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+---- Thread: [AW] where many paths and errands meet (/showthread.php?tid=5844)
where many paths and errands meet - Jahin - 11-23-2020
and horror in the halls of stone
For once, Jahin wanders aimlessly.
The weekend marketplace is a blaze of color and movement, although the vendor turnout is fewer than usual. The lack of a sovereign is bad for business, apparently. Regardless, there are still those who have set up shop, their booth tents swaying in the hot midmorning breeze. Jahin looks out of place with his spear shouldered and sober expression, but then that is nothing new. He is accustomed to the curious glances, how their eyes linger on his scars and his fading Davke tattoos but he does feel considerably more like the bull in the china shop than usual.
He wanders the aisles, glancing over the different wares. Sahar is curled on his back, hissing and spitting her tongue excitedly as she takes in the bright colors and beautiful bobbles that are sold. She has a taste for the expensive things, his Sahar. Jahin isn’t looking for anything in particular this morning, despite the wares that are pushed into his way as he passes through. Throwing knives, baskets, ornate jewelry, supple velvet cloaks.
There is nothing for him here. He’s a simple creature, needing little more than what he carries with him. Despite his disinterest in the actual goods displayed by the vendors, he finds that he is actually enjoying himself. The constant hum of conversation and the smell of baked goods is pleasant and relaxing. The sun feels warm on his back.
As he turns to exit the marketplace, perhaps to go out on patrol or something more suited to his station, a booth unexpectedly catches his eye. The booth itself is rather plain in decor, nothing but the shabby tent overhead to keep the sun from beating down on the vendor owner’s back. There, carefully arranged on a plain wooden table are intricately handcrafted journals, bound in ornately carved leather. He stares, transfixed. A young child can read better than him and he can hardly write his own name, but Jahin gazes at the blank pages wistfully nonetheless.
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
The weekend marketplace is a blaze of color and movement, although the vendor turnout is fewer than usual. The lack of a sovereign is bad for business, apparently. Regardless, there are still those who have set up shop, their booth tents swaying in the hot midmorning breeze. Jahin looks out of place with his spear shouldered and sober expression, but then that is nothing new. He is accustomed to the curious glances, how their eyes linger on his scars and his fading Davke tattoos but he does feel considerably more like the bull in the china shop than usual.
He wanders the aisles, glancing over the different wares. Sahar is curled on his back, hissing and spitting her tongue excitedly as she takes in the bright colors and beautiful bobbles that are sold. She has a taste for the expensive things, his Sahar. Jahin isn’t looking for anything in particular this morning, despite the wares that are pushed into his way as he passes through. Throwing knives, baskets, ornate jewelry, supple velvet cloaks.
There is nothing for him here. He’s a simple creature, needing little more than what he carries with him. Despite his disinterest in the actual goods displayed by the vendors, he finds that he is actually enjoying himself. The constant hum of conversation and the smell of baked goods is pleasant and relaxing. The sun feels warm on his back.
As he turns to exit the marketplace, perhaps to go out on patrol or something more suited to his station, a booth unexpectedly catches his eye. The booth itself is rather plain in decor, nothing but the shabby tent overhead to keep the sun from beating down on the vendor owner’s back. There, carefully arranged on a plain wooden table are intricately handcrafted journals, bound in ornately carved leather. He stares, transfixed. A young child can read better than him and he can hardly write his own name, but Jahin gazes at the blank pages wistfully nonetheless.
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
RE: where many paths and errands meet - Amaunet - 11-27-2020
like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Today, all gilded in sunlight and red silk, she is not the pit-fighter with a mouthful of blood. She is not a hungry thing, a violent thing, or a thing made for war. In the sunlight she is bright and ripe with the nobility of her blood and the promise of the deserts when they gleam like gold at noontime. Around her the crowd pushes like a herd of tame sheep almost lost without their shepherd. In each of their gazes she can see uncertainty and worry.
The darkness of the empty throne beats through the crowd like a second pulse. And Amaunet has never, never loved her city more than she does in the market today.
Her eyes do not linger on the tables packed with goods. She does not fawn over the daggers still stained with the blood of their dark enchantments. When a pygmy dragon stolen from the night court screeches frantically in the distance she does not turn towards it like a war-hungry girl. A band takes up playing in a tavern outside the market and her heart does not take up the sounds of drums in her chest.
She does not pay attention to the chaos of the market, the promise of strife in all those uncertain gazes, but her magic drinks deeply of it. It drinks and drinks until her skin is dew and dawn dusted in rose-gold glow. The magic in her blood is still drinking when she spots the Regent lingering over a table with his snake a hissing promise waiting across his back.
Amaunet had liked the look of him better when his Davke tattoo’s had been bright instead of fading. She might have passed by him then, instead of cutting through the crowd like a wound to join him. When she smiles at him the look turns to a thing of wealth in her golden glow. And she wonders if he’ll notice the gold, the scars, or the bloody red of her war paint first.
When she looks down her smile brightens into something as feral as it is lovely. “All the wonders in the whole court and you linger over a journal.” She steps closer and snaps out the wing furthest from him to create a bubble of space around them (like a secret meeting between Davke, or like a cage?). “I would not have expected it of you, Regent.” Amaunet does not laugh at him though, not yet.
Because deep down, where she is a noble’s feral daughter who cannot help the violence of her blood, she almost (almost) understands. But unlike him, any failings of her own, had been cut out from the smiles of others.
@Jahin
The darkness of the empty throne beats through the crowd like a second pulse. And Amaunet has never, never loved her city more than she does in the market today.
Her eyes do not linger on the tables packed with goods. She does not fawn over the daggers still stained with the blood of their dark enchantments. When a pygmy dragon stolen from the night court screeches frantically in the distance she does not turn towards it like a war-hungry girl. A band takes up playing in a tavern outside the market and her heart does not take up the sounds of drums in her chest.
She does not pay attention to the chaos of the market, the promise of strife in all those uncertain gazes, but her magic drinks deeply of it. It drinks and drinks until her skin is dew and dawn dusted in rose-gold glow. The magic in her blood is still drinking when she spots the Regent lingering over a table with his snake a hissing promise waiting across his back.
Amaunet had liked the look of him better when his Davke tattoo’s had been bright instead of fading. She might have passed by him then, instead of cutting through the crowd like a wound to join him. When she smiles at him the look turns to a thing of wealth in her golden glow. And she wonders if he’ll notice the gold, the scars, or the bloody red of her war paint first.
When she looks down her smile brightens into something as feral as it is lovely. “All the wonders in the whole court and you linger over a journal.” She steps closer and snaps out the wing furthest from him to create a bubble of space around them (like a secret meeting between Davke, or like a cage?). “I would not have expected it of you, Regent.” Amaunet does not laugh at him though, not yet.
Because deep down, where she is a noble’s feral daughter who cannot help the violence of her blood, she almost (almost) understands. But unlike him, any failings of her own, had been cut out from the smiles of others.
@Jahin
RE: where many paths and errands meet - Jahin - 11-29-2020
and horror in the halls of stone
Jahin does not have the power to speak with the dead but he sees ghosts these days.
Seraphina, Makeda, Avdotya, Orestes. Only Makeda is truly gone but it doesn’t stop him from seeing the faces of the others. He sees them in the marketplace; a glimpse of golden hair and shimmering tattoos. Orestes? Nay, only the play of sunlight on someone far too ordinary and mundane to be the magnificent Orestes.
He sees Makeda often; triggered by black hair and the perfume of jasmine, sweat, and sand. But she appears less and less to him. Like his fading Davke tattoos, Makeda too fades like a mirage in the heat. He doesn’t want to forget her. He knows part of him never will, that she will always be there, somewhere...but it becomes harder and harder to summon her back. It’s only fitting--she never really gave him the time of day even when she was living, why would she as a ghost?
As for Avdotya, she does not have to be among the dead to haunt him. The Davke leader manifests in every shadow, every corner, and every moment that Jahin ever doubts his decision to leave his people. Her ghost stalks him like a wild beast, hungry and patient. He doesn’t doubt her wrath will follow him until the day he dies.
When he stares into the golden eyes of another ghost, he is transfixed. He does not see the blood red war paint, the gold, or the scars until later. He sees the vastness of the desert and the heat of the Solterran sun. He hears war drums in the distance as the sun sets and the moon rises. He feels the wind and heat scraping across his skin like sandpaper. Davke, the wind whispers. Deep in his bones he feels the thunder of hoofbeats beating across the desert in the night.
He blinks and the vision of his former life is gone. He stares at her, noticing the gold, the scars, and the paint. The lovely smile does not quite meet the intensity of her eyes. She seems amused as she comments on his fascination with the leather journals. Yes, it does seem rather foolish. He’s embarrassed but he is not sure of which he is more ashamed of: the fact he cannot read and write or his desire to learn. She steps closer. Her proud wings unfurl, feathers glistening and emanating a soft glow in the sunlight.
“Amaunet,” he says softly. He brushes her shoulder with his lips in greeting. Her skin is hot but then it is fitting. She has always been a creature of fire. Sahar peers curiously over Jahin, tongue flickering in a silent hiss. “So you are not a ghost.”
He does not know Amaunet well; she was always in and out of their way of life, possibly more free than any other Davke could ever boast. He does not remember a time when she ever permanently stayed or ever truly left the Davke. In the past he had wondered why Avdotya tolerated Amaunet splitting herself between two worlds. After all, Avdotya did not take kindly to Jahin’s time in the capitol and deemed it an unforgivable offense.
But Amaunet was different. He remembers the body Amaunet had dragged from the desert as a slender, somewhat unremarkable girl. He recalls the day clearly; the hush of his people and the permanent shock in the gypsy boy’s lifeless eyes. He had been a young warrior in his prime back then. Davke tradition or murder? Jahin feels as though the line is a little too blurred, a little too gray, but Amaunet was no longer forgettable and maybe that was her intention.
If he’s completely honest, Amaunet makes him uncomfortable.
“And what would you expect of me?”
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
Seraphina, Makeda, Avdotya, Orestes. Only Makeda is truly gone but it doesn’t stop him from seeing the faces of the others. He sees them in the marketplace; a glimpse of golden hair and shimmering tattoos. Orestes? Nay, only the play of sunlight on someone far too ordinary and mundane to be the magnificent Orestes.
He sees Makeda often; triggered by black hair and the perfume of jasmine, sweat, and sand. But she appears less and less to him. Like his fading Davke tattoos, Makeda too fades like a mirage in the heat. He doesn’t want to forget her. He knows part of him never will, that she will always be there, somewhere...but it becomes harder and harder to summon her back. It’s only fitting--she never really gave him the time of day even when she was living, why would she as a ghost?
As for Avdotya, she does not have to be among the dead to haunt him. The Davke leader manifests in every shadow, every corner, and every moment that Jahin ever doubts his decision to leave his people. Her ghost stalks him like a wild beast, hungry and patient. He doesn’t doubt her wrath will follow him until the day he dies.
When he stares into the golden eyes of another ghost, he is transfixed. He does not see the blood red war paint, the gold, or the scars until later. He sees the vastness of the desert and the heat of the Solterran sun. He hears war drums in the distance as the sun sets and the moon rises. He feels the wind and heat scraping across his skin like sandpaper. Davke, the wind whispers. Deep in his bones he feels the thunder of hoofbeats beating across the desert in the night.
He blinks and the vision of his former life is gone. He stares at her, noticing the gold, the scars, and the paint. The lovely smile does not quite meet the intensity of her eyes. She seems amused as she comments on his fascination with the leather journals. Yes, it does seem rather foolish. He’s embarrassed but he is not sure of which he is more ashamed of: the fact he cannot read and write or his desire to learn. She steps closer. Her proud wings unfurl, feathers glistening and emanating a soft glow in the sunlight.
“Amaunet,” he says softly. He brushes her shoulder with his lips in greeting. Her skin is hot but then it is fitting. She has always been a creature of fire. Sahar peers curiously over Jahin, tongue flickering in a silent hiss. “So you are not a ghost.”
He does not know Amaunet well; she was always in and out of their way of life, possibly more free than any other Davke could ever boast. He does not remember a time when she ever permanently stayed or ever truly left the Davke. In the past he had wondered why Avdotya tolerated Amaunet splitting herself between two worlds. After all, Avdotya did not take kindly to Jahin’s time in the capitol and deemed it an unforgivable offense.
But Amaunet was different. He remembers the body Amaunet had dragged from the desert as a slender, somewhat unremarkable girl. He recalls the day clearly; the hush of his people and the permanent shock in the gypsy boy’s lifeless eyes. He had been a young warrior in his prime back then. Davke tradition or murder? Jahin feels as though the line is a little too blurred, a little too gray, but Amaunet was no longer forgettable and maybe that was her intention.
If he’s completely honest, Amaunet makes him uncomfortable.
“And what would you expect of me?”
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
@Amaunet
RE: where many paths and errands meet - Amaunet - 11-30-2020
like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Sheep flutter around them like butterflies trapped in the cage of a world in which only the two of them are free. Out of the corner of her eye Amaunet can see the white rims of their looks and the weight of their stares when they know her from the pits (and when they wonder why she has bothered to talk to their Regent). And perhaps, when she flicks her wings at them and tells them all to scurry away, their smiles give her away.
She is surprised when he touches her. It is a bold gesture for a faded Davke who stares longingly at a journal to do. When she returns the touch is hard enough, hot enough, that he might feel all her fire, all her teeth, and all the other things begging to rend him down into all the things he lost out in the desert full with the pounding of hooves.
Her heart, her brutal heart, howls at the thought of it.
“Death would not take me.” She laughs and there are a hundred nights spent around a fire in the sound of it. There is a joy, a wildness, hot enough to burn the world to ash in it. Amaunet does nothing by halves, and nothing with fear, and so she does not pause to wonder before pushing her hip against his and nudging him back towards the table.
She does not look for which journal held his attention because to her it does not matter. Paper is paper, leather is leather, and it all can burn in the right conditions.
The gold around her neck jingles, almost too sweet a sound for the look in her eyes, when she does not flinch from his question. She welcomes it. Her magic welcomes it with a dawn-gold blush across her skin as it reaches for every untethered thing in him, for every memory of how he had once been a dangerous thing in the wild desert too.
Amaunet pretends to ponder his question as she casts her eyes back over the journals and the sheep as if part of her attention had not always been on the butterflies trapped in the cage. When she turns back it is to slide a journal on the table towards him as if when she says, “everything, Jahin, I expect everything from you,” paper and leather are the only thoughts on her mind.
Fire does not care what feeds it, only that it is fed, and fed, and fed.
@Jahin
She is surprised when he touches her. It is a bold gesture for a faded Davke who stares longingly at a journal to do. When she returns the touch is hard enough, hot enough, that he might feel all her fire, all her teeth, and all the other things begging to rend him down into all the things he lost out in the desert full with the pounding of hooves.
Her heart, her brutal heart, howls at the thought of it.
“Death would not take me.” She laughs and there are a hundred nights spent around a fire in the sound of it. There is a joy, a wildness, hot enough to burn the world to ash in it. Amaunet does nothing by halves, and nothing with fear, and so she does not pause to wonder before pushing her hip against his and nudging him back towards the table.
She does not look for which journal held his attention because to her it does not matter. Paper is paper, leather is leather, and it all can burn in the right conditions.
The gold around her neck jingles, almost too sweet a sound for the look in her eyes, when she does not flinch from his question. She welcomes it. Her magic welcomes it with a dawn-gold blush across her skin as it reaches for every untethered thing in him, for every memory of how he had once been a dangerous thing in the wild desert too.
Amaunet pretends to ponder his question as she casts her eyes back over the journals and the sheep as if part of her attention had not always been on the butterflies trapped in the cage. When she turns back it is to slide a journal on the table towards him as if when she says, “everything, Jahin, I expect everything from you,” paper and leather are the only thoughts on her mind.
Fire does not care what feeds it, only that it is fed, and fed, and fed.
@Jahin