"The Capture of Murako" Log Date: 2/7/99 Log Cast: Kiera, Faanshi, Thomas/Murako Log Intro: A scant handful of days has passed since Faanshi and her heart-mother Ulima have been taken into Clan Khalida by the decree of Khalid Atar. During these days, the mighty Varati army has moved its locale, and the young halfbreed shudra has seen very little of the winged halfbreed who has become her mistress. And so, Faanshi has spent her time arranging with Ulima to give to both their God-King and Kiera gifts of gratitude for their deliverance. For the Khalid, a pouch crafted as elegantly as Faanshi can make it while the army is on the move, and filled with what precious few herbs Ulima can spare -- herbs for purification, herbs for sanctification, herbs for power in war. For Kiera, it's a new outfit in the Clan Khalida colors of scarlet and blue and gold, stitched together from what pieces of cloth the shudra and the priestess can acquire by barter in their new Clan. By the time the Varati host has managed to settle into a new encampment, both gifts have been given to their intended recipients. And now that they have indeed settled, Faanshi is about to discover something of what has been keeping her new mistress occupied during her absences.... ---------- Varati Camp - Somewhere in the Empyre(#2120RFJnh) After the fashion of many a war-camp, this one - the imperial one - somehow fashions an organized and effective army out of hopeless frantic clutter and activity. The Varati host is here hosted, and tents spread legion across the rolling prairie - now trommled into hard-packed mud. The tents themselves are surrounded by cookstoves and chairs, armour boxes and racks upon which clothes dry and repaired or cleaned items are stored. Women and men both hurry through the clutter, each to his own vital task. The air is warmer here, thick with fire smoke and the fouler odors of many people in close inhabitation with inadequate sewage and washing facilities. To the south is located the tent-hospital, to the north, the Amir's encampment. West are the wyvern pens and east, the corrals for the lesser creatures that serve as food for men and mount. The hawk, who was carried by one person or another all day, disappeared into Khalid-Atar's tent upon the arm of one of the Agni-Haidar. Not so long afterards, Kiera emerges, now dressed - and for the first time - in the new clothes that have been made for her, in Khalida colors. She pauses at the door, seeming much like someone who has been asleep all day, but whose sleep was restless, even fevered. The woman's dark gaze scans the camp which is every day new, every day familiar, but also every day strange due to this uprooting and moving, stopping, moving... Someone needs to walk past her, and Kiera starts slightly, stepping to the side. Her mental unbalance is echoed in the odd whirls of air that trace through the immediate vicinnitiy. The movements of the army have not prevented Faanshi from making the clothes -- and their disappearance out of the pile of belongings owned by her mistress is a boon to the shudra girl. As she scurries through the once-more stationary camp, delivering sewn garments and herbal concoctions at Ulima's request to their intended recipients, she only hopes that Kiera has found favor with her gift -- and that the Khalid received _his_ gift. Will he even _see_ the pouch? _The herbs are very useful,_ she tells herself, _but the pouch is hardly the work of a master... O Dawn-Mother!_ With an effort, Faanshi jerks her attention back to matters at hand as she darts through the camp, a basket on her arm, heading for the tent she now shares with her heart-mother. Actually, Kiera's 'pile of belongings' is usually comprised of nothing more than her boots. Right now, it's her old outfit. Sometimes there's a knife in there. It's an odd, Sylvan-made knife. Little more. Kiera... Does not possess much. Escept now she possesses a slave. Which is the matter at hand, and for which she now seeks you. Fortunately you are easily seen. "Faanshi!" Though Kiera's voice can usually lost, she makes an effort at the moment, to be heard. And she steps forward, toward you. Faanshi's covered head comes up, green eyes blinking, and she turns about in the direction of her approaching mistress. She doesn't kneel, but she does bob her head politely, shifting her basket on her arm and calling back to show she heard, "Imphada Kiera!" Kiera decides, in that moment, that next time she has the opportunity, and is alone with you, she will go through the preferred methods of greeting, much as Khalid has done with her. There's th epublic greeting and the private greeting. But... Something more, now, fogs Kiera's mind. "If you can come with me, walk, I would talk with