
He begins to mingle with the patrons, taking a long draw from the ḥuqqah when it is offered his way. He plays a few games of backgammon and swaps tales and riddles, staring expectantly at the door until his familiar rejoins him. He draws from his pack a long, thin, chessboard and begins to set up the pieces as his familiar sits obediently across the table. "I am glad you could make it, dear friend." he says, warmly, as he makes his first move. "A mind must be tempered and kept sharp, Sajjad. Do not forget this thing. An idle mind soon becomes dull, and loses its edge."
"Ibn il-mitnaaka." he mutters, humbled as the monkey makes it's final move, folding it's arms triumphantly. "You have out-maneuvered me. Since when did you grow so cunning?" he sighs, as he packs up the pieces. "What was that? You say I am growing slow? You wound me, old friend. My mind is as sharp as it ever was." he says, suddenly drawing himself to his feet. "Come. We are going for a walk."
The other canines within the kennel keen and whine, but do not bother Kif overly... and she is able to liberate both herself and Gemal easily. The few people that she passes upon the backstreets do not look upon her with any degree of surprise, and she blends somewhat into the colorful background that Solku presents.
She passes by houses, warehouses and businesses of relative repute - real estate within the near distance of the Lambent considered higher class within the walls. At the Eagle Eye she notes a couple of patrons with what appear to be hefty hangovers being pushed and cajoled towards the compound of the Condor Company by a hefty and scarred Kelesh man. A sour looking dwarven man smirks from within the bar's confines. Neither pays her any particular mind.
Scars, Kif muses as she makes her way along the streets, they are as much a status symbol here as jewelry or gold braid might be in a town with a less violent history. She amuses herself for a while imagining princesses in the city of Katapesh trying to outshine each other by the prominence of their scars rather than embroidery and jewelry, but as she passes through the eastern gate, her expression sobers.
Even after so much time has passed, her stomach still twists itself into anticipatory knots every time she approaches a group of slaves, either in the Pens or in a caravan in the wilderness. While her reason tells her that she could not possibly know any of the unfortunates, her heart nevertheless beats a little faster in her chest as she prepares to overlook the stock. She has changed so much: Is it not foolish of her t think that anyone she once knew might not be as unrecognizeable as she? She frowns, covering her nerves with a forbidding countenance, as she walks up to the Pens, Gemal wagging his long tail innocently at her side.
Siddig finds that the early morning does not offer much to him by way of quick and profitable enterprise. Many people attempt to sell him things... a bird... a cloak... a carpet... but not many seem to be in the market for outlaying coin. What deals he does see are more of the alleyway exchanges of pesh between small time dealers and small time addicts... nothing that would provide him the windfall he seeks.
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The stairs that Khepri chooses to enjoy his morning repast are shared with a number of other pilgrims and acolytes alike. Genial enough towards him but primarily and initially more concerned with the filling of their bellies as opposed to the conduct of conversation. However around a mouthful one of the paladins with which he is acquainted, a young Taldan lass who arrived on pilgrimage within the last few months named Kessia, asks "Khepri... will you be joining sparring today? The militia should be joining us in part."
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Farah's vigil with her blade is left unmolested, the denizens of Solku knowing better than to seek to offend a scarred warrior bearing a blade. Her meditation is somewhat troubled... as though there is a burgeoning sense in the air that creases in the fabric of Solku were about to be ironed... but the feeling passes quickly enough.
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As Brunhin makes to follow the man he chances a quick glance at the coin - which seems to indicate it's a standard silver chit of the realm. However the cloaked one is diving into a full alley and he needs make a choice. To linger and inspect or grab it would risk losing the suspicious one in the throng...
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The face of Erasmes and his companion are now relatively well known within the den of sin, and he is greeted companionably... some more sincerely than others. Very idle discussion wafts languidly around the room from those that are there - but the morning is slow and attendants outweigh customers. Erasmes' ears need not descend any further than the side of his head, as he is literally sitting within the single best establishment to acquire pesh of many kinds.
Dealing of refined pesh is generally handled by the attendants, but to seek something either more exotic or raw... he would need seek audience with one of those that generally dwell deeper within the confines of the establishment... behind locked doors. He knows however that this is easily done if requested, but he may need to wait.
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After making passage through the Eastern gates of the city, the Pens loom before Kif as a chaotic swirl of structure and squalor both. Sadly she notes that often the stables and facilities constructed for beasts of burden generally outweigh the comfort of those made for traded flesh. The two are segregated,and the stables blur away as her attention shifts to the human cargo.
