All gameplay will happen here. Please dot-in and delete.
It started with the lost wagon train.
The guard of Unazentum had been told to expect a wagon train from the west. They were three weeks overdue when a ranger named Sei came and asked you to join a scout team. ”We expect victims of animal attacks, people suffering from exposure and malnutrition. Some may have stranger wounds. Please pack accordingly.” The scout team consisted of Sei, four guard, and a westerner. The westerner, it was said, worked the pass through the Lyfthrinan mountains and was an excellent tracker. They trusted her because they paid her well and she had worked with them many times. Her name was Masasama.
At the end of the first week you reached the boarder of regular guard patrols. At the end of the second week Sei pointed to the south west to great golden towers, ”Ina Erdu! The home of the Uyar. We turn north. There is no succour there. The Uyar guard their secrets well.” By the end of the third week you came to the foot of the Lyfthrinans.
After making camp on the 30th day, Mas’ and one of the guard stayed with you at the camp as the ranger and other guard performed a circular patrol … that was the last you remembered.
Until waking up.
You found yourself bound at hand and foot with iron manacles inside what might be taken for a canvas-covered animal cage on wheels, large enough for several lions. The manacles at your feet have a chain that run through the bars to another prisoner, and another, chain-ganged together. It was three of you in the beginning. You were accompanied by an old dwarf woman named Craedeamh and a boy, barely fourteen, in rugged clothes. He says his name is Ludter.
After a long time, hours after waking up, the back of the canvas opens and a short thin bearded man opened the back of the cage and brings water to you all. You were suspicious but thirsty, so thirsty. He poured enough for you to slake your thirst but then the confusion came. You lost strength. Everything went hazy and speaking above a whisper was impossible. The others drank begrudgingly and likewise fell silent.
The mobile jail cell rocked and bumped, for days. There were several wagon drivers, maybe five or six. It was hard to keep count of the daytime and the night, but it was, perhaps, by the third night that the wagon started heading up hill and things began to get colder and colder. Each day brought new cold and you three shivered uncontrollably. After days of the cold a fever set in. A burning heat, and delirium followed. Every once in a while your captors would come in and assess you. One brought you an old horse blanket and they judged you like cattle to see if you would 'make-it'.
Who knows how much time had passed.
Then, one day, your fever broke. You looked around and Ludter was gone. It was only You and Creadeamh now. She looked at you and in a voice struggling to be audible, ”He didn’t make it.” Her face was grim, the face of a cold realist.
Three days later, at what you took for evening, though it always seemed dark here, you could hear chittering noises coming from ahead. The captors started yelling in a strange language.
The horses broke out into a gallop as human screams could be heard only feet beyond the canvas. A strange humanoid shadow loomed against the cloth and diminished as the horses raced away. When things slowed down only two voices could be heard talking to one another.
It was nearly three weeks on soft ground then. All that time sounds of a river could be heard not far away. Birds and all sorts of animals sounded calls. Late in the third week your head started to clear. They were giving you clean water. It was a sure sign they were preparing you for something. The air quickly became hot and thick but not uncomfortable. They stopped. Other voices could be heard. A caravan? You called out and a new voice yelled in broken Aerthane, ”We don’t care who you are! Shut up!.”
The back of the canvas opened and four new captives were thrown in.
A) Under a spoiler titled ‘The Long Trip’ please post what you do during the travels, especially during the final three days when your head starts to clear.
B) Under the heading (not a spoiler) ‘First Impressions’ please post a description of your character as you imagine her now.
Cairee woke up with a pounding headache and a feeling of deep, foggy confusion. Where was she? For a moment she wondered if she was back home in Divolgatia. Or worse, that she'd never left. Perhaps she was having a lovely dream about finding the Order of Saiph, moving to Issmenador, becoming a healer. And now she was waking up to the nightmare of her life - stuck at home with her family of bloodthirsty warriors.
The truth turned out to be much, much worse.
Cairee was bound hand and foot in the back of some kind of covered cage on wheels, stripped of everything but her clothing. And her holy symbol - a small smooth rock in the shape of an angel wing that she wears on a thin leather strap around her neck. Saiph be praised they hadn't taken that. Whoever they were.
She was chained to two other prisoners. A dwarf woman named Craedeamh and a teenage boy named Ludter.
Cairee struggled against her chains in vain. She tried to remember what had happened - how had she ended up here? She'd been on a scouting party trying to find a lost wagon train. The small party had been a month into the search... what had happened? She couldn't remember. She could only hope her fellow scouts were safe.
She tried to talk to Craedeamh and Ludter. They were as confused and helpless as she was. After several hours they were brought water. Cairee was smart enough to be suspicious, but thirsty enough to drink it anyway. She felt weaker almost immediately and found it all but impossible to talk.
Cairee tried to keep track of the days, but found the task impossible. She missed the open sky and sun terribly, and felt herself wilting in the covered cage. Had Saiph lost sight of her? Was she truly alone?
As they traveled it got colder and colder, and a fever set in. Cairee dreamed she was in a smaller cage - a pet for her twin siblings Arnie & Mar. They kept poking her with a stick and throwing chunks of raw meat at her head while her parents laughed and called for her to perform tricks.
When the fever finally broke, Cairee didn't know if hours or weeks had passed. Craedeamh looked as bad as Cairee felt. Ludter was no longer with them. Cairee guessed his fate and Craedeamh confirmed with a quiet "He didn't make it." Cairee muttered a prayer to Saiph for the boy. And one for herself and Craedeamh.
She was no longer sick, but still very weak from whatever was in their daily scoop of water. So far from her Order and with no access to her God, Cairee felt her faith begin to wane. She tried to stay focused, meditating on the lessons of her Order and preserving what little strength she had. She tried desperately not to think the words that were constantly hovering on the outskirts of her mind. I'm not going to make it.
A few days later, towards what Cairee guessed was evening, she heard a strange chittering outside. Their captors started yelling, and suddenly they were being pulled at a gallop. Cairee thought she saw a humanoid shadow pass over the canvas. Though honestly she couldn't be sure any of it had happened. Perhaps she had another fever.
After another lifetime of travel (or perhaps only a few weeks), the air turned from freezing to hot and stuffy. Finally one day Cairee began to feel her head clear. They were giving her clean water. She felt relief, immediately followed by fear. What was changing? Why would they want her well?
There were more voices - another caravan? The cage was opened and four more captives were thrown inside.
First Impressions
Cairee Featherfriend looks like a small dirty sack of potatoes. She's wearing a coarse brown top and pants covered with a coarse brown robe tied at the waste with a ratty rope. Not the most flattering of outfits in the best of times, the rags are all but falling off her. A small pendant hangs around her neck.
The chains at her wrists and ankles have rubbed her skin raw. Her skin is caked with months of dirt and dust and sweat. Her hair hangs just above her shoulders in a tangled mat. In the dark of the cage it looks dirty brown, but any time a little light gets in you can see little pops of orange here and there.
As the new captives arrive Cairee looks over them with care. She can do nothing to help them, but that doesn't stop her wanting to try. While she might be mistaken for an old pile of smelly trash, something in her expression betrays what she really is: a young scared girl far from home desperate for some comfort.
The stars shone and flashed like the sky was made of isinglass. The two moons watched from their seats as you walked through the back streets of alKubiri , a small town on the north bank of the great Masdar’um river. alKubiri was Jumanah’s town. With Zhayalahmar and your oasis home, it made up the triangle which was your life. Most of the town was a traveling tent city which moved with the fertile river flow. Over the years, a few stone buildings were made and a few residents remained year round. Now it was a traveling month and nearly nine-tenths of the population was further inland where the Masdar’um was fat. Everything seemed deserted, sparse, and lonely.
You cut through alleyways in the dark, a thief in the night, trying hard to prove you can keep up with your sister. You both threaded through homeless men sleeping in the warm night air as you sped through shadows and avoided official eyes. Then you came to it, the mansion that Cyra spoke of, and it was everything she said. A long thin three-storey building with a front minareted tower, the tower flanked by sculptures of black heron. After a difficult climb up some damaged decorative tiles, and a leap to a second storey window terrace the place seemed all yours.
Cyra grinned and whispered, ”If our brothers could see us now, oh how amazed they would be,” she looked at you thoughtfully, ”You’re nearly as tall as me now … You check the larder. They may have left something for the year-round servants. I’m going to search the library. We meet again in the great hall near the front door.”
The building has the faint smell of oil lamps as dim light from a few wall sconces guide your path. You rushed on tip-toes down the steps to the kitchens. A light shone from underneath a back door - ’servants are home’. Quieter still you moved to another small wooden door, this with ogee molding. ’Locked, but a simple latch lock’. You pull out some simple implements and wedge them between the door and the frame.
With the door open a wave of smells hits you, spices and cured meats, dates and flatbreads. At the far end of the small room of burdened shelves hangs a huge basket of apples, pears, and grapes. The jars of spices are too bulky to run with but the saffron alone could have net you real money. On the shelf just to your right shoulder you see they have been kind enough to provide you with fine cotton table clothes, perfect for wrapping up food for travel.
The door slams behind you. You rush to open it but can’t, even though you can see the latch hasn’t been engaged.
Two hours go by.