you, Faanshi." She waits, before she walks, and studies you. Faanshi blinks a time or two, and once more bobs her head, her grip secured on her basket. "As you wish," she answers shyly, her tones soft but loud enough for easy hearing. It would seem over the past days that the girl has begun to grow less skittish, and her eyes abruptly brighten over her veil as she takes in the sight of what Kiera wears. But she does not comment upon the other young woman's clothing; instead, she ventures, "I am glad to see you." Heartfelt, "I am glad to see you too. These," Kiera touches the hem of the outfit, and glances at you, "From you? -- Thank you." Then she looks away from you, into the sunset horizen, and draws in a breath. "Several days ago, I captured a man. A mongrel. A beautiful man, but who turned out to be the enemy. The Khalid-Atar gave me authority to deal with him, and the man - this prisoner - chose to become a slave, but to have an oath of loyalty extracted by torture. This... " This tore Kiera up. She glances at you briefly, maybe so you can see past that usual mask, into the brief horror that has caught Kiera in its grip, "I did not wish to do, but he begged. I would have preferred to kill him, Faanshi. He was proud and strong and lovely, and now he will be broken. Destroyed, if he lives. But... I go now to see if he lived. If he did, then he will become our slave." Even this word is spoken with inherant distaste, and Kiera hastens to explain, "If I did not take him as mine - ours - then someone else would. And he would be further destroyed." Faanshi starts to brighten yet again, to admit shyly that aye, the blue clothing had come from her -- but as Kiera goes headlong into explaining her purpose, the young shudra's attention swings inexorably away from the thought of clothing. She stares silently at her mistress all throughout her speaking, and indeed, it would seem that Kiera's anguish reaches her, for either Kiera's or Faanshi's own feelings well up to turn her green eyes liquid, shocked. A little gasp escapes her at the mention of torture, and at last, all she can say in the way of reply is to breathe huskily, "How can I help...?" "I do not know, Faanshi. I do not... I do not want to own a slave," Kiera admits very quietly, "And maybe he died, and I will not. But if I do... We will have to see... What we can do for him. He will be wounded, likely. And I ... " Kiera's jaw twitches and she looks away, utterly undone by this distasteful situation she's in, "I do not know how I am supposed to treat a slave. I will kill, but to torture....?" Now she frowns, and her pace picks up, unconciously,a s if by walking, Kiera could briskly keep her feelings and problems at bay. "If he lives, he will be harmed. If you can heal him, you may. But it will be his mind... That is the worst, I think. And in order that the Khalid-Atar does not decide to take him away, then I should at least seem that I know how to treat a slave. So." Here goes... "YOu will have to help me. You and Ulima. To make sure that we can keep him controlled, but not ... Harm him any more. Do you see?" Faanshi has no problems keeping up with Kiera as she walks, for she is taller, her legs longer. But a shiver of dread splashes down her spine at the thought that she might have to heal this stranger, this young man; can she manage it, even after the meditations that Ulima has taught her? "My... magic," she says uneasily, "may decide to do what it will anyway, if this man is hurt... but of course Ulima and I will help him however we can!" "I have to go... Soon. To see if he lived." Kiera dreads this, completely. "Maybe you can come with me, and if he does, return here, to prepare a place for him by the fire. I think... That it would not be best to have you do your magic, near the Atarvani. Not yet." Kiera has lots of plans, but amoung them is not losing you too soon, before you've had a chance to see a half-breed's world. Then you can go into the Atarvani. And right now, Kiera needs your help. "Can you do that?" She glances up at you, gaze narrowed in thought. What is visible of Faanshi's face is significantly paler than normal; her eyes are wide and full of palpable anxiety. Both her arms draw in to curl about her slender frame, and her hands clench into fists within the strips of brightly colored rags she's wound about them to protect her palms from the cold. "I can," she whispers, and strives not to think about what the effort will cost her. With a sharp nod, Kiera draws in a breath and turns to look toward the tents of the guards who will likely know where Thomas is, now, if he lives. "Tell Ulima. To ready a place for him to rest, Faanshi. I will wait, and we will go." That is, Kiera will get a couple of the nice Clan Khalida