Each of the slaver trade guilds is noted with posted colours - signs of Abadarian scales, piles of coin and castles flitter with the wind; images graven onto rich colors of scarlet, emerald and gold. Below them though and in most cases well guarded by competent seeming guards are a different sort of symbol. Garbed in poorly kept clothing and huddled into what fading shade they can muster are chained humans - black mwangi, tanned Kelesh and even a few fairer skinned specimens. Many have had their spirits broken and sit sallow eyed and despondent... those that yet have heart are occasioned by bruised faces, symbols of the opression faced by them.
Not all of the slave pens are downcast though, beyond the laborers are some cargos of gladiatorial slaves destined for distant fighting pits, or house slaves that are better groomed and kept so as to not reduce what price they might fetch.
The gods are not on my side this week, it seems, Siddig curses his luck and sighs, casting a disdainful eye at the pesh handlers. After another aggressive peddler tries to sell him some cheap jewelry, he retreats from the market and heads for the city gates, to see what the Pens might offer.
After making passage through the Eastern gates of the city, the Pens loom before Kif as a chaotic swirl of structure and squalor both. Sadly she notes that often the stables and facilities constructed for beasts of burden generally outweigh the comfort of those made for traded flesh. The two are segregated,and the stables blur away as her attention shifts to the human cargo.
Each of the slaver trade guilds is noted with posted colours - signs of Abadarian scales, piles of coin and castles flitter with the wind; images graven onto rich colors of scarlet, emerald and gold. Below them though and in most cases well guarded by competent seeming guards are a different sort of symbol. Garbed in poorly kept clothing and huddled into what fading shade they can muster are chained humans - black mwangi, tanned Kelesh and even a few fairer skinned specimens. Many have had their spirits broken and sit sallow eyed and despondent... those that yet have heart are occasioned by bruised faces, symbols of the opression faced by them.
Not all of the slave pens are downcast though, beyond the laborers are some cargos of gladiatorial slaves destined for distant fighting pits, or house slaves that are better groomed and kept so as to not reduce what price they might fetch.
Kif begins with the lowliest groups of slaves, striding along the edge of the pens, making no effort to disguise from the guards her interest in the unfortunates within. She tries to catch a glimpse of the captives' faces, even those that are turned to the ground in despair, paying particular attention to the few whose skin tone marks their Avistani heritage, particularly if they are human women. After finishing her circuit of the laborers, she gives the gladiators only a cursory glance before turning to the house slaves, with the same preferences as before, though with more avid curiosity and a more searching gaze.
Though she seems to be looking for one type in particular, she makes note of any slaves that are unbroken enough to meet her gaze. She has given Gemal the command to defend her from any unwanted attention, counting on his warning growl to alert her to any guards who might approach.
Khepri nods his head to Kessa, "Yes I will be there. I was watching you yesterday and your skills have improved in just the last few days since I got back. The hard work has really paid off!"
Khepri makes his way back to the Citadel hoping to get in some practice time for himself before the others arrive for training.
Farah finishes her meditation, savouring the feeling of fresh magic rippling through her body. The power was invigorating - It was no substitute for real flesh and bone, but it would do. Magic was her lifeline now. She could not live without it.
She transitions from her meditation to her warm-up routines, slowly rotating four orbs of light around her as she stretches and turns. A wooden bowl sits on the ground before her, should any passers-by be feeling charitable this day. Stranger things have happened.
It takes her a while for her to get her mind and body in sync, the movement of the orbs slowly shifting to match those of her arms. Within a few minutes she is there, every finger tingling with magic as she manipulates the glowing orbs like a master puppetteer, a whirling dervish of ivory, crimson and gleaming light.
It was doubtful that she would make much money at all; she never did. She didn't need to, either. Her seldom mercenary jobs often earned enough to keep her on her feet for weeks. Sometimes even months. No, this was not for the money. This was for her.
Her mind goes blank. There is no pain. No crippled limbs. No hideous scars. In the dance there is only beauty, and light.
Khepri passes through and into one of the secluded courtyards of the Citadel where he might practice in relative peace a moment.
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Farah moves through the city slowly, seeking places where there is foot traffic or accumulations of people that might be liberated of a few coin for entertainment presented.
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Leaving the temptation of pesh behind him, Siddig moves through the streets of Solku towards the Eastern gate. The city is slowly coming to life and more bodies ply the streets to move between commerce or meetings. As the gate begins to come into view he notes a heavy laden caravan of silks and fabric slowly making it's way through the gate. One of the carts has spilled it's cargo as the change was being made from bullock drawn to human power and a small swarm of half-stripped slaves are laboring to set it right again.
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Though Farah's mind is blank, her senses remain keen - In the dance she is completely in tune with her surroundings.