Cell - Barracks - Atesh-Gah
The prison vault stretches long in width and shallow in depth. Fifty feet of thick bars physically separate this room and its denizens from the holding room without, yet allow full scrutiny of one room from the other. Though torch-holders are interspersed in the walls of the vault, between rings with both wrist and ankle shackles, torches infrequently remain this room and the sole source of light is usually from the holding cell without. A few benches of stone push from the walls to allow prisoners seat or bed. A small drain, no larger than the circumference of a man's head, is set into the middle of the floor. The clean grate currently keeps rat invasions to a minimum.
Amineh pages: The consumption of Jaihyn's magic will have happened before this scene -- since it occurs at night, probably that evening. You would have been brought before a circle of Atarvani for that aspect of the sentencing, likely a group of Akhund. Then your robes would have been taken from you, and you would have been given a formless black robe and sandals to wear instead. Sound okay with you?
Jaihyn
He is a tall man, over six feet but not by much, musceled but somehow he seems rather willowy and lanky. Unlike others of his Varati race, he has much lighter bronzed skin than most. Also incongruous to the others is the mop of mostly curly, sort of short, red-blonde hair and the flint grey eyes that don't miss much at all. He does have the sharp, chiseled Varati features to his face however, giving him a slightly predatory cast. All in all, he could be called handsome.
He is gaunt, as if starved for several months. Eyes dark and shadowed, sunken and haunted, cheekbones prominent under taut skin. His old red robes he is normally seen in are gone. He wears a simple loose and formless robe entirely black. He wears simple sandals almost in the tone of the caligae of the Empyreans without the straps crossing up his ankles. He appears to be in his mid-twenties.
Courtyard - Atesh-Gah - Haven
If indeed the Hebrew folk of lost Earth are correct in their legends, then this must be the legendary garden from which mankind was expelled. The flat expanse of the great courtyard of Atesh-Gah is covered in the most luxurious grass of bright emerald green, broken only by a cobblestone path for riding and walking to prevent wear upon the lawn. Rich copses of carefully tended wood grow by the walls, lovingly groomed flower gardens acting as a barrier of colour before the rising trees.
Perhaps even more relaxing than the sight of the yard are the sensations of it. The lovely scents of flower and tree; honey-suckle, apple blossom, peach, and jasmine; combine with the soft cushion of green grass to provide a sense of peace and harmony that defies the looming sand-hued walls of unbreakable stone. Not even the shadowed maw of the main gate, nor the blocky, unimpressive presence of the impenetrable main keep can overshadow the beauty of this place. Indeed, the stark contrast serves only to enhance it.
Contents:
Deianyra
Ranjeet
Niamh
Rabi
Zafir
Amineh
A slight figure comes out of the Atesh-Gah and settles into stillness near the ranks of Agni-Haidar, drawn towarsd them as a moth is towards a flame. She does not obscure either their view or their ability to act; indeed, once settled, she seems to fade from existance. As fearsome as her Imphadi is, Rabi is quiet and unobtrusive.
Stepping down and out of Atesh Gah, Ranjeet al'Samar looks ominous at best. Like a dark thunderstorm, matching the black smoke that billows out from the bonfire, his face is dark, his brow crinkled. In his wake comes his naraki, a painted feather ganika by the looks of her. As he draws closer to the fire, his gaze flicker over the Agni-Haidar, and for a longer moment do the black coals of his eyes rest upon the Atarvani present. But he is Seshmew of this clan, and here on their behalf to witness this event. And it would seem that he takes little pleasure in this duty.
A short distance within Atesh-Gah's front gates, a large patch of sod has been carefully uprooted and set aside, the lush grass replaced with cracked flagstones over the earth. A large bonfire has been built here, blazing high and bright. A Mufti tends to it, feeding limbs of oil-soaked wood to keep the flames sated. A pair of long, heavy tongs are propped against the circle of stones.
On either side of the path from bonfire to Atesh-Gah's gates is a row of crimson-robed Atarvani. A few steps behind them is a smaller number of stony-faced Agni-Haidar in full regalia.
Deianyra is indeed the naraki following in Ranjeet's footsteps, although anyone calling her a ganika might find how un-naraki she can be. Hands tightly clasped, wings furled tightly, she dares a glance around the courtyard and an uncertain tension gathered between her wings, knotting the muscles. What in Tyche's name was going on?
The entrance foyer doors open, and two Akhund step out, splitting to either side of the door. Following them is Amineh, hands clasped before her, face and eyes unreadable and impassive. Behind her walk another two Akhund -- between them is Jaihyn, dressed in black. They follow after the Nabi, towards the bonfire.
Jaihyn is stumbling between his guards as if weakened. His eyes are vacant, shocked. Almost unseeing. He barely sees those standing in the courtyard or those around him. His gaze is locked onto the bonfire as if it were something he is completely drawn too, as if he wished it were him. As if it were gone from within.
Khalil enters from the carefully tended bushes which conceal the sight of a gurgling fountain. Khalil has arrived.
Shahar steps out of the embassy and joins you in the courtyard. Shahar has arrived.
Zafir looks up as the Nabi approaches. He stands quickly, and gives a quick bow. He turns to check to be sure the fire is not out of control and then straightens again.
Ranjeet stands with the other witnesses to this nights events, speaking not a word of explanation to his naraki. That will come soon enough. As the prisoner is drawn out, his gaze lifts, locking on the man and narrowing over the distance. He watches intently, missing nothing as Jaihyn is brought closer to the fire.