guards to come along as muscle, in case Thomas must be carried. Faanshi bobs her head, murmuring, "We will be waiting, imphada -- I will warn her...!" She swallows hard, though this is hidden by her veils; the veils do not hide, however, the roughening of her voice. If there is anything Faanshi knows in the still-strange world outside the vara of Clan Sarazen, it is what it means to be tortured. It is with a heartsick voice that she assures, "I will find Ulima, now!" And in a ripple of the cloth of her silwar, she turns and hurries off. Kiera just isn't mentally sharp enough to deal with this right now. Did that mean you /were/ coming with her? Or not? Kiera could use the company, if not the moral support. But you're heading out... To look for Ulima. And... Thsi si getting too confusing. She turns to her task, loacates the Agni-Haidar, and instructs one to wait for you, and two to accompany her. She will send one back for you and the other guard, to meet them halfway. Kiera and one of the Lions of Fire can likely handle one broken man, if he is even alive. Then she departs. Kiera has left. [And very shortly, near the tent of the Atarvani...] Kiera arrives in the company of two Agni-Haidar. They have been chasing around for a little while, looking for where the Atarvani might have taken you this time, and where you've been kept. That is, after they got reports that you had, indeed, survived the torture. It's not quite dark, but the light is fading, greying the camps, when Kiera's voice can be heard, asking whoever might be In Charge, where the slave Thomas is. She is corrected on the term, but shown to where you are. Kiera doesn't quite look yet, but instead turns to the second of the guards, with murmured instructions. He turns and leaves. The Mongrel sits in an area beneath one of the tarps, a place not far from where the hot iron which marked him as Kiera's property. Those shadows which have grown long with the waxing of the day's light have enclosed him in a silent shell of black. By the time Kiera's gaze has focused upon his once proud form, she could easily tell that the Atarvani are indeed all they are rumored to be. Masters of the art of manipulation, and pain. No mortal could escape their touch and ever be the same again. The young man is naked, clad in nothing save the flesh which was so recently burned with the hot flames. His eyes are glazed over, fixated as if he was staring at something awesome and terrible. The truth. He dos not notice his master's approach, rather remaining where he is, the shell of a man he once was. The halfbreed is not, by any appearances, fazed at the sight of Thomas, or his wounds. Perhaps she's spent too much time as a hawk recently, or it might have to do with the fact that she has not even been known to eat cooked meat, if she has a choice. The body - his body - she will survey briefly, note in a clinical manner the wounds, but it's his eyes that she focuses on for a long moment. Then she nods to the guard. Him. He, a burely Agni-Haidar, strides forward and reaches down to pull Thomas to his feet. The gesture is not cruel. Efficent. There is no point in further harming Thomas, no honor in causing him to cry out again. The guard then gauges to see if the slave can walk on his own, or will require support. Kiera's expression is bland, as if she happens to see such horrors -the product of torture - everyday. At Kiera's bidding, Faanshi has hastened to the tiny tent she shares with Ulima, not far away from her winged imphada's usual tarp and fire. There she has found the old wise-woman, and Ulima's initial scolding that the girl is late with her basket dies upon her aged lips the moment Faanshi delivers her alarming news. "Swiftly, my child, we have not a moment to waste...!" The two women gather what Ulima decrees they need. Faanshi grabs her own bedding, unwilling to deprive her aged heart-mother of her sleeping place, while the Ushashti woman fetches the most potent of her healing herbs. Herbs for focusing and clearing the mind, herbs for soothing, herbs for healing, all in small amounts -- for such things are hard to gather within an army on the move. But here and now, Ulima does not scruple to employ them. While Faanshi hastily arranges bedding and then builds up the crackling fire beneath the tarp, Ulima begins her first preparation: a tea for Faanshi, for if a healing must happen, the old woman means for her heart-daughter to control it, rather than the other way around. Surprisingly, when the Agni-Haidar's hands reach towards the slave, he does not revolt from them, rather he rises as he is pulled. This motion seems to rouse him from his demented reverie, eyes now focusing on the hawk-woman who stands before him. The Mongrel's body