The door opens. Cyra is there with a servant behind her. He holds a rusty knife to her throat. Cyra looks covered in sweat but calm. (Is it for your sake?) Looking defeated, she tries to reassure you, ”It’s ok. No one is going to get hurt. Come out slowly.” As you emerged from the larder you could see three other servants with identical smooth hooked mahogany clubs. There was a tall thin woman with them. Her robes a complex brocade, under them a long red silk gown. Her black hair was tied back into a bun held in place with a gold ring the size of a bracelet. The skin around her mouth was taut and it made her look like she was constantly pouting.
”Take them to the tent. Tomorrow, the big one goes to alhufra and the little one goes to Quard’s men.”
The servants drag you both through the entryway and out the front gate, around the back of a building to a yurt and manacle you both to the centre post. They search you both thoroughly. The one with the rusty knife stayed and watched you. At one side of the tent lay a young woman. Her wrists and ankles are manacled like yours but more, her fingers have string woven between them in a complex knot similar to the children’s game ‘cat’s cradle’, but tight. A hard leather band is fitted over her mouth so she is unable to speak. She must have done something terrible for this special treatment.
The next morning brings the sound of a great wagon. The servants come and unchain you from your sister. One of them takes some red paint and makes a mark over your face. They drag you kicking and screaming outside. You stop when you see the wagon is immense, four horses draw a short front wagon with seats for two. The two front horses are saddled but empty. Between the horses and short wagon is a luggage rack with chest and several packs. A servant brings a small bundle and puts it with the rest. Behind the short wagon is a great canvas-covered cargo wagon, nearly big enough to hold a pachyderm.
They drag you to the back, open up the canvas, and throw you in - chaining you to the two women inside. One, a dwarven woman who looks like the last ember of a dying fire. The other a tired woman in what looks like monk’s robes. . After you they toss the gaged girl in like she were a sack of bad dates. After her they forced in a man in rags who looked badly beaten and another young woman dresses in desert beige shirt and pants.
Under a spoiler titled ‘A Ruined Scheme’ please post any character stuff you like concerning the break-in and your night in the tent.
Under the heading (not a spoiler) ‘First Impressions’ please post a description of your character as you imagine her now for everyone else.
The boy seems like any boy. His voice without accent and his clothes plain. There is no sign of where he was from and no way to notify any family he might have had.
The wagon drivers were suddenly very anxious and seemed disorganized when before they seem very regimented. They were clearly being attacked and whatever was attacking them had them terrified. It wasn’t a tiger or a bear. It was something unnatural.
The sun was glorious! A perfect day, hot and dry with only a little wind. For some reason, your Father, Faheem, has asked you to go to the Agora, the grand bazar. The family usually does all of its’ trade in the lesser bazar, but not today. Oh, the Agora was the usual market place times ten! Strange performers from other cities in other countries told strange tales about city collapsing cataclysms, a town built on the back of a sleeping dragon of unimaginable size, and a new world of honey and four hundred foot tall trees. A gnome with a mouth filled with silver teeth performs tricks from a little pulpit, making objects of all kinds disapperate and then conjures them back from nothing.
Dwarves push a strange wheelbarrow that pops and steams. One of them smiles at you and hands you a tiny cone that looks like pastry with a small almond coloured blob on it. It has a strange mist coming off it. He says to you in Aerthane , ”Complimentary Ice?! Enjoy and tell your friends” You try it and it feels so cold but tastes like coffee. You can feel the chill slide all the way down to your belly. A trio on men wearing swords on their belts and short cloaks on their left shoulders swagger past. 'Their skin is so pale?' You see beneath one of the cloaks a long thin dagger sheath. On the far side of the agora two Elves watch the scene passively.
Four city guard in golden robes and pointed shoes, a breastplate of silver with a golden sun emblazoned, scimitars at their sides and spears in their right hands walk over to the gnome. ”Show me your papers.” When the gnome hesitates one of them grabs the pulpit. He pulls of the cloth that covers the top revealing a little trap door. He opens it and produces several of the magic objects. ”Good, here you go, your mark from the royal guild of wizards. Permission to perform.”
You shake your head. ’The gnome’s bit is now ruined. So what if he now has papers.’ You sigh and look up. A single cloud is coming in from the over the ocean. It has the form of a great lizard. Two smaller clouds seem to build near it. You can't help but think they look like wings. You look down and see to the south of the agora a lane of food vendors. You look back up and the cloud is already dissolving. Well, time to make yourself known to the food vendors and show off the family baharat spices.
Then, a few things happen very quickly.
A fight breaks out in the Agora. A half-orc man in an armoured coat takes a swing at an old man dressed in rags. ”You have the nerve to steal from Uur! I’ll have your head from your shoulders!”
The guards rush to the fight knocking over the pulpit in the process. It cracks and a pomegranate rolls into the street.
and ...
A loop of leather slides down over your head and tightens as it crosses your mouth. You find it impossible to speak. Many hands grab you from behind and pull you back by the arms and a black bag drops over your upper body. By the count of ten you feel like you aren't in the agora anymore. You feel a needle prick your arm and lose consciousness.
____________
You awake and it’s night time. You are in a grand yurt. Your wrists are manacled and chained to similar bands on your ankles. The loop that was over your mouth has been replaced by a hard leather strap with a bit covered in gum-arabic that goes between your teeth. You can feel a weave of string over your fingers so that you can barely wiggle them. A woman’s distant voice can be heard, ”What do you think?” You look up and see a woman with red skin and ridged red horns curled under luxurious black hair. She shakes her head ‘no’ and leaves the tent. Hours later the voice returns, ”Well?” Over you stands a man with light blue skin, he appears to be sweating uncontrollably, utters, ”No.” He leaves.
You look about you and can see they have taken everything you had even the simple bits of jewelry you wore. A servant came and fitted a bladder to your mouth piece. Without warning, cool goat’s milk starts to pour into your mouth through the bit. You manage to swallow a bit but begin to choke. He stops, looks you over, then leaves with the bladder.
The following day the woman’s voice is back. You can see a little bit of a red silk dress but the rest is behind curtain. ”What do you make of her?” A man in cloak and finery and riding boots is sitting in a folding chair not six feet from you. He stares at you for what seems like several minutes. He opens his mouth and a little belch of flame comes out with a, ”Yes. She is … but not one of mine.” The woman’s voice replies, ”Many thanks. Go to the house and Arrun will provide you with payment.” At that they both leave.
Three days go by.
Late on the third night two young women are brought into the tent. Both are manacled and are chained to the main post. A man with a rusty knife stays and watches over the three of you.
The next morning a great wagon comes hauling behind it a large canvas-covered cage. The smaller of the two young women is unchained and thrown inside. Soon after the servants return and grab you to throw you roughly in. You are followed by a man in rags and another woman.
You recognize her immediately as Khata! The girl you reported for stealing only five days before you yourself was captured. Her eyes narrow as she sees you … she remembers you to!
1) Under a spoiler titled ‘They Don’t Haggle’ please post any character stuff you like concerning the market and your time imprisoned. Feel free to interact with Dounia.
2) Under the heading (not a spoiler) ‘First Impressions’ please post a description of your character as you imagine her now for everyone else.
The young woman stopped to watch in fascination at the gnome as he performs, presumably for money. Seeing items vanish and appear, Zahra wondered if that was something she should ask Haseena about next time she went to clean her house. If only she was able to do more magic in public because that would make a fantastic party trick next time she got together with her friends.
She heard the popping sound of the wheelbarrow before she saw it and gracefully stepped out of the way to let it through. Zahra could never resist returning a smile and positively beamed at the dwarf when he smiled at her. Usually the ones she had seen at market were so somber so it was refreshing to see one of them smile. She accepted the complimentary ice with a curtsy, her eyes twinkling, ”Why thank you, kind sir.” She made an appreciative sound as the taste delighted her taste buds and a giggle emerged as she could feel a pleasant chill sliding down her throat. ”How positively delectable. I will definitely spread the word.”
Seeing the elves just watching passively across the way, Zahra raises her hand in a friendly wave before her attention is drawn back towards the gnome. She subconsciously shrinks back a bit as the city guards rudely question the gnome. It was a harsh reminder of what may happen should someone see her do magic. She had no such papers and if she got into trouble then her father and mother would get into trouble. She couldn’t do that to them…but sometimes it was so hard to keep the energy bottled up inside her. Thankfully Haseena was helping her to learn how to control the surges but it was hard, especially if she was very upset.
Zahra peered up at the sky and is soothed by the cloud that catches her eye. It made her feel like she did when she was at home, somehow familiar and safe. Thoughts of her parents quickly reminded her of why she was at The Agora. Her hand patted the pouch she was carrying at her waist where the samples of her father’s baharat spices resided. Time to show her father that his trust in her was well placed.
The dutiful daughter took a step towards the food vendors just as the shouting started. She looked over with widened eyes at the angry orc. She was just about to shout for the guards when they rushed up. She felt relief, trusting in them to diffuse the situation.
The last thing she remembered seeing before everything went black was a pomegranate rolling down the street.
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Why did mother let me sleep so long? Zahra mentally clawed her way to consciousness. This didn’t feel like her bed. She tried to move her arms but they were caught on something. She willed her eyes to open but they felt so heavy. When she finally did get her eyes to open, nothing looked familiar and everything was sideways. She began to struggle against her bonds and to call for help even though she was gagged. When no one came to help her, tears welled up in her eyes and began to stream down her face.