The red-robed Atman also bows to the Nabi before stepping closer to the ranks of the other Atarvani. But he keeps a small distance between them and himself. Instead he looks to Jaihyn.
Rabi goes pale beneath her veil. She looks at the unfortunate. Unconsciously her fingers clasp and twine around one another, forming a little knot of flesh and bone.
Deianyra takes up a position behind Ranjeet, trying to look as small and unobstrusive as possible. Questions glimmer in violet eyes as she gazes out between her veil and the heavy lengths of her hair at the proceedings.
Belatedly, though with ample dignity and decorum, the Pasha of Haven arrives with her retinue intact, and toward Jairyn she looks not at all. Amineh, however, is tendered a bow of the head that conveys ample respect beyond the mere gesture. Shahar then stands to one side, cool and distant in ivory silks, and watches.
Looking rather like an Agni-Haidar with little to no expression upon his face Khalil steps into the courtyard. His gaze washes over most of the activity within, but pause upon the form of Jaihyn. This causes the man to stop in his tracks and merely watch after bowing to those he must.
Amineh moves to a spot a short distance from the bonfire, and turns to the side. She looks towards the two Akhund leading Jaihyn to a spot across from her, wrinkled fingers clasped motionless before her. She waits until the Akhund have moved him into position and straightened the accused up, then slowly Looks over those assembled. It's a slow, intense, unflinching look -- unseemly for a woman, even a shechah, if it were not her duty to do so. Shahar is noted, and she bows in return, head gently inclined to the side. Greetings and obeisances made, she holds her hands up, a wordless entreaty for silence.
Shahar's eyes, green lacing gold in her irises, strike out across the gathering with a single, stern message that those in attendance will pay heed or suffer consequences. Swift and dire ones, likely. Jaihyn is pierced with a more lingering stare before Amineh regains the Pasha's attention.
Zafir remains behind the fire to tend it. Seems he would rather not be out where the rest of the situation happens. Just where he can be if needed.
His gaze breaks from the prisoner to rest for a moment upon the Nabi. It drifts through the assembled crowd, noting personages of presence and importance, and should his gaze be met, he offers a discreet inclination of his head. But as it seems that the time of judgement and punishment has drawn near, Ranjeet allows his attention to be focused solely upon Jaihyn and Amineh. His chin shifts, rising up in almost a defensive and prideful gesture, but his face betrays none of his thoughts as he awaits her address.
Rabi drops her gaze to the stones in front of her.
Niamh tears his gaze from Jaihyn to look to Amineh. Thoughts crowd themselves in his mind, threatening to unbalance him, but he holds them in check. There will be plenty of time for thinking later.
Jaihyn doesn't see these looks or non-looks in his direction. He only sees the fire. He starts trembling, at first deep within and unnoticeable by the Guards holding him and then spreading into his limbs. His face twists in pain, but it seems like grief and loss. A deep loss, one that can never be filled or replaced. Ever. He almost yearns towards the flames, straining a little bit in the grasp of those who hold him, through his deep trembling, he tenses and fights, just a little.
An Atarvani emerges from within Atesh-Gah, carrying a heaped bundle of red in his arms. These are carried to the Nabi; she looks to the priest and nods once, then tips her chin towards the bonfire. The priest moves quickly towards the crackling, licking flames, and tosses Jaihyn's old robes of service upon them. They blacken and smoke for only a moment, then start to catch; as they do so.
Nabi lowers her arms and faces Jaihyn, speaking in a clear, cold voice unwithered by age.
"Jaihyn Ramah al-Rumai. In the name of the Amir-al and His wisdom, I, Amineh Daaye ibn Jatla, Nabi to the Eternal Flame, find you guilty of blasphemy, heresy, and treason against the Varati people. Through your thoughts, words, and deeds, you have disobeyed the ways of our Lord and God and gone against His surahs."
Amineh continues in the same clear voice, never looking away from Jaihyn. "You did not show proper homage to the Amir-al, as the First Surah commands. By failing in your holy duty as Akhund and Atarvani to our people, the Second Surah was broken. By failing to remember our place as the Eternal Flame's favoured and most loved, the Third Surah was disobeyed. Your ultimate failings in this life, the culmination of a doomed soul, show your disrespect for the Fourth Surah, and this failing was brought about by refusing to heed the teachings of the Fifth Surah. Through your disrespect to those above your previous station, the Seventh Surah was broken. The Eighth Surah, the Surah of Devotion, was broken most grievously of all, for through it, all other mistakes would have never come to pass."
As Amineh intones these words that, to true believers, would be nothing short of horrifying, Shahar stares past the accused - nay, the convicted - and out at the rest of the courtyard. A gentle breeze flutters her sari and an ebon strand of hair upon her veil-free head.
Jaihyn barely shakes his head, an almost unnoticeable movement, but a defininte negating movement, a no if anyone with sense and powers of observation sees it. He watches the flames take the red robes, the pain on his face almost tangible to others watching. He shakes his head more vigorously this time, as she continues, still staring at the flames. He makes eye contact with no one, not even the one he would most like to say goodbye to, the Lion whom he both hated and loved at the same time. He would not be acknowledged anyway, to make such contact now. Only the flames receive his attention.
Zafir winces noticably as the robes burn. However the recitation of broken surahs makes him weak in the knees, causing him to nearly slump onto the nearby unburned wood pile. Fortuantely he was there to get one to place on the fire, so it appears he is just reaching for a log.
Deianyra's eyes remain locked on her sandalled feet and the stones below them, listening with every fiber of herself. Being a painted candala, she could not understand the nature of the offenses, only that some crime had been committed. A shiver snakes through her and a single gossamer feather drifts to the ground, a small covert.
"For the lowliest of shudra, such failings would not be forgiven; for one of the Atarvani, the Amir-al's chosen teachers to His people, to fail in such a way is inexcuseable not only for this life, but for eternity." Amineh pauses here, to look over those assembled. No one within her line of sight is spared a keen glance, and the sharpest looks of all are reserved for the other Atarvani in attendance. Back to Jaihyn she looks, as she continues. "And so, Jaihyn Ramah al-Rumai, you are not sentenced to death, for death would bring you back into the light of the Everlasting Flame. You are hereby stripped of caste and Varati birthright, and will forever be one of the kafir. Your name is forgotten. You are now Qismati-na, Cursed Luck. There is no forgiveness for you, now, at death, or in rebirth. You have fallen from the Eternal Flame's light, and your soul will forever lay in shadows and ashes, forgotten."
It is a good thing the Atman's hands are hidden in the sleeves of his robes, for at the recitation of the offenses, they begin to tremble. He closes his eyes a moment to center himself, but when he opens them, the Nabi's gaze is there. His breath is held until her gaze moves on, and is then released, shakily. But Niamh's eyes return to the condemned as his sentence is spoken.
As the crimes are listed, Ranjeet's frame stiffens, his gaze turning to rest fully upon the accused, the comdemned, eyes narrowing darkly as the man clearly resists this denouncment, denies his accusers, refutes his fate. His jawline tightens, but it is hard to say what emotion triggers this reaction. Disgust? Anger? Resentment? And more importantly, at whom?
No pity or remorse, not even shock or disgust shows through the hard face that makes Khalil more like a statue than living being. He merely watches the scene, the flames of the fire flickering in his eyes.
Composure is something that has stood Shahar in good stead for years, especially in her career as Shakir, then as Pasha. But she, too, must hide her hands to conceal their trembling, for even this fearless Lioness of Khalida, as she is called, shows fright at the idea of an end to life, a death into ashes instead of rebirth. And she will not look again on the condemned.
His mouth tightens, an almost snarl comes across his face and the newly non-Varati clenches his teeth against the howl of anger, the grief, the desire to scream out against these lies and it is obvious that he thinks them thus. Jaihyn struggles a little bit more against the Akhund but his time in the months of solitary have made him weak and he gets no where, not even to shake their grip on him even in the slightest. Again, he stares only at the flames.
"In the name of the Amir-al, the Everlasting Flame, and His wisdom, so is it judged, and so shall it be." With these words, the Nabi falls silent, and looks to Zafir. A nod of acknowledgement is given, as is a small, precise gesture to the bonfire; she looks back to the Akhund standing to either side of the condemned and gives them a nod as well. They start to lead the priest formerly known as Jaihyn towards the bonfire, halting him about eight feet away.
Zafir moves with a log from the pile, placing it on the fire. He then moves to grab the tongs, taking them up and looking to the fire. His gaze falls on a metal protrusion from teh flames, which is grabbed and taken from teh heat. Moving to the nearest flagstone to the Nabi, Zafir sets the red metal rod onto the flagstone, leaving the tongs next to it, before bowing slightly and returning to his own position behind the fire.
Eyes now febrile slits, his brow knotted, casting his features into sharp profile, Ranjeet's gaze remains fixed to the condemned man. One hand rests upon the dagger at his side, grip tight and hard, though it does not seem as if any action is intended. For a moment, and a moment only his gaze shifts, resting for a moment upon Deianyra, and then for a moment upon the Pasha of Haven. But it would seem that the punishment to come draws him irresitably, for that dark hostile gaze roils over back to the flames and the bitterly resistant man who once had the honor of being Atarvani, and will now be lost the the cycle of everlasting Fire and Life. This soul will not be reborn. There is a palpable cloud of tension in the air, thick as the smoke that pours upwards into the heavens, and Ranjeet's frame shifts, muscles rippling in reaction.
"You will kneel, Qismati-na, and brand yourself with the mark of outcast," intones Amineh, eyes remaining on the ex-priest. Clearly she expects the man to willingly kneel and touch his forehead to the graven image glowing on the brand. Ashes and charcoal dust cling to the metal -- barring healing magic, it will likely leave a blackened scar in the image of the brand upon the man's brow.
A silent prayer on his lips, Niamh turns his dark gaze to the fire...and then to the rod being removed from it.
Jaihyn blinks a little, finally seeming to see what is before him, that metal glowing whitely, burning an image into his eyes. Hell if he will! pretty much comes to show on his face and puts more effort into the struggle, trying to step back and away from the scene before him. How is this all happening!? and tries to kick at the tongs with very obvious lack of success.
Deianyra peers through the copper strands of her bangs, squinting past Ranjeet as he shifts. Emotions flicker over her downcast face; no impassive stone is she. Wary curiosity, bewilderment, and perhaps...sympathy. Her eyes slip down again.
Qismati-na. Nothing. No longer the man he once knew, Khalil takes no more effort in watching. Perhaps a small part of him wishes to stay, or perhaps cry out. But only a small part, the part of him that was stolen as a child and beaten down. So he starts to move, slowly and with respect, bowing to the people he passes.
Valin'dovev steps out of the embassy and joins you in the courtyard. Valin'dovev has arrived.
Zafir shifts silently behind the fire now. Fear is lacing his entire being. One of his own is now a ... a He can't even imagine the word.
Shahar will witness this event. She will do so with the decorum and strength of the kshatri, of the Varati, of Khalida. But her lips are white, her muscles taut with natural tension that accompanies so drastic a scene as this condemnation of someone once blessed by the Amir-al Himself.
A mountain of a man enters the Atesh-Gah's courtyard from the inner circles. He moves slowly, a rhythmic thumping generated by his feet hitting the ground. He moves slowly, his hands resting easily on each hilt of his scimitars. His eyebrow raises at the specticle before him, and he pauses, his eyes moving from one person to the next, before they focus upon neutral ground to the middle.
"Restrain him," comes the quick, clipped order from Amineh, eyes narrowing on the Akhund to either side of the ex-priest. Right. That's their cue -- they grab the struggling man, bending his arms behind his back to bow his chest out, and lift him so his feet barely touch the ground. She looks sharply to the third of her honour guard, then nods to the glowing brand upon the flagstones. "Retrieve it, and brand him." The Akhund nods, and swiftly moves to obey the order, picking up the brand in the heavy tongs and advancing upon he who was Jaihyn. When the metal meets flesh, there's a sizzling crackle-pop and a puff of steam; it's held there for the count of two, then drawn away and dropped to the flagstones.
Shahar blinks, and her honey-gold complexion pales...but she turns not away from the branding. No further reaction, in fact, is evidenced from what the fallen one has suffered. Not from Shahar, at least.
Niamh turns his eyes away as the brand hisses against flesh. His prayers continue in silence, his tensely clenched hands still hidden by his robes. But his mind has begun to think once more...it cannot remain idle for too long, and the Atman glances about the ranks of the other Atarvani, looking for one in particular.
Those clenched teeth can no longer that cry and he howls, a shriek of pain, fury, grief, loss, "Ramaaaaah!!!" his whole face clenched with this awful cry, his family name. The shriek ends in a choking gurgle and he tips fowards a little into wrenching dry heaves brought about by the mere pain of it, going limp in the grip of the Akhund.
Valin'dovev simply watches, no change of expression on his face. His hands do move to across his massive chest, where they wrap themselves slowly. His eyes look around, taking in each... person one by one. His gaze is not easy to be under, this brooding hulk of humanity exudes power.
Ranjeet watches the entire process, neither flinching nor averting his gaze as the man is branded, as he screams, as he collapses in agony and despair. It is a wonder though that he can see at all, his slitted gaze so sharp.
Rabi watches through the veil of her lowered lashes, seeing the scene through a haze of watery grey. She does not look away, but remains pale. She does not move.
Zafir moves to the flagstones again, nearly throwing himself into the flames from the scene.
Another shudder snakes through Deianyra's slim figure at the branded man's scream and she blanches. Two more feathers, one white, one purple, are dislodged and drift to the ground, evidence of her agitation.
The Nabi's Akhund, though made of sturdy stuff, blanch at the crackle of flesh and the ex-priest's agonized cry. Some of the assembled Atarvani do as well, and some have averted their attention to the ground or empty air. The Akhund do not release the ex-priest, however, but continue to hold him upright; they turn to present him to Amineh. The Nabi gives him a final cold, unflinching stare, then nods once. "May His wisdom be done," she intones, then lifts her chin to look to Shahar -- passing the baton, as it were, with an inclined nod.
Brushing past the hulk of humanity with little care, Khalil is to the gates as Jaihyn screams out and his form keeps moving. Yes.. the Agni-Haidar seems to be running, but he is Agni-Haidar.. they do not run. Instead they choose to waste no time upon those unworthy of even the sixth surah.
Khalil passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah and returns to the street.
Khalil has left.
Valin'dovev's face, does not even begin to move at the crackling flesh. This one seems to have seen much more vicious things in his time, or at least he puts on a great fascade, masking any true emotions he mave have. He does not move, however... but continues to watch the.. ceremony with interest.
Jaihyn shakes violently now and despite the cauterizing the hot metal should have done, it starts to bleed. And can scalp wounds bleed like hell... it picks up from trickle to a stream, pouring down his face in very interesting and almost artistic rivulets and drip down his neck, into his robes and to the ground. He twitches violently again, one last ditch effort to be free of the tight grip.
Shahar steps forward in a shimmer of silk and speaks toward the banished one, though her eyes skip beyond him toward those beyond. No more will her eyes rest upon this creature; indeed, no more will the Varati embrace him, as she indicates in her well-articulated syllables. "Qismati-na, you who have fallen, look upon these walls, for never again shall they bless your sight. Look well upon these people, for hereafter they are beyond your reach. Banished you are from the Atesh-Gah, from the Varati presence of Haven: should you touch your soiled foot on these hallowed grounds, it shall be removed from your body before what remains feeds the wyvern. You are cursed and cast away, and we are done with you. Be gone."
Valin'dovev passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah and returns to the street. Valin'dovev has left.
Jaihyn blinks, almost as if he is not understanding what is being said. He isn't really seeing anything now, not even the fire before him that captured his attention so tightly before. He steps back a little bit, or tries to anyway.
Amineh thanks Shahar with a slow, silent nod, dark eyes moving to the Akhund supporting and restraining the twitching ex-priest. She nods curtly to them, and they begin to move, marching -- or dragging, if need be -- the one now known as Qismati-na towards Atesh-Gah's gates. As he passes through the two rows of Atarvani, some of the priests turn their backs, while others whisper silent prayers -- whether for the forsaken or for themselves is impossible to tell. He is escorted to two steps beyond Atesh-Gah's gates...and simply released and left there, to do as he will.
Shifting his attention to Shahar's cool figure, her cold unforgiving words, Ranjeet stares for a long time, listening to her words, perhaps hearing them in a different light ... in a different time. The scowl slowly slips from his features, replaced with a dark indifference, a distracted attention. He looks not upon the branded bleeding form. He is no longer of this visible world, and his eyes shall forever now pass through that marked face to what lays beyond it. Jaihyn might as well be dead ... for his body is no better than a spirit-form now to Varati eyes.
Visibly wincing, the Atman hears the Shekah's words and almost turns to Quismati-na...but then stops. No. No more will he look upon him. And so he turns his gaze to the fire, focusing his eyes on the familiar flames.
Zafir settles to the flagstones now, lotus position. He watches the flames and begins to pray. It is all he can think to do.
Deianyra has no problem seeing Jaihyn, as her tainted blood bears no Varati in it. And so her troubled gaze follows him as he's dragged out of Atesh-Gah.
Jaihyn stumbles into the street outside the Atesh-Gah. He stands there for a few moments and then slowly wanders off. There are no looks back to the Gates, just stumbling away from the place, wearily, painfully, head down.
Shahar's work is done. With a last and deferential bow toward Amineh, she gathers her collection of followers and trails back inside. No more of this does she want or need to see, and the turning of her back is symbolic, if nothing else.
Jaihyn passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah and return to the street.
The Rialto - Haven
Reigning over the Rialto is the very heart of Haven: the Delphic Citadel. It dwarfs the other buildings, which cluster around it like so many children seeking a parent's protection. Day or night, rain or shine, its walls seem to glimmer with a light of their own, as if, over the centuries, the magic within had slowly permeated the entire structure. The main tower soars higher than the tallest tree, and each side tapers inward so that it resembles a giant obelisk. Four smaller towers stand at the four points of the compass, representing the unification of each race under Delphi's government.
And here is where they all gather. The Rialto is the famed marketplace of Haven, full of shops, stalls, and brightly colored tents. The shouts of merchants, the haggling of patrons, the music of entertainers, and the laughter of children create a nigh-constant cacophony that assaults the senses. But the Rialto is nothing if not exciting, and crowds often gather here for important events and public addresses.
Contents:
Ilanah
Moonfire
Daelia
Aztlan
Nestor
Kallista
Altair
Aztlan moves beside the seated mongrel, and bends to place a hand on her shoulder. The Adept, meanwhile, moves to the other side of the girl while Aztlan repeats himself, "Please, come with us inside with me; it will be alright. I promise." A flick of a glimpse is given to the two Hounds near the foot of the steps.
Ilanah reaches out towards Moonfire. "Hey!" She says, a little uncertain, her eyes showing her nervousness in this situation anyway. But she knows that Sylvan's are kin, no matter where they are, so in a way she 'trusts' this other woman.
Daelia, now struggling helplessly to catch her breath, while still giggling, lightly bats Aztlan's hand away. "I told you..." she wheezes. "...don't need no...healers..."
A strange form staggers into the Rialto, stumbling, hands to ears. It limps and wanders aimlessly, bumping into people who gasp and step back, pointint out the sign of outcaste so prominently displayed. Any Varati in the square turn their backs and disregard the figure. (Jaihyn)
Altair stops, swinging back to look at Moonfire. He puts his hand on her shoulder and, out of the clear blue, he speaks. Maybe it's that hatred he sees, being reflected back from Moonfire's eyes. That ugly monster that shows no mercy, feels no pain. Only sees destruction in it's wake. "Let it go, Moonfire," he says in a tone barely a whisper. "Let it go."
Aztlan slips his arm through the distressed Sylvan's elbow, his other hand moving to beneath that same elbow to give a little upward push to (hopefully) urge the girl to stand. The Adept on the other side of the girl seems to be preparing to do something similar.
The figure staggers into a Varati passing by some of the food vendors and the Varati gasps, staggering back and the violently pushes the figure away from him, causing it to stumble and fall to the stones. "Away from me!!!" (Jaihyn)
One hand, palm up and facing Ilanah, is meant to silence her fellow Sylvan - Moon simply hasn't the time for making new acquaintences. The keeper o' the monster flicks a brief look toward Altair, then the obvious outcast that shambles into the square... But Daelia, special, special Daelia, is given center stage in at least one Rialtonian mind. A moment of taut, unmoving muscles... Then Moonfire begins the hunt, Aztlan or no Aztlan. Heeeere, MongieMongieMongie.
Ilanah blinks a few times, and frowns..
Kallista glances toward the figure that falls so nearly at her feet, and at first doesn't recognize the man. Still, there is something...and so she looks closer, and nearly faints. Her color goes pale as can be and she jumps from her seat to kneel beside the man, questioning gently, "Jaihyn?"
Daelia's a quick little thing, despite her obvious malnourishment and ill health. With a little wriggle, a little slither, and a hop, she wins free of Aztlan's grip and leaps back several steps. "I said no, seaweed breath! It's appreciated..." she starts to back away, "...but I been in jail for two months, and I bled half my life out today...and I'm not going back in there!"
Jaihyn twitches a little bit on the ground and looks up, not seeing the woman above him, especially through the blood and soot. He stares at her unrecognizing even though only a week ago he would have received a letter about her in jail.
Altair looks towards that Varati yell, peering back to Daelia a moment, before shaking his head and following in the direction of that yell. He tries to take Moonfire's arm as he moves, to pull her away from the impending doom of the Mongrel girl at the hands of Moonfire's beast. "Come on, Moonfire! You're the Hound here. I'm off duty!" At least he's supposed to be...
The small one's sudden motion is enough to pitch the taller Atlantean back a bit. As Aztlan struggles and overcomes his balance, he looks to the Adept, who seems just as confused.
Ilanah sighs and moves away from the Rialto Ilanah walks westward toward Main and Border. Ilanah has left.
What? Nestor turns his attention from the drama of the waif, and is quick on Kalli's heels. He still doesn't know what's been going on, but he recognizes that name. He frowns. A Varati..but...he was told something, and seeing the brand on his forehead. He stands K, frowning down at the Varati.
Jaihyn waves a weak hand, trying to get these looming shapes away from him, whimpering, nothing like anything that anyone who knew him before, confident and tall. He hangs his bleeding head, scrabbling at the cobblestones with useless fingers.
Pu-abi is lured in from the north by the aroma of baked goods.
Daelia takes this brief moment of peace to look back towards Altair; and then she sees Moonfire. And Moonfire's expression. She gulps, swallowing hard. "Aw...gods damn it. She'll slay me." So saying, she waves a little at Aztlan, blows a cheeky kiss towards Altair, and then takes off like a shot into the Rialto, shouting, "DHARSHEV IS FREE!" A cry goes up, raggedly, from many mongrels within earshot, some fists raised towards the sky.
Kallista frowns, reaching for her friend to try to pull him to her. "Jaihyn, s..stop. What h..happened? Please, it's Kalli." Tears streak her face, and some of his blood that's gotten on her as well. "P..please, Jaihyn." He protected her once, now it's her turn if she can. "N...nestor, please, some w..water and cloth." At least perhaps she can clean some of the blood off his face.
Pu-abi steps into the Rialto, and as soon as she does, her task is forgotton, drawn to the scene of a Mongrel woman running off, and shouting...something.
The plea from Kalli is not lost on deaf ears. He kneels, and whispers quietly to Kalli.
The two members of Delphi exchange strange, curious glances and most likely some telepathic conversation. The student says to the Adept, "Quite an interesting day indeed," as they regain their composure. Aztlan's gaze slips to the Hounds before them, his voice inquiring of them both, "I assume you knew something of her?" The question of course, is directed more towards Altair, but Moonfire's vicinity (unless she's gone off stalking the mongrel) makes her an equal target of the question.
Altair, off-duty? Couldn't be. Many too many terrible calamities in the world just waiting to happen - Moonfire being one of them. In this case, though... He's lucky. The girl's stalking footsteps slow, and finally come to a halt, letting Altair take hold of her as the flames die in her eyes. Something's remembered. "A favor..." Looking quite ready to resheathe her staff and apologize, Daelia's "kiss" catches one calming green eye, which abruptly fires up again full-force as a snarl rips its way from Moon's throat. The Sylvan girl wrenches loose from Altair's grip with the strength of ten hellions and tears through the Rialto after Daelia - living Death on banana-shaped feet.
Jaihyn whines at Kallista's touch to one of his hand and tries to struggle away. He seems non-sensical, almost foaming at the mouth like those vacant eyed homeless in the worse parts of Haven. He moans again and tries to drag himself across the stones, now shivering in pain and something she's never seen him do.... from the cold.
Altair looks back at the Formula One Racers that are Daelia and Moonfire, shaking his head as he readies to go after them. 'Trust her...' comes a little voice in his head. (Conscience, not schizophrenia.) He shakes his head once more and rushes towards Jaihyn and Co. "Kalli? What's happened?" He says as he kneels by the writhing body of Jaihyn. A glance, a doubletake. "Jaihyn?? Oh Gods..." Aztlan's question, unfortunately, goes unanswered for the moment to deal with more pressing matters. "I've got to get you to the Infirmary!" he says as he moves to try and lift Jaihyn into his arms.
Jaihyn chokes and struggles away from his friend, not recognizing it IS his friend. "No..." he manages weakly, the first real, intelligible sound to come from him.
Kallista bites her lip and nods. "P...please, Altair. N..Nestor, help him." Her eyes are anxious as she looks to both.
Daelia streaks through the Rialto like a wildfire, and everywhere she passes, a mongrel head or two comes up, a grin starts to spread, a 'there she is, the one that stabbed the reeve' is murmured.
Nestor lets the Reeve take the Varati, helping Kalli up to her feet.
Unanswered for the moment...to tend to the Branded one. Hmm...interesting. The Atlantean Acolyte is left answerless on the steps of the Citadel, the Adept at his side glancing curiously at the fuss a short way off. Aztlan moves forward, closer to the small circle which is forming around the scarred one. Kelp-colored eyes gaze across the mostly-prone form of the Varati, more curious than concerned even as he comes closer to the foursome.
All those whispered comments are fuel for the fire, pounding over and over in a certain Esper's brain as her feet pound along the unyielding ground. Running isn't a specialty, but for Daelia, she can make an exception (Altair, you SURE it isn't schiz?). The compact size of the hunter helps, as does the generic surge of people away from the ongoing chase as the branded one proves more interesting.
Jaihyn
He is a tall man, over six feet but not by much, muscled but somehow he seems rather willowy and lanky. Unlike others of his Varati race, he has much lighter bronzed skin than most. Also incongruous to the others is the mop of mostly curly, sort of short, red-blonde hair and the flint grey eyes that don't miss much at all. He does have the sharp, chiseled Varati features to his face however, giving him a slightly predatory cast. He appears to be in his mid-twenties. All in all, he could be called handsome, if it weren't for the way he looks right now.
He is gaunt, as if starved for several months. Eyes dark and shadowed, sunken and very haunted, cheekbones prominent under taut skin. His old red robes of the Atarvani Akhund he was normally seen in are gone. He wears a simple loose and formless robe entirely of black. He wears simple sandals almost in the tone of the caligae of the Empyreans without the straps crossing up his ankles.
The most prominent thing about him right now is the blood streaming from his forehead, above and between his eyebrows, from what looks to be a sigil brand made by a hot iron. All over this is smeared the fresh ash of a fire, black and deeply rubbed into the brand, as well as scattered over his bloodied face. Out of this mask of horror stares those haunted eyes, shocked and vacant, staring at nothing.
Rabi -
Eyes of warm amber flecked with bright copper-red gaze back from beneath the simple veil, a large square of cloth - deep, dusky brown over a dark red cloth that shimmers faintly beneath its sanguine covering - held to her head by a twist of golden cord and fastened to her left temple, leaving bare only her eyes and the bridge of her nose. Her skin is a dark, rich, red-brown. The rest of the cloth of her veil billows down over her shoulders and back and chest, partly covering the dark burnt ochre sari beneath, the long cloth wrapped so as to leave points hanging down as it curls around her body. Another sari is beneath it, its color between forest green and brown, shows faintly through the outer sari's sheerness, draping her in autumns rich warm colors. The edges of the undersari are carefully worked in gold and red-gold needlepoint: the pattern looks like an abstract curling of lines which suggest elegant Varati lettering without quite being legible -- a vinework populated here and there with embroidered leaves. The cloth is very fine and well-worked; while not extravagant, it is nonetheless the clothing of a woman of not small status.
A blue diamond of modest size graces the middle of her forehead, held in place by a fine chain of spun gold.
Her clothing is bowed out over the large curve of her belly: she is with child. Her hands, their fingers long and finely muscled, are undecorated and her nails are short but well-kept.
Niamh-
Black eyes, impossible to tell iris from pupil, burning in their intensity peer out from this young Varati's dusky complexion. These eyes seem to miss nothing, they devour every sight about him with a hunger of only the most curious. Thick black lashes frame these magnificent eyes, thick and dark as if lined with kohl. His cheekbones are high, narrowing his eyes some in his dusky complected face. When he speaks and in the rare smile, his straight, white teeth contrast sharply with his coppery skin. His features are strong, striking, yet there seems to be no vanity in this one at all. His thick black hair is oftentimes too long, as he tends to forget to cut it.
Dressed in the red robes of the Atarvani, the weave and pattern of his robes indicate that he is Atman. Although non-violent pursuits are more in his nature, his broad shoulders and well-musculed form indicate that he is in no way weak or untrained in the use of weapons.
Unknown -
Tall and leanly built with hard corded muscles, this Varati male isn't as imposing in stature as some of his kin, but what he lacks in bulk he makes up for in personality and a potent personal aura. Dark eyes view the world about him with an easy charm, his gaze almost lazy in its perusal. But there is a keen awareness and a glint of humor that sparks in those eyes, bringing them to life. When focused, that near black gaze brings the full intensity of his character to bear upon whomever he is engaged with. Long wavy black hair is worn free and loose, cascading down his back in a fluid line. His face, already resplendant with character is merely enhanced by short, neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Thick elegantly arched eyebrows and a prominent nose serve only to offer variety to his features. His skin reminiscent in color to a light fragant tea, the honed muscles beneath indicate rigorous physical exercise.
Ranjeet -
The Varati in question is dressed elaborately in black from head to toe. A silk black shirt clings to his frame, the tunic length of it sashed in close at the waist with a wide dyed leather belt. Worn over is an elaborated embroidered traditional jacket, the length of it dropping to his knees with vents on the sides and the back to faciliate ease of movement and grace of style. Black thread on black cloth, with hints of silvering in the thread, the detailed work shifts in and out of visibility, one moment elegant simplicity, the next breathtaking craftsmanship. Black silk silwar cling to his legs, finished in highly polished black boots. At his throat is a thick silver necklace, at his wrist a matching bracelet. There is also an elegant blade sheathed at his side. Upon his chest, pinned to the open jacket, is the silver symbol of his clan, the Clan al'Samar.
Deianyra-
Although her bearing is that of a quietly defiant naraki, there is more to this woman than meets the eye. Poised at 5'9", Deianyra radiates an aura of aloof calmness and quiet pride in every lithe movement of her subtly exotic form. Gentle cascades of loose, coppery hair frame her heart-shaped face, curling and tumbling down to her hip. A few small braids trickle through the slippery mass in arrays of hues - today sapphire and amethyst grace the plaits. They accentuate the vivid coloring of Deia's clear violet-blue eyes, shrouded by thin bangs. Tanned skin is visible as it slides over toned muscle, but although she is undoubtedly Empyrean and bares more skin than any Varati woman, she nevertheless wears a light gauze veil, hiding all of her face but her eyes. The tips of her fingers are stained rainbow hues.
Three black spheres the size of a woman's smallest fingertip grace the right side of her face in a descending line, from lower temple to upper cheekbone. This odd tattoo is not alone - others appear at various points along the curvy, sari-clad length of her - a trailing vine down her left arm, a butterfly on her right ankle, and a rune-like knot like those found on locks on her right hand, only half there, suggesting half might be found on another's hand.
Large white wings arch from the strong curve of her back, denoting her racial heritage as Empyrean. Myriad feathers have also been dyed or painted in the froth of white wings - currently royal and pastel blue and an intense lavender wink like jewels in the sands, from coverts to primaries. Her sari too, adds to this feast of color, being a rich malachite green, swirled with more blue hues. A small knife is secured to her side, as is a sizable pouch. Feet are clad in sturdy sandals, a bit tougher and more supportive than the simple zoris.
If one can catch it, the slightly throaty quality of her contralto voice is rather pleasant to the ear, and the nose can pick up a slight perfume about Deia, a fresh wind and flower smell.
Zafir -
The man before you looks back with a critical eye. His dark tan skin appears to be leathery yet is soft to the touch, almost like the local trees. His hands are caloused as if he refuses to use Shudra. He has weird eyes to most. One appears to be deep brown and one appears to be deep green. Their shade varies based on his mood. His oval face sits at everyone else's normal shoulder height. No chiseled features. They are smooth, yet rough.
His black hair has a distinctness to it. Grey streaks by the temples run back to above his ears. He tends to wear the hair in a pony tail that hangs to just below his shoulderblades.As your eyes drift down his form, you note he wears a simple wool tunic with a drawstring to midchest. Over this is a unfastened leather haik. He wears cotton breeches with an unadorned leather belt. On his feet he wears Leather shoes with wool calf sleeves. The entire outfit is designed with shades of red, but he wears no jewelry of note.
Amineh -
Holy prescence. Undeniable presence.
Though slight of form and frame, there is a power to this woman. A /strength/. That power of devotion and divine duty drives Amineh -- the sort of devotion and unswerving determination that prompts even candala to wonder at what manner of being, what manner of /God/ could inspire her so.
The eyes. They are the first thing noticed, and often the only remembered. The seamed mapwork of a lifetime's emotions decorate the edges of her eyes, but the marks of age end there; the eyes themselves are black iris 'gainst blacker pupil, shinier than oil-polished onyx, sharper than an obsidian blade. The Divine Flame fuels that uncanny, unnerving gleam and illuminates her God's capacity for both infinite compassion and unstoppable fury.
The crimson robes of the Atarvani drape her, reaching to wrists and floor, their motion a silken sussurus. Unlike some of her brethren, her gnarled hands are bare, stylized henna-flames marked upon dusky, paper-thin skin. Her veils obscure the rest of her features, save for glimpses of silvering hair collected in an elaborate braid. A heavy, teardrop-cut fire opal, blindingly alive with reds, greens, blues and golds, hangs from a gold chain -- the Nabi badge of office.
Khalil -
Not a handsome man, but there is something striking in his features. With his hard edged face and eyes dark as night. Proud and strong he stands at 6'7", but he is not a mountain of man with bulging muscles or gun barrel arms. Instead he is very lean, his strength showing in his movements like the lion he is. Each movement is fluid, graceful, showing careful thought and consideration. When he walks it with a large stride as if he were gliding. And his dark red hair, perhaps a bit too long continues to get into the way of his eyes. There is nothing amusing, nor comforting in the way he looks upon you and studies you, making some judgement in his head. His hands can be seen, covered in scars that are white against the tan color of his skin. There is also a long red scar on his right cheek like a tear had burned its way down his face. What can be seen of his clothing is a black haik which appears to cover a steel brigandine and black iron bracers. A sword with a golden lion pommel rests easily at his side, sheathed like himself, in black and silver revealing him to be Agni-Haidar. His boots, which rise to his knees, are spotless with the signs of polishing.
Valin'dovev -
Before you stands a powerfully built young man, almost as if he was hewn from granite itself. His midnight black hair is pulled back tightly in a pony tail, and allows only two small braided strands to fall down before his brow. They frame a handsome, if a bit rugged face which is richly tanned like most of his race. Deep blue eyes shine with a inner fire all their own, and allow a small and fleeting glance behind this stoic face. His nose and chin are frame the rest of his face, giving him a very handsome look.
His blue sark is barely able to contain his powerfully built chest, but it does suceed in allowing him freedom of movement in all manners of life. It's trimmed by sliver around the neck, and arms before ending at his waist where a sturdy belt is used to hold up his black breeches. There are two finely wrought scimitars belted at each side of this man's hips, giving him a deadly look. His breeches are also lined with silver down each leg and end in a pair of soft haik, which are also black.
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ŠJune 1999
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