itself appears largely intact. His handsome form is unmarred by the Atarvani's hands, but you can tell the scars run deep. The Mongrel's skin is still deeply tanned, his muscles strong and healthy. Yet, within the depths of his eyes you can tell there is little concious to his waking mind. He is as if a slate which begs to be written upon. Molded into whatever is necessary for the task at hand. Give him a tool and he will work, ask him to serve food and he will do it, teach him the ways of the Varati and he will follow. Staring at Kiera, he awaits what words she may have for him. Easy words: "Can you walk?" Kiera's entire body reveals nothing, nor does her voice. Just that question, and both she and the guard wait for the answer. "I can." The Mongrel answers with simple words. His eyes remain fixated upon the halfbreed alone, his hands hung at his sides impassively. Deep within the confines of his eyes, the only fire which no burns is that reflected by the torches which illuminate this place. Kiera should have killed you, Thomas. That single fact sears Kiera's mind. She nods, though, and turns to head out. You may follow, and the guard will follow last. Kiera says nothing, concentrating on her steps, for the light fades fast, and the one guard who accompanies has opted to watch you, rather than play guide for Kiera. So the little procession winds along through the tents, over guywires and rocks and holes, all which threaten to trip Kiera. Her progress is slower and slower. Silently, the Mongrel follows along with a slow pace, following Kiera's procession towards her tents. The guard comes along behind, the heavy steps of that warrior falling as distant muffles in the broken man's ears. Heedless of the fact that he is not clothed, shameless of anything, he proceeds along with a labored, but surprisingly strong step. He does not falter or stumble, but instead remains fixed till the time when they arrive at the glowing confines of Amir-Al's 'daughter'. Beneath Kiera's tarp, Faanshi gulps down the small cup of tea that Ulima has made her -- and thus, it is Ulima who first sees Kiera's approach... and the guard and the unclad young man who accompany her. The old wise-woman starts, and then turns to admonish the young shudra, "Keep your eyes down, my child...!" Faanshi, too, starts, but keeps her head bowed, while Ulima hauls herself to her feet and peers out at those who draw near. Actually, the glowing confines constitute little more than a tarp and a fire, shared with the local Agni-Haidar who are on break. A kaf pot soaks up heat, over the fire, and currently a shudra and older women are there. If Kiera has any other better dwelling, she doesn't point it out, and this is where the guard leaves the group, to go return to his other duties. Kiera is also unbohered by the man's nudity, and the fact escapes her, completely, that Faanshi might be. "Ulima," Kiera speaks, "And Faanshi. He lived." She says nothing more, but clearly, by Kiera's stiff stance, she feels she lied, to use that verb. Even in past tense. "I do not know if he needs to be healed. I cannot see well, right now." There. Someone else can examine him. The guards politely develop Practiced Non-obsrvance, for the trio under the tarp. As Kiera steps beneath the tarp next to the glowing fire, the Mongrel follows her to the edge of that place without hesitation. There, on the edges shadow, the man's form lies half in darkness, the front of him illuminated with the flickering fire which burns hot on the ground. His dull, brown eyes turn towards the others who are gathered here: the two women -- Faanshi and Ulima. There is no expression upon the naraki's features, merely a placid calm that comes with acceptance. As his gaze takes on the fire, he finds that to be an interesting place to focus his attention on, the harsh glare of the orange flames reminiscent of those which he faced not hours before. With the patience reserved an automaton, he awaits the further commands of his master. Faanshi bites her lip under her veil, keeping her eyes shyly averted for all that curiosity pulses within her. Ulima, in the meantime, turns and swiftly bids the shudra, "A blanket, my child, and quickly." The startled Faanshi provides this, and once Ulima has the blanket in her hands, she steps forward and fixes her bright black gaze upon the young man, reaching to hand the blanket to him and saying in her reedy, venerable tones, "Cover yourself, my son, for it is not seemly for maidens to see you thus!" Oh! Kiera was confused by Ulima's reaction, and Faanshi's, until she is reminded /again/, about that Varati more regarding nudity. Oh! The hawk-winged halfbreed shuffles her wings, casts a quicker breeze into the approaching night, and nods, "Cover