With each person that came into the tent, she tried to get their help but was always ignored. She began to wonder if she actually existed. Being from Zhayalammar, she was used to seeing all-manner of races and cultures but even she was confounded by the horned woman, blue-skinned man, and the one who belched fire. Why were they here and why were they discussing her? She pleaded with the fire-man using her eyes and with muffled words promising rewards from her loving parents but to no avail. She remained captive and she still didn’t understand why.
During the next three days she prayed to every single deity she had ever been exposed to in Zhayalammar, which were a lot. It may not have changed her circumstances at all but it did give her something to focus on which kept her calm. More than that, she knew that her parents were moving heaven and earth in order to find her. She believed that her rescue was imminent.
When the other two girls were brought in and shackled, Zahra was glad to have company. Even though they seemed engrossed in each other and she couldn’t speak anything coherent with her gag, it was still nice to have them there. She cried less that night.
The next day, Zahra recognized that things were changing. There was a lot more activity and she could hear movement outside the yurt. She tried to squirm as much as possible when the servants come to move her but she is easily man-handled into the wagon. She lands in the wagon with a muffled groan and tries to right herself which is somewhat difficult considering her hands and fingers are tied the way they are. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she recognized Khata being pushed into the wagon as well. How did she wind up in the same place as a thief? She tried to get the servants attention to tell them this was all some horrible mistake but the sounds that came out did not resemble actual words at all. Zahra’s head hung in defeat as she finds herself in the most foreign of situations. Nothing to do now but to wait until someone untied and ungagged her. Maybe then she could get someone to understand that they’d made a terrible mistake and that they would be rewarded if returned to her parents.
First Impressions
Zahra struggled to sit herself up in the back of the cargo wagon. Having her ankles and wrists manacled was bad enough but her fingers being tied together meant she couldn’t push herself up with her hands. Her linen clothes are still relatively clean considering she had been lying on the ground for the last few days. Her tunic and wide-legged pants are fairly unadorned but are well-made of good quality material. She’s sad, but not surprised, to see that her jewelry has all been removed.
Even though her clothes are pretty clean, her face and hair are a different story. Her long, black hair is disheveled and knotted. Her face has streaks of kohl down her cheeks where her make-up had run from her tears. The gag in her mouth kept her words from being understood by those around her but she acknowledged their presence with a feeble wave – or at least what counted as a wave when you’re stuck on your side with her wrists bound and fingers tied together.
Dounia fiddles with her lockpicks as the sand flows through the hourglass in her mind. Sweat beads her forehead - who puts such a heavy lock on a larder?! She's making too much noise, the servants will her, and then finally, the lock clicks open.
The larder is...amazing. There's enough food in here to last her and Cyra for five moons. And this is with the masters of the house not even home! The wealth of some people...Dounia frowns. She should be living with wealth like this. Not for the first time, she wonders when her brothers will come and find her and Cyra, and take them home.
BANG!
The door slams shut. Yelping, Dounia leaps for the handle, but it simply will not budge. Grabbing her tools, she begins to try the lock again, but it's not even engaged. Somebody strong holding it shut? Magic? Frightened, Dounia whimpers a little, then takes a deep breath. Cyra knows where I am. She'll let me out when she's done with the library. I need to be ready for her.
Finding some small jars, she empties out the garlic bulbs and fills them with spices. These go into her pockets and pouches. Munching on a fresh pear [i](so sweet!), the girl makes parcels of food that will be easy to carry, prioritizing the dried meat and dates, and other foods that will last. Three-quarters of an hour later, she's ready to leave, but the door still won't open. Dounia paces, worried, getting more worried by the moment.
Two hours have passed before the door opens. There's Cyra! But no, she's been caught! Dounia immediately begins to tremble. At her sister's calm words, Dounia allows herself to be bound. Then she catches sight of the richly dressed woman, who says, ”Take them to the tent. Tomorrow, the big one goes to alhufra and the little one goes to Quard’s men.”
Immediately she begins to struggle and cry out. "No! You can't take her away! You can't!" The men pay her no heed. Instead, they roughly strip her and Cyra of they're belongings, even finding the picks in her hair and the money pouch in her secret pocket. Her bag, her weapons, everything is taken from her. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, everything. At least they leave her shayla, but the scarf is disheveled and barely covers her hair.
Soon they're taken to a big yurt and chained inside. Dounia barely spares a glance at the other girl, she's too terrified. "Cyra, don't let them take me to the Quard's men! I want to stay with you! Don't let them take me!"
Her sister comforts her as best she can, and after a few hours of terrified weeping, she falls asleep cuddled against her sister.
The next morning, the nightmare continues. She is taken away from Cyra, who is left chained to the post, her eyes huge. "No! You can't do this to me! You can't! My brothers and father will come for us, they'll pay you money, anything you want! They'll kill you if you separate us, they will! Let me go! Cyra! CYRA!"
Alas, her threats and promises gain her nothing but rough laughs and and a slap across the mouth. Stunned by the pain of it, Dounia subsides for the moment, eyes wide as she takes in the huge wagon.
One of the guards lifts her bodily and tosses her into the wagon - she lands hard on her shins and forearms. Crying again, she begins to scream as they manacle her to the other women. "You can't do this to me! I'm a princess! Let me go! My father will have you skinned and rolled in hot sand! He'll bury you up to your neck and pour honey in your ears! You let me go!" It wasn't until she was threatened with the strange gag the other girl had on that Dounia stopped screaming, her voice now hoarse and raw. Instead, she pulled relentlessly at the manacles, trying to force her hands through them. All she succeeded in doing was rubbing her wrists raw and bloody.
First Impressions
Dounia is 15 years old, of average height, but very skinny. She has no curves yet, much to her dismay. Her long black hair is covered by an orange and gold shayla; it would be improper to go out in public with her hair loose and showing. Her baggy pants and flowing silk blouse are of excellent quality, but too big for her. Her clothes look like they were made for a palace, not a wagon. She wears the colours of sunset in the desert. Her dark eyes are red from crying, and she's trying to free herself from her manacles with what is clearly hysterical terror.
My goodness! The sinny toothed gnome is doing 'real' magic in the streets. He's obviously a guild member ... perhaps one of the Ghamid Theatre Guild?
The Trio of men are wearing foreign armour. Locals occasionally spit and call them 'Son's of Shishan' - the distant descendants to the Akha. They must have traveled from another continent in the far north.
The elves look to be some of the wandering Grey Elves that you have heard of. They have a sadness about them, a loneliness. One, wearing a hooded cloak the colour of mustard seed, sees you wave. He smiles genuinely and whispers to his friend, the one in the rust coloured cloak, who looks to see you. She does a tiny curtsey.
Dounia is 15 years old, of average height ... and she's trying to free herself from her manacles with what is clearly hysterical terror.
Cairee and Zhara, you can also see that a mark has been painted over this girl's face. The other girl, Khata, has one also. Dounia, you can see it on the other girl.
Cairee looked over her new cell-mates, wishing there was something she could do.
That poor young skinny girl looked absolutely terrified. She and another had strange red marks on their foreheads that dripped down their faces in thick red streaks. Cairee found her orange clothes a small comfort, perhaps a little sign from Saiph that all was not lost.
Another girl, also young, with the addition of a particularly cruel gag. This one tried to wave through her bonds, a simple, normal gesture that tugged at Cairee's heart.
Cairee had attempted to channel the power of Saiph a few times throughout the long journey. But whatever drug they'd been fed made it difficult to concentrate and she'd been unable to feel even the faintest glimmer of power.
Now, staring at her new companions, many younger than her, Cairee felt a small stirring. Perhaps she'd be able to offer them a little relief, if nothing else. Cairee strains her hands, trying to bring her fingers to her angel-wing pendant, and focuses on the girl's orange clothes. Please, Saiph, let me help them.
Then she whispered a few words, lying to herself as much as them. It's okay. You'll be okay. I'm Cairee. What's your name?
As the stranger reaches for a pendant around her neck you all feel a strange warmth that extends outward through you and recedes. It lasts about six seconds but it felt like some presence was with you. You couldn't sense what but you know: it is far away, it is somehow connected to the woman with the pendant, it can see you, and it is on your side. The horses champ for a second and you all hear the male driver say, "Did you feel that?" in the common tongue.
The other, a middle aged woman, replied "Yes. Wanna know what else?! The cut on my hand is gone."
"The sooner we get these to the auction the better. I don't like this."
Dounia and Zahra, you can hear a familiar voice through the canvas, the voice of the woman in the red dress. She spoke to the wagon drivers, ”Where is Quard?” There is authority and anger in her unraised voice.
”Taken. In the pass. Arachthropoi. Three weeks ago.”
”Are you sure you know where to go?!”
”Yes, Mistress.”
”Fail and you will pay the flesh price.” The way she said this was cold and had a terrible certainty to it. Even through the tarp over the cage you can feel the wagon drivers' replies freeze in their mouths.
The cart jolts into motion and falls into a slow crawl along the soft ground. In short measure it crossed what sounded like a stone bridge, echoing under its' hollow. Once across, the ground begins to feel stodgy. It must have a fair amount of sand in it. Travel is slow as the sun rises and heats the canvas covering you in a way it hasn't before. The cart, appearing large from the outside, seems small now that if is loaded with six people.
An hour into the journey the wagon passes a contingent of people on foot, a large family group, speaking the language of the desert tribespeople in low voices.
After four hours the cart stops. You are all drenched under the sauna the canvas has created. The male driver gives you all water as the woman lifts up the side of the tarp and guards, a spear in hand. They assess Zahra, the woman with the extra bindings. The man nods and leaves, closing the cage behind him.
Another four hours goes by and the sun is now beating down from the front of the wagon. The canvas opens again and the woman throws in hard dates and harder bread.
The sun is diving into the west when you can start to hear the singing of the hours, Zhayalahmar's human clock towers. Powerful lunged cryers praise the rulers and the gods in song on an hourly basis. The temperature drops dramatically and its' oppression ceases. From under the tarp you get the sense you are passing through a great gate.
A Trip to Auction
It's okay. You'll be okay. I'm Cairee. What's your name?
Zahra struggled to make herself heard around the gag in her mouth. I'm Zawwa." She spoke very slowly as she carefully tried to form the words she wanted to say. Not all the consonants finished with the usual crispness but overall she figured they could understand her muffled words. "Agweed. I’m sur my fawents ooking faw me. Zey bwing helf when zey find me."
Her eyes widen when she sees the mark painted on Khata's face as well as the young one. She looks at them with a mixture of pity and confusion. Yes, Khata had done something wrong but Zahra had let the authorities know so they’d set her straight and so Khata wouldn’t do it again but she didn’t deserve to be humiliated in such a manner. ”Zat mawk...why steal? Stealing is wong. Why not ask yawr fawents ow wowk to eawn money?"
Zahra fell quiet during the rest of the journey. Speaking took a lot of effort and the increased heat within the wagon made her feel light-headed. Yes she was used to the heat but not when she didn't have fresh air, adequate water, or any food. She closed her eyes and tried to tell herself that this was just some horrible nightmare and that very soon her mother would wake her and she would smell that breakfast was ready.
A Trip to Auction
Zahra had passed through Zahyalahmar's main gate to the 'front city' nearly once a week since she was six. The clock towers, narrow minareted spires with scarcely enough room for a single person, were spread throughout the wonderous city. Although she knew the path by memory it was also nearly impossible to tell tower from tower. She could be certain of a few things at least: they were certainly in Zahyalahmar again; they had just passed the main gate in the eastern most part of the city; the Limaninite chanting said it was eight in the evening, which meant families and quiet folk would be headed home and the streets would be opening up to 'wilder' denziens.
A Trip to Auction
Her eyes widen when she sees the mark painted on Khata's face as well as the young one. She looks at them with a mixture of pity and confusion. Yes, Khata had done something wrong but Zahra had let the authorities know so they’d set her straight and so Khata wouldn’t do it again but she didn’t deserve to be humiliated in such a manner. ”Zat mawk...why steal? Stealing is wong. Why not ask yawr fawents ow wowk to eawn money?"
Khata looked like a caged animal, all eyes and instinct. When Zahra spoke the girl hissed out a course whisper, "May your father's tongue dry up.", and spit on the wagon floor. She looked at the others and stopped to stare at Cairee. With a quick glance at Zahra,"I'm Khata. Take my advice and don't trust her, she's a tale-teller. I work in the bazar and some guards mistook me for a common thief! Strange. They picked me out of a group. They should be taking me to alHufra but I'm in here?! Anyway! You'll see - this is all a mistake!"
I'm Khata. Take my advice and don't trust her, she's a tale-teller. I work in the bazar and some guards mistook me for a common thief! Strange. They picked me out of a group. They should be taking me to alHufra but I'm in here?! Anyway! You'll see - this is all a mistake!"
Zahra's expressive eyes looked offended, "I am no tale-tellew. I wuz at zhe bazaaw wowking faw my fafer. I saw you. I told zhe truf to helf zhe merchants like my fafer."
----
The sun is diving into the west when you can start to hear the singing of the hours, Zhayalahmar's human clock towers.
Zahra's mood brightened and she perked up when she heard the human clock towers. "We're back in Zahyalahmaw! Now zhe'll find us." But when she realized what time it was her face fell, "It's late. I've never been out zis late on my own."
A Trip To Auction
"I'm Khata. Take my advice and don't trust her, she's a tale-teller. I work in the bazar and some guards mistook me for a common thief! Strange. They picked me out of a group. They should be taking me to alHufra but I'm in here?! Anyway! You'll see - this is all a mistake!"
Zahra's expressive eyes looked offended, "I am no tale-tellew. I wuz at zhe bazaaw wowking faw my fafer. I saw you. I told zhe truf to helf zhe merchants like my fafer."
After weeks of this scary, sickening journey, this small squabble sounds huge and overwhelming. Cairee locks eyes with Craedeamh, who she's been traveling with for several weeks and both barely knows and has spent a lifetime with. They share a look: kids. Though Cairee is barely older than the new arrivals, she feels ancient. And they look so...young. They have no idea what's in store.
Neither does Cairee.
She wishes desperately that Tal, her teacher from the Order of Saiph, was here. Or Flyson, her friend in Issmenador. Or any of the friends she met on her first trip into the country. The pretty half-orc, the odd man with the mechanical bird, the friendly feisty dwarf, or even the crabby halfling. They'd know what to do. How to give them comfort, offer hope.
But no, she can't wish them here, captives so far from home. She must be grateful that they're far away and hopefully safe. Even if that means she will have no comfort from them. Perhaps that's what I have to offer. That which I desperately want myself. If I crave it, others must as well. Days ago (even hours) she wouldn't thought it possible to step up and offer anything of value to her fellow prisoners. But she still feels the power of Saiph, knows she was able to touch the others with his warmth. He hasn't abandoned her. Perhaps she can do this.
"Zarra," Cairee takes a guess at the gagged girl's name, "Khata. This is Craedeamh." she nods to the dwarf. "I'm so sorry we have to meet like this. But please trust me, whatever your dispute was, it must end. Here, in this cage, we're all the same. You are not each other's enemies. The true enemy is our escorts. And whoever they're bring us to. If we have any hope of escaping, we must be allies."
As they travel Cairee tries to mediate. She also keeps watch over the girls, distracting them from their squabble and trying to calm them, if possible. They'll all need their strength for...whatever is coming next.
Zahra's mood brightened and she perked up when she heard the human clock towers. "We're back in Zahyalahmaw! Now zhe'll find us."
Cairee listens curiously to the human clock towers. How wondrous! She closes her eyes and lets the strange song wash over her.
A Trip to Auction
The sense of peace that washed over her was the first sensation that cut through Dounia's desperation and terror. Taking a hitching breath, Dounia noticed that the wounds around her wrists from tugging on the manacles was gone, and she breathed deeply with a sense of peace.
The driver's voices cut through the calming presence, and the girl perked her ears up.
"Arachthropoi? Good! I hope they wrap him in webs and feast on him for a month." Not that Quard's death seemed to be helping her situation. Still, she'd been behaving like a terrified child, and not like the princess she was.
Wiping her cheeks and nose on the back of her manacled hand, she truly looked at the others for the first time.
The other women were speaking kindly to each other, so that wasn't nothing.
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One of the wise women would simply announce a geas, “The path from the village will be terribly unlucky this night and all but one are meant to avoid it.” The clans people would stay at home with their windows shuttered. If anyone need be outside they knew to keep their backs to the path lest they curse the traveler (and draw the ire of the coven upon themselves).
But Haytham Arnaout was not a member of the clan and the bones cast said the accepted outsider must leave on this night when the silver moon was halved. So it was that Tymythy had a companion for the lonely way.
The worldy trader waited outside as Tymythy-son-of-Stywyrt packed in the middle of the night and left his family behind. Animal fat candles lit the inside of hovels as the pair reached the main path and Tymythy could feel the good will of his clan as he walked. A susurrus of joyful voices could be heard from every house as the village, saying no names, passively celebrated the rare announcement of a faith walk – may all who seek their truth be prosperous in that goal!
Tomorrow, Stywyrt and Sarleyan would wake and, seeing their young son gone, weep and be proud and say nothing.
After a few minutes the young warrior came to the great circle of ward stones that surrounded the village and the arbour of holly and hemlock and alder branches that acted as gate. As the two passed through, Tymythy could see three shadows by the side of the path. Three hunters had arrived back late and stood quietly with their backs to him some thirty paces off. One called out blankly to the night, ”All who walk their true path shall find wisdom”, as a blessing to the traveler as much as a ward to protect himself against bad luck.
The middle hunter was quiet for the space of three beats. Like some final decision had been made, he turned around and looked you in the eye as if to curse your journey from afar. It was Leeno-son-of-Chlodwig, your cousin, and brother to the dead Penn, your once raid captain.
The first hunter chanced a sideways glance at Leeno, furious and reproachful. The third hunter stayed quiet and tense.
Haytham whispered, ”Leeno never did have a lick of sense. He’s too young. If he were climbing, he’d blame his pain on the branch he fell from. Please, don’t linger.” Did he mean don’t linger on the spot or don’t linger on the thought?
Still, the next days were plagued with strange happenings and poor luck as fallen trees blocked paths, good equipment failed, and rain came that lasted seven days.
On the sixth day the pair passed through a great copse of dead cypress.
On the seventh day wolves caught their scent and followed from a distance and the companions had to sleep in shifts.
On the twelfth day the wetlands opened up to a vast fertile veldt. From where they were, this new plain looked like an endless roll of hills. Tymythy found the tracks that morning. Horses. An Aerthanian scouting party! The two spent the entire day moving slowly, keeping out of sight, and checking over each hill.
Then the thirteenth day came.
A great orange cloud, like some nearby forest fire, blotted out the sky so that the position of the sun could be barely guessed at. What was late dawn had been transformed into late evening. A hill with a great protrusion of stones could be seen silhouetted in the distance, and upon the hill was the shadow of a man. Mist formed in the air as Haytham squinted and with a voice barely audible he spoke, ”I do not know this place … I don not know this man.” His voice was anxious. The mist slowly turned to rain and the rain felt sharp. ”Quickly! We must turn north, move! MOVE!”
They both sprinted a hundred paces until lightning struck the ground before them leaving a little fulgurite tree in their path. The rain and wind became powerful as a voice in a strange language was carried on the wind. It was certainly the shadow’s voice. Tymythy raised his hand to shield his face but couldn’t keep his eyes open. The rain’s tiny droplets stung every inch of exposed skin. He could hear Haytham’s voice yelling through the wind, ”WHATEVER HAPPENS NEXT, I WILL COME FIND YOU!”
Tymythy found his steps mired in what felt like powdered snow. He opened his eyes and saw that it was no longer raining but that he was in the midst of a great sandstorm. He fell to the ground and covered his face, staying still and concentrating on getting air. The storm lasted for what felt like hours. When it abated, the young warrior was all but buried.
He pulled himself out of the sands and began to walk. The soft sands gave way to every step, every step was laborious. Not sure where he was headed, Tymythy did his best to walk a straight line west. It was hot - so hot.
This lasted three days.
It was three days before he was discovered by a group of rough men. They looked him over, nodded to each other, surrounded, and easily captured him. In truth Tymythy could barely lift his arms. They took him to a little tent where they took turns roughing him up. The way they did it, carefully, watching him between beatings, it was like they were testing him. Would he break? Then they took him to a larger tent. His clothes in rags, his face swollen, his tools gone. Then, manacled, they took him to a wagon. Barely able to see through his slits for eyes he could make out five women … mostly very young, one, a dwarf.
A warmth comes to him. His eyes clear. He feels whole. The warmth recedes to its’ source … a scarecrow of a woman holding a small stone … it looked like a starling’s wing … Am???
(con't)
The orange-haired one spoke aertane with a strange accent. She much be from far away, especially with fair skin like that. Sniffing a little, she asked in aerthane, "Did you do that?" she gestured to the now-healed wounds on her wrists. "Are you a witch? Where are you from?"
Looking at the other two girls, Dounia said, "You're from the city. Why did they take you away, then back again? What's painted on your head?" Turning to the gagged girl, she said, "Why have they trussed you up like a roast goat? Did you put a curse on them?"
Turning her attention to the unconscious man, she edged as far from him as possible. "Why did they put him in with us? That's most improper! Good thing he's sleeping."
But please trust me, whatever your dispute was, it must end. Here, in this cage, we're all the same. You are not each other's enemies. The true enemy is our escorts. And whoever they're bring us to. If we have any hope of escaping, we must be allies.
Zahra nodded, "No dithpute faw me. I wath clearing up a mithunderthanding."
The trussed up girl tried to move to look Dounia in the eye when she spoke to her but it took too much effort and Zahra gave up. She hung her head sadly, "I don't know. I wath in The Agowa and wath gwabbed fwam behind. I woke up like thith."
The actual night of departure found Tymythy with mixed feelings. Joyous expectation for a chance to venture into lands few of his clan – of his whole people, really – had seen with their own eyes. Trepidation, for he knew he would be alone in strange lands, lands that belonged to strange people with outlandish ways and customs. Resolve, for knowing this was a task given him by the great spirits and it was for him to give his all to finding what they, in their immortal wisdom, would have him learn.
And loneliness, for knowing he would not see the faces or hear the voices of his family and friends for many a moon. As he watched the candlelight illuminating the windows in the growing darkness Tymythy could feel a trickle of wetness on his cheek and quickly, almost angrily, wiped the tear with the back of his hand. There was no shame in a man showing emotion, but this was not a night for remorse. No, being called to chase the dream of the spirits was a boon, an honor, and something he should face with due dignity. Besides, Haytham was there, and Tymythy would not have the older outlander think he was crying his eyes out at the thought of leaving home. Particularly since he was.
At the edge of the village proper the young hunter stopped, sat on his haunches and, using a branch of birch wood he had prepared the morning before, drew a single hunter’s sign on the side of the road. A wish, a prayer, for the lost to find their way back to familiar lands. He then broke the thin piece of wood on four equal parts and tossed one to each of the cardinal directions as was proper before, with a last longing look at his village, he trotted to join the outlander merchant.
The meeting with the three late-arriving hunters was a surprise, but Tymythy ignored when as they ignored him in turn, nodding his head silently at the blessing cast onto the winds… and then flinched back as if struck a physical blow as his eyes met those of his kinsman. Leeno, whose brother’s trust Tymythy had broken, betrayed, failed. He barely noted Haytham’s whispered words of wisdom as he fled – he had to admit it was so – the daggers Leeno’s eyes kept casting at his back. The both of them, perhaps, wishing they had been blades in truth, one because he believed blood was the only thing that could really answer blood… and the other because he agreed. Because he, in the darker corners of his mind, still believed he deserved it.
Still, he allowed Haytham’s softly-spoken words to draw him back, and the merchant had such a huge trove of those stories to tell. They had always captured Tymythy’s imagination, and the outlander had clearly loved the attention on his twice-yearly visits. After the day’s work was done, whenever he was visiting, most of the villagers, both young and old, generally gravitated to wherever Haytham was, to hear the new, to listen to the strange and wondrous stories so different from their own daily lives.
In the silence of his mind, Tymythy once again found himself thanking the outlander for his presence – he knew not how long they would find themselves sharing the same trail, but he could not put into words how grateful he was for the company.
The journey itself, even as the weather turned against them and the path they chose mostly dictated by Haytham’s two mules, saddlebags bulging from his wares, led them more south than west. Yet even though the near-constant rains kept soaking him to the skin, Tymythy found himself feeling more alive than he ever had before. It took all the young hunter’s nature lore to blaze a trail the two recalcitrant beasts of burden could follow, to find secure campsites for the night, to fashion a roof over their heads from the branches of trees to allow them to dry out their clothes so the rot wouldn’t set in. On the better days, he even managed to add something to their meals, mostly by fashioning clever little traps out of twine, fishing hooks and twigs for the local rats and squirrels and rabbits while they walked and setting them when they made camp for the night, but he had to admit he wouldn’t have been able to provide for both of them – perhaps not even himself, as finding a trail of sorts through the bog took most of his time – were it not for Haytham’s provisions.
Once they finally left the bogs behind Tymythy murmured a heartfelt prayer to the spirits, and buried one of his spare arrowheads at the foot of a cypress sapling as an offering. Although his joy of easier going was soon tempered by the sign of mounted patrols, and the need to try and avoid detection – keeping to the higher vegetation, going around every hill to avoid highlighting their silhouettes against the sky for vigilant Aerthanian scouts. It seemed impossible for Tymythy soon found himself missing the constant rain, for the protection it would have offered them. Still, he did what he could, to keep them hidden, to cover their trail.
Then came the thirteenth day, and everything changed. The strange terrain they found themselves in had seemed unusual enough, even without the strange hue the very heavens had taken, and then the man, stranger in a strange place, that seemed to unnerve Haytham in a way Tymythy had never before seen. True, he had not ever seen the outlander raise a spear in anger, but he had, upon occasion, seen him coaxed to prove to some other eager youths of his clan that he could do things with a knife Tymythy had seen no seasoned warrior ever attempt. But here, in this place, before this figure of a man, Haytham seemed afraid.
So when the merchant urged them to flee Tymythy didn’t need the latest unnatural change in weather to convince him to follow the older man’s lead. Yet what followed he could not fathom. Rain, that stung his cheeks and bared hands like ice-cold sparks. Lightning striking the very ground as if it were a bolt cast by an angry god, to smite a mortal who had slighted him. Wind, rising in might to become a bellow from a titan’s lungs. And carried on the wind, a voice of the storm itself. By then, Tymythy was long past the point of needing encouragement to flee. Was the shadow on the hill a local godling their uninvited intrusion had angered? A mighty spirit of the storm wearing flesh? He knew not, and rather would not find out.
In a span of mere moments, the burning rain turned into sand that sought to claim him, further proof that the shadow had indeed been more than mere mortal, to so command the nature to turn on its head, just to punish two interlopers into its domain. As the sand stung his eyes and made seeing a challenge beyond his means, the young hunter stumbled into the lee of a boulder and hunkered down behind it, making of his cloak a small shelter that kept the sand from robbing him from the last breath of air.
An age later, when the fury of the storm at last abated, Tymythy dug himself out from his tomb of loose sand to beheld a world transformed. Was this truly the verdant expanse of grass of yesterday? This? A desert of sand, as far as his eye could see. He debated which was more frightening a concept – that the godling had transported him to some strange land, or that it had reshaped the veldt into this void of life? Yet it was clear he was not dreaming, much as he hoped that might have been the case. He was lost, in a strange land, with very little in the way of supplies - Haytham’s mules had carried most of their supplies, and in his headlong rush to escape the Voice of the Storm, he had spared little thought of his possessions. His waterskin had popped open at some point, costing him most of his water, and while he did have his rations, he knew such salted, preserved fare would only hasten him to meet his ancestors if he didn’t have any water. And a desert was a terrain alien to him – he had little idea where to find water in such a place, except digging near living plants… could he only find any.
Of the following days, he later remembered little, except the burning pain of thirst growing bolder by the hour, demanding all his attention as he stumbled on, knowing fully well that to succumb to the temptation to rest his weary eyes would be to never move again from the spot he fell.
The captors who found him an age later came almost as a relief. Even as they robbed him of his few remaining possessions – going as far as ripping the silver ring from his braid, an insult to any warrior worthy of a blood feud if any! - and their fists roughed his flesh, he could sense a purpose behind the violence. A testing of his mettle, to see if the half-delirious wretch had been broken by the kiln of the desert… or tempered. Evidently, they were pleased by Tymythy’s stubborn-proud insistence of taking the blows while trying his best to meet the eyes of the one delivering the punishment, for in the end, they brought him to the blessed shade. Granted, the relief came with strings attached – heavy manacles to bind him. But he was still alive, and clearly his captors intended to keep him that way. And with life, came hope. Of survival. Of escape.
Of revenge.
First Impressions
Tymythy is a tall, lightly built warrior 19 winters of age, two inches over 6 feet in. His eyes are dark green and his hair brown bordering on black, worn long in a braid and shaved off around his ears. The braid, pride of the warriors of his clan, is now in as sorry a state as the rest of him, with only a single iron ring left to adorn it. His earth-toned hunter’s clothes in tatters and covered in dark stains of dried-out blood mixed with sand. His exposed skin is well weathered by the sun and the four winds, and currently evenly bruised by his captors’ casual violence.
A Trip to Auction
A warmth comes to him. His eyes clear. He feels whole. The warmth recedes to its’ source … a scarecrow of a woman holding a small stone … it looked like a starling’s wing … Am???
Tymythy blinked open his eyes, trying to make sense of his surroundings. A… cage? That much he had come to expect. But not the women. And a stone, to his eyes glimmering, shaped like…
Against all expectations, Tymythy found himself chuckling, although that merry, life-affirming sound turned almost immediately into a cough as his dried-out throat objected.
’A sign!’ he thought, half-deliriously due to his thirst. Thirst that he felt even more acutely now that the worst of his body’s pains and aches were leaving him. ’Lord of the Black Wings, I’m still on the path you set for me. This is at it should be.’
”Water,” the young Hlewmylani hunter croaked, licking his parched, cracked lips. ”Please.”
A Trip To Auction
The orange-haired one spoke aertane with a strange accent. She much be from far away, especially with fair skin like that. Sniffing a little, she asked in aerthane, "Did you do that?" she gestured to the now-healed wounds on her wrists. "Are you a witch? Where are you from?"
Cairee let out a little involuntary chuckle. It sounded so strange. She took a moment to enjoy the feeling of the small smile that had crept onto her face. "I'm from Divolgatia, a long way from here. I am a follower of the great Seraphim Saiph. It's her power that healed your hand. I only helped focus it. I'm not sure if that makes me a witch - that, my friend, is up to you."
Zahra nodded, "No dithpute faw me. I wath clearing up a mithunderthanding."
Cairee nods - good. Though she has a feeling Zarra might need some extra guidance if she's to have any chance at escaping without getting caught up in some petty bickering.
Tymythy blinked open his eyes, trying to make sense of his surroundings. A… cage? That much he had come to expect. But not the women. And a stone, to his eyes glimmering, shaped like…
The unconscious man started to shift and moan, slowly working his way back to the world. He'll be sorry for that, Cairee thought, wishing he could stay in ignorant sleep for a little while longer.
”Water,” the young Hlewmylani hunter croaked, licking his parched, cracked lips. ”Please.”
Having none to give, Cairee tried a sympathetic smile instead. "They'll come round with some eventually. Try to be still, there's no escaping these bonds and struggling will only make it worse. Save your strength, you may need it soon."
A City From Behind a Curtain
It took twenty minutes to get through the gate. Those who have been here before know it by name, al'iibra, the needle. The drivers spent much of that time arguing loudly with the guard. One of the guards looked in, pulling up the canvas, and then returned. The arguing continued then fell into pleading whispers. Finally, the talk stops, money could be heard changing hands, and the wagon lurches into movement.
Traveling through the city like this, everyone might as well be blindfolded. All was sounds and smells and heat. Dounia and Zahra could tell they were in al'Muqid, a sort of gated city that stood between Zhayalahmar proper and the outside world. Here, the crowd was thick with those entering or leaving the city, and clogged with throngs of the citizenless. These people have been banished from the great city but refuse to leave. They have helped give al'Muqid a self-sufficiency, a kind minor city status. All here smells of sweat and sounds of a thousand conversations happening simultaneously.
After some time the fading dusk-light suddenly turns bright again. It is like the wagon stepped through a door from an un-lit house into the mid-day brightness. Carriages travel past the wagon as well as many citizens on horseback, smells of horseflesh throughout. The sounds of great wheels moving vast sums of water fill the air and it was hard not to imagine some giant water clock.
Next comes the powerful smell of spiced lamb slowly turning over spits. Little Fires crackled and children ran up to the wagon, grabbed on to the sides to see under the cover what horrible bandits are trapped within, then let go to run like wild animals. One driver calls out, Get child! Go home to your mother! It's too late for you, don't you hear the sound of the hours?!"
More than an hour of pushing its' way through thick crowds from when it first reached the main gate, the wagon stops. The light isn't as bright, as if in the lea of some great building. The canvas is pulled away from the bars suddenly to reveal the centre of some cleared street way. People of different fashions form a circle ten feet from the wagon. They watch the captives with judging eyes.
A Trip to Auction
Cairee let out a little involuntary chuckle. It sounded so strange. She took a moment to enjoy the feeling of the small smile that had crept onto her face. "I'm from Divolgatia, a long way from here. I am a follower of the great Seraphim Saiph. It's her power that healed your hand. I only helped focus it. I'm not sure if that makes me a witch - that, my friend, is up to you."
Dounia cast her mind back to the atlas she and Cyra had spent hours pouring over. Wherever Divolgatia was, it was far from here.
"Well, welcome to Zhayalahmar. At least, I think that's where we are. I'm Dounia. Dounia Mehar Mehek Ghali." She considered informing them that she was royalty, but didn't know if that would hurt or help her at this moment.
**
When the beaten man stirred to wakefulness, Dounia bit back a squeal. It would be most undignified. However, she did shift herself as far from him as possible.
However, parched as he was, he didn't seem inclined to do anything inappropriate. As the wagon continued to get hotter, she felt herself feeling sorry for him. What if one of her brothers had been treated this way?
Feeling her anger rise, she raised her voice and called out, "Driver! Hey, Driver! We need water in here! You don't want that scary lady to find out one of us have died of thirst, do you?"
A City From Behind a Curtain
As they wagon stopped at the gate, Dounia strained to hear what the driver was saying to the guard. It was noisy, but she could just make it out.
A Trip to Auction
Dounia cast her mind back to the atlas she and Cyra had spent hours pouring over. Wherever Divolgatia was, it was far from here.
'Divolgatia? That's on the other side of the world! It would take a month, two months, and a trip through the mountain pass, to get here!'
"Driver! Hey, Driver! We need water in here! You don't want that scary lady to find out one of us have died of thirst, do you?"
After calling and waiting for some time, water never came.
A City From Behind a Curtain
Guard 1: matter-of-factly, "What is your cargo?"
Male Driver: friendly, "Slaves, fresh from alHufra."
Guard 1: beleaguered, "Where are they bound?"
Male Driver: up-talking, "To auction at Fishmonger's Square in the Daylight city."
A guard lifts the canvas and looks at you all then lowers the canvas again.
Guard 2: alarmed, "They don't all have the mark and most of them are foreigners."
Guard 1: authoritative, "Selling lawful citizens is against the edict of His Majesty, the Sun Emperor Dutue! And foreigners may only be sold if their crimes are against the Emperor's peace!"
Female Driver: terse, "All of their papers are in order."
Guard 2: disgusted, "Feh, forgeries."
All turns to whispers.
Female Driver: warning, "Prove it. Or would you like to answer to the Najima Chamber?!"
Male Driver: shocked, "Cascha-"
Female Driver: fed-up, "Don't be such a worm. We've been on the road for two months, a full month with the first load. I'm not stopping because of two self-righteous underpaid guards. So, what will it be? We pay you in silver? or you pay them in flesh?"
The sound of money changing hands could be heard.
A City From Behind a Curtain
The wagon only just passed through the main gate and a great anxiety falls upon the captives. The time seemed ripe and this feeling was bound not to last. Douina began to strain against her manacles in earnest and all eyes were upon her. The dwarven woman leaned forward, her gaze screamed, 'Common child! if anyone can escape these bonds it's you!'. The wagon suddenly lurched right and stopped. The male driver lifted the canvas and looked in.
A tense moment passed, then he raised a bucket and long-handled ladle proceeding to dole out water to each of you. When he got to Dounia he paused and looked her in the eye.
A Trip To Auction
Having none to give, Cairee tried a sympathetic smile instead. "They'll come round with some eventually. Try to be still, there's no escaping these bonds and struggling will only make it worse. Save your strength, you may need it soon."
’Wise words,’ Tymythy thought as he sagged back on the rough floor – his flesh might have been mended, the worst of his wounds closed, but whatever power had fashioned that miracle hadn’t done anything to abate his hunger or thirst. So he took the woman’s advice, knowing full well there wasn’t much struggle left in him at the time being.
Besides, he had just received confirmation he was where the spirits wanted.
”For the healing, I thank you,” he rasped, speaking slowly to force the words past his dry throat. ”I am named Tymythy, son of Stywyrt, son of Lywys, a warrior of the Bastarnae clan,” he said, trying to make out the faces of the women in the darkness of the covered-up cage. ”Do you know where we are? Or where we are bound? I… was lost in the storm.”
A City From Behind a Curtain
Every moment in the baking, still air was torturous to one on the brink of succumbing to dehydration, and Tymythy found his mind wandering down strange paths as he drifted between sleep and waking. The human-shaped shadow of the god-spirit whose voice was the thunder itself returned to haunt his dreams, but this time there was no escaping the slighted spirit’s rage, and the blinding bolts of lightning struck every closer, turning the air Tymythy breathed into fire…
He woke up with a strangled cry, blinking his eyes as a cooler breeze caressed his face. He turned his head toward it source, and his attention immediately fixated on the bucket in the strange man’s hand. ’Water…’
A Trip To Auction
When the beaten man stirred to wakefulness, Dounia bit back a squeal. It would be most undignified. However, she did shift herself as far from him as possible.
Cairee noted the young girl's reaction. Of all the things to be frightened of in their current situation, a half-dead boy (she thought of him as 'boy' for he seemed almost as young as the rest of them) was last on the list. Did Dounia know something about him? Or was she timid of men in general? "It's okay, Dounia. He can't hurt you."
”For the healing, I thank you,” he rasped, speaking slowly to force the words past his dry throat. ”I am named Tymythy, son of Stywyrt, son of Lywys, a warrior of the Bastarnae clan,” he said, trying to make out the faces of the women in the darkness of the covered-up cage. ”Do you know where we are? Or where we are bound? I… was lost in the storm.”
"The healing is from Saiph, but you're welcome to whatever small part I play in it. I am Cairee. This is Craedeamh, Khata, Zarra and Doulina." She nods down the line of prisoners from the dwarven woman, the girl with the mark on her forehead, the other girl with the mark who is also gagged, and the youngest of them dressed in bright colours. "We are apparently in a place called Zhayalahmar, and I fear they intend to sell us into slavery. Though if there's any chance to slip away, Saiph will guide us to it I'm sure." Cairee hopes she sounds reassuring.
A City From Behind a Curtain
The wagon only just passed through the main gate and a great anxiety falls upon the captives. The time seemed ripe and this feeling was bound not to last. Douina began to strain against her manacles in earnest and all eyes were upon her. The dwarven woman leaned forward, her gaze screamed, 'Common child! if anyone can escape these bonds it's you!'. The wagon suddenly lurched right and stopped. The male driver lifted the canvas and looked in.
A tense moment passed, then he raised a bucket and long-handled ladle proceeding to dole out water to each of you. When he got to Dounia he paused and looked her in the eye.
As Dounia struggles against her bonds Cairee's heart leaps in her chest. Is this their moment? If even one can escape it would be a blessing. Dounia doesn't get far when the driver looks in. Cairee's sure he suspects trouble. As he hands out water, she tries to distract his attention.
"Thank you, driver. Can you please give our friend here extra? He's only just woken and hasn't had a drink in days. Or give him my ration as well, if you prefer. The love and guidance of Saiph will be ever in your favour if you can show this small kindness. Do you know of the glory of Saiph? I'd be happy to share her story. I find it a great comfort and source of strength..." Cairee prattles on, trying desperately to keep the driver's attention on her, or at the very least annoy him into leaving.
Underneath her chatter, Cairee turns her inner focus to Dounia. She hopes the child is smart enough to wait until the driver leaves to try again. Still, Cairee is ready to send her a little help, if she should need it.
A City from Behind a Curtain
As one of the city guards looked into the wagon, Zahra started pleading with him with her eyes and muffled words, "Please, helf! My pawents will pay! I was kidnapped from the Agowa."
The canvas falls back down as her cry is ignored and she's left confused. She had always been told that the guards would help her if she was ever in trouble. Tears well up in her eyes, "Why won't zhey helf?"
Dounia told them all what she managed to hear and Zahra's insides turned to ice. Denial was the first thing that gripped her mind. She shook her head vigorously, or as much as her bonds would allow, "Zhese zhings don't happen! I can't be sold! I haf pawents here in Zhayalahmaw."
Denial quickly gave way to fear as she realized no one cared about the truth of the situation. Overwhelmed by fear and a desperation to free herself so she could find real help or at the very least her way home, an unexpected surge of energy coursed through her body causing her fingernails to grow into claws.
Zahra's eyes widened in shock, "What zhe f...!" And then because her hands were bound the way they were, she managed to cut herself with the newly formed claws, "Owww! What did zhey do to me?!?"
The guard looked at Dounia, and she knew he was suspicious. Drawing herself up to her full, not terribly impressive height, she said, "About time! Give that man some water before I have to sit beside a corpse!"
The guard's eyes narrowed in annoyance at her imperial attitude, then was immediately distracted by the orange-haired witch's prattle.
+2 ill fitting
+2 ill fitting and +2 aid another:: WOOHOO!
Dounia stopped pulling against the manacles, and tried to remember what she and Cyra practiced. Remember, big wrists and small hands. Thumb bends in, that HURTS!, spit on it, lubrication helps, there we go, ouch!
With a sudden twist and pull, the skinny girl managed to pull her hands free from the manacles. Stifling a cry of victory, she immediately began looking for her lockpicks, so she could release the others. "Where's our stuff?" she whispered, rummaging through the wagon.
The driver was take aback by the young girl's impudence - he clearly didn't understand who she really was. All thoughts of mischief fled his mind. Cairee's cutting in with an amazing reel of prattle prevented such thoughts from returning. He spitefully gave the raggedy Tymythy one ladel of water, spilling half of it on the boy's chin. Then he dropped the curtain and the wagon started off again.
Dounia could feel a distant support from the far away source that seemed to be funnelling through Cairee, as if a star a billion miles away were cheering her on.
With a sudden twist and pull, the skinny girl managed to pull her hands free from the manacles. Stifling a cry of victory, she immediately began looking for her lockpicks, so she could release the others. "Where's our stuff?" she whispered, rummaging through the wagon.
Blood rose out of the deep scratches on the meat of Dounia’s thumbs and her wrists felt sprained from pulling. He ankles were easier in comparison. She turned her feet sideways and, with pains, slide them out of their slightly elongated oval. Stepping would be a chore for the next few hours. Craedeamh let out a whispered cheer. You could see two little flames in the dwarf's eyes where before there was just a single dying ember. Things were moving, changing for the first time and everyone was stirring. Khata crawled closer on her knees, ”Common let us out! What!!!” Then she flew backwards against the bars. The group could hear a great deal of distress as Zahra tried to swallow her pain and not alert the drivers. Craedeamh looked on in fascinated horror.
Denial quickly gave way to fear as Zahra realized no one cared about the truth of the situation. Overwhelmed by fear and a desperation to free herself so she could find real help or at the very least her way home, an unexpected surge of energy coursed through her body causing her fingernails to grow into claws.
Zahra's eyes widened in shock, "What zhe f...!" And then because her hands were bound the way they were, she managed to cut herself with the newly formed claws, "Owww! What did zhey do to me?!?"
Blood dripped from the quick of the young woman’s fingernails and a small wound opened on her thigh where her claws grazed.
Dounia looked about the cadged wagon to see where their equipment might be held but there was no sign of a storage area inside the canvas blind. This section of the wagon was clearly only meant for the captured. It consisted of a nailed wooden base, a short six inch rail all around, from the rail sprung the bars of the cage. They bent a hard ninety degrees to make a falt top and again to come down the other side. If she really tried, she might be able to squeeze through. There was a gate at the back of the cage.
Dounia also noticed Zahra’s mouth gag had a kind of complex buckle that the, now clawed, young woman couldn’t reach.
The wagon moved on with no sign of awareness.
Zahra looked at her claws in horror. It was quite evident that she was terrified at this turn of events.
As she struggled, she kept cutting either herself or the ropes with her claws. Her mind was so on the verge of breaking from the fear she felt that it was as if she was watching her body from outside herself. The claws that she was struggling with were bright white which was in stark contrast to both her skin and the blood that trickled down from self-inflicted wounds.
She couldn't seem to make use of the claws and only managed to hurt herself more than anything. If her mind wasn't so panicked, maybe she could have acted more deliberate in her movement to free herself but as it was, her mind was a jumble of questions.
Had she been poisoned by one of those strange creatures and now is cursed for all eternity?
Were these claws permanent?
Would this put her parents in danger?
What would people think?
How...?
Why...?
Zahra began to hyperventilate, which threatened to descend into gasping sobs.
A City From Behind a Curtain
Tymythy accepted this water ration with the eagerness of the near-desperate, forcing himself to sip slowly despite his body’s insistence that he down the life-giving liquid, stale and warm as it might be, in one gulp and lick the ladle for good measure. As the man retreated back outside the tap covering the wagon the clansman settled back with a sigh. Strange were the ways of the spirits that had led him here, locked in a cage with a group of women, off to be sold as slaves if the one called Cairee had got it right. And it certainly seemed like a reasonable answer – there were only so many reasons for taking prisoners outside war or feud.
Slavery as a concept was not quite unknown to Tymythy, even though his own clan hadn’t practiced it for generations, according to the lore-songs sung by his mother. Now, a warrior particularly slighted and shamed in battle might demand the victor making of him their servant, of course, to earn back some of his lost honor. A warrior, say, whose braid had been cut by an enemy’s blade while he still drew breath and was conscious – a sign of true superiority of his opponent, to be able to inflict a wound on the enemy’s honor while ignoring the danger to his own life. But this and that were quite different matters, and Tymythy had no idea how the local barbarians would treat fates bought by shiny silver coins. Thus, and considering the circumstances of his own capture, Tymythy saw little reason in not trying to escape, particularly since his strength was slowly returning. The trouble was, how to go about it…
His eyes widened as two of the women put his own plans to shame by acting. First, the one called Dounia (he thought… outlanders and their outlandish names) slipped out of the manacles binding her by dislocating his thumbs, Tymythy thought, as he had missed the early part of her struggle, thinking the effort futile – and how wrong had he been! That was an impressive feat, the clansman thought, straining his ears in case the woman’s pained groans had drawn the attention of the guards outside.
And then, the bound one’s fingers turned into claws. That was enough to drop Tymythy’s jaw. Magic! She – Zahra, he believed Cairee had named her – must be a truly remarkable individual, to have trusted the secrets of the powers gods and spirits held at such a young age… he began to think, but then recognized the expression of horror on her face. What was going on here?
At least this collection of remarkable woman explained why he, a simple hunter on a quest for the great spirits, had been guided here. Except… what did the spirits intend for him to accomplish, where women blessed by powers beyond the ken of mere mortals were already involved.
Unless… even a hero of legends occasionally needed someone to guard their back while they worked their wonders. Perhaps that was to be Tymythy’s task? But he was getting way ahead of himself.
”Please, calm yourself,” Tymythy murmured as he shifted closer to the clearly concerned skinwalker – and well should she be concerned, off to be sold to the highest bidder as they were. ”Your bleeding… I may be able to help,” he went on, using his teeth to carefully rip thin strips off cloth from the hem of his shirt and wrapped them around the base of each claw, there the blood seemed to be flowing from. ”That magic… impressive. In my clan, true mysteries are not revealed to anyone so young as you. As I. Your master must have thought highly of you.”
Dounia was startled from her frantic search of the wagon by Zarra's cries. Turning, she saw the woman bleeding from her bound hands! She immediately turned towards the young man, suspecting an attack, but he looked as startled as everybody else.
A close look revealed the claws the woman now sported. I was wrong, this one is the witch! However, she was clearly a terrified witch, and Dounia was afraid her cries would alert the guard, which would in turn reveal her freedom.
Leaping to her side, she murmured, "Shhh...Hush, it'll be all right. Here, just a moment...." Dounia made short work of the buckle on the gag, releasing the girl's mouth. She then glared at Tymythy, and said, "Just a sec, let me release her hands, then you can bandage her."
Moving very carefully, she said, "Wait, don't move, you're hurting yourself. I'm going to help. Here, keep this finger stiff, it'll slice the ropes, here we go, that's it." Another moment, and her hands were free. She was still manacled, but no worse than the rest of them.
She then began examining the manacles, the lock on the gate, the nails, hoping to find something, anything, she could use as a tool to help pick the locks.
A City From Behind a Curtain
After weeks upon weeks of being bound in this cage with little to occupy her but her own fevered hallucinations, Cairee found the sudden flurry of activity overwhelming. Dounia was free! Zarra was growing claws! Is this another dream? Cairee wondered.
Dounia released the extra binds on Zarra, and Cairee turned her attention to the frightened girl's terrifying hands. She could try to call upon Saiph to help heal them, but that power was unruly and hard to control. It would likely bring them unwanted attention. Though if her wounds were bad enough it might be a necessary risk.
"Shhh, Zarra, it's okay. I know you're scared. We're hear for you. Just breath." Cairee took a few long deep breaths herself, both to encourage the girl and to calm her own mind.
She watched as Tymythy tried to bandage the wounds, struggling against his own bonds to do so. She tried to assess how badly the girl was hurt and if there was anything she could do to help.
Tymythy moved to Zahra and was quickly joined by Dounia.
The youngest of the group spoke softly. She could hear her sister's voice coming out of her mouth. It sounded calm and reassuring. Zahra found it difficult to flex her jaw enough to free it from the gum arabic, but not impossible as the strap was pulled away. Dounia could also flex Zahra's hands a little further - the string fell away like shorn hair.
As Tymythy looked at Zahra's he could see the flesh around the white claws were already forming into a kind of scar tissue. If she could relax enough, the talons might recede. There would be little sign they existed and baring them again would not be painful. Cairee tried to get close enough to help but was chained to the opposite side of the cart. She did what she could from five feet, but not only was this Tymythy doing excellent work, she could see the bleeding had already stopped on its' own.
When Tymythy moved to aid the poor Zahra, Dounia saw the young man's own back was badly scratched. He must have been nearly out of his own body not to have felt it ... or was the lack of pain Cairee's doing. It was a kind of evidence however. She looked where he had lain and saw the rough head of a square nail poking out of the wood. Perhaps it could be freed?
"Quiet in there!", a rod swung against the trap with a 'thwap'. A moment later the light through the weave of the cover became very bright. They must have crossed the daylight gate into the main city!
Round 1
Zahra reflexively flinched as the man shifted closer to her. "Ccc...aaahhh...mmm", she said through gasps of air.
His mention of magic caused her eyes to widen in fear and she shook her head. She couldn't be seen doing magic or even said to be doing magic. She didn't belong to a guild and this kind of thing would destroy her family's business. She couldn't do something so horrible. "No! No magic! Zhey did somezhing to me."
Just as she was about to enter a whole new round of hysterics, Dounia was by her side. There was something about the soothing tone of her voice that reminded her of her mother. She stilled herself enough for the young girl to remove her gag and guide her fingers to cut away the bindings.
As soon as the gag was gone, Zahra found it easier to control her breathing as she was able to take a few deep breaths at the encouragement from Cairee. As she breathed in concert with Cairee, she allowed herself to be bandaged.
Even though she was still manacled, she managed a smile in response to the kindness shown her by the others. "Thank you everyone"
Then the gravity of the situation descended on her mind again. In a hushed voice she said, "We can't let them sell us as slaves. If we can get away, I'm sure my parents will help us. I'm from here so we wouldn't have to go far."
The sorceress-in-denial froze along with the others as they were yelled at to be quiet. She waited a moment or two which felt like an eternity and then stated the obvious in saying, "We don't have much time."
Round 1
"No! No magic! Zhey did somezhing to me."
Tymythy’s eyes widened in surprise and horror. This… wasn’t intentional? Due to a young skinwalker’s own powers? That… changed things. The young hunter could hardly imagine what fell warlock had uttered such a curse, or what this young woman might have done to deserve such a fate. But those were things Tymythy could do nothing about – the wounds, on the other hand…
…wounds that had healed on their own, he realized as soon as he got a closer look at her hands. There was nothing that needed to be done, yet perhaps bandages might help with the emotional wounds, if only just a little. A bound wound was a wound on the mend, after all, so perhaps seeing her “injuries” seen to would allow her to believe the strange claws themselves were a burden that would pass. Thus, he continued his efforts and quickly wrapped the base of each claw in the makeshift bandages, keeping one eye on the other women… particularly on the one who had managed free herself already. If only he had such skills, but alas, he found the manacles all too well fitted, and while the lock on them looked simple, he had no idea how one might go about opening one without a key. If there was a link poorly joined be might be able to force it open, if he could find something small and tough to use as a lever...
Round 1
Dounia looked to where Cairee was indicating, and saw the nail. Pouncing on it, she began trying to pry it up out of the wood, using her empty manacle as a lever to pull it up.
Round 1 con't
Nail in her hand, Dounia turned to the others. Who first?! She had no idea how long she had until they noticed what she was up to. The witch? The clawed witch? The dwarf lady? The thief? The warrior? The warrior. If it came to a fight, he looked the sort to be helpful.
Kneeling before him, Dounia bit her lip and got to work. It was the closest she'd ever been to a man before. Her hand brushed against his as she worked, and she blushed to the roots of her hair. Fumbling the nail, she nearly dropped it. Trying to focus, the closed her eyes and operated by touch and sound, trying to feel around inside for the simple tumbler that would release the bar. However, her hands were shaking and it was taking too long.
Round 1
Cairee watched as Dounia and Tymythy tended Zarra, and held her breath as Dounia worked the nail out of the cart. She was desperate to help. But chained to the other side of the cage, all she could offer was silent encouragement.
Or perhaps she could provide a little more help than that. Cairee murmured a few words under her breath and tried a simple hand movement. It was difficult with the manacles but it sort of looked she she was trying to place one palm on top of the other and gesture towards Dounia as if offering her something.