yourself, THomas. The... Your ..." Kiera actually glances at him now, to see if, indeed, he is still intact, "organs. You will be required to wear clothes, henceforth." Stupid thing, but... It is cold. And... Well, can't have /every/ female in camp oogling, can we? "Faanshi, maybe you can see if you can find..." This occurs to Kiera as being another potentially awkward situation, to send the shudra after men's clothes, so she switches that to, "spare cloth, so he can sew himself something more appropriate than a blanket." Ripped from those harsh visions of flame, so divine in their purity, the Mongrel has a piece of cloth shoved at him by the even harsher tones of the old Ulima. It is from these he cringes. Not the hands of the Agni-Haidar, not the punishing tortures of the Atarvani. Not the cold, for the fire inside warms him. Recoiling for just a moment, his wide eyes take on the elder who now offers him something to save his dignity. Blinking once, he reaches out for that which is offered and slowly moves to slip it around himself in the darkness. It becomes clear that he either was not aware of his state of nakedness or simply didn't realize that it would affect others in a negative way. And yes, apparently the Atarvani have spared his precious manhood for the moment, indeed quite an eyeful remains in that spot. Kiera's words are heeded without thought, his eyes glancing towards that halfbreed with a quick glance. "Yes, Imphada. I am sorry.It will not happen again." Once Thomas speaks, Faanshi is jarred unthinkingly into looking up. A small noise that would be a gasp if it were louder escapes her, and only when she sees that the stranger has followed Ulima's bidding does she slowly rise to her own feet. "I have bartered for as much spare cloth as I could find, these past few days," she speaks up hesitantly. "But if you wish it, Imphada Kiera, I will cut and sew the blanket into clothing... or my sari..." She plucks at her heavy blue sari, by way of offering. Ulima takes a step back, frowning worriedly now at the dull-eyed young man now wrapped within the blanket. Her dark eyes flick their attention from the slave to Kiera, and she addresses the latter, "Perhaps you should have him sit by the fire, little mistress, until we can get him properly clothed...?" Her voice softens somewhat, though her expression is entirely business. Thank you, Ulima. Kiera nods to her, her own expression shadowed and hidden, but a touch of relief shifting her wings upon her shoulders. "Thomas. Sit by the fire. Warm yourself. Have you eaten?" Then to Faanshi, "No. I will find something. He is my responsibility. Ours, yes, but mine in the begining and end." Unfortuantely that which Kiera usually barters - furs and sometimes stones - are in Atesh-Gah. Then again... Kiera draws one wing forward and her talon-like fingernails curl through, feeling until they pluck a few feathers. Quill-sized, mostly, but one is larger. "These... May be useful for archers' arrows, scribes' pens, Faanshi. See if you cannot trade them." The young man seems a bit more alert now, his eyes appearing less glazed over and transfixed, yet there is still a muted aire about him. Slowly, the Mongrel moves towards the firepit, his bare feet now dirtied with his passage on the sodden, muddy ground. His eyes shift from Kiera, towards the fire and he settles in next to it on the ground, his legs remaining before him, blanket tightly wrapped around his mid and lower section -- for it is not large enough to emcompass his six foot form completely. Upon his back, the fire flickers off the brand mark of a hawk, which displays him to all as Kiera's property. Strangely, the scald marks appear whitish and healing, as if someone had been kind enough to do that for him. "I have not eaten in many days, Imphada." The naraki keeps his gaze averted from his master, following what he sees Faanshi do. It must be the right thing. Faanshi pauses, the set of her mouth invisible behind translucent blue silk, but her gaze upon Thomas turns anguished. Her hands fidget nervously, flexing into small golden fists and then uncurling again; her magic is not awakening, so perhaps this stranger, this slave, this Thomas, requires no healing. But there is no light behind his eyes, and this disturbs Faanshi deeply. She uneasily steps to Kiera and accepts the feathers, promising, "I... will return as swiftly as I can...!" She bobs her head, and in short order has vanished off across the camp. Ulima, in the meantime, nods her aged head approvingly beneath her own sari, as the young man sinks down by the crackling campfire. She does not yet sit down, but she does step aside to give Thomas room to sit. To Kiera she then turns, suggesting, "He should have a bit to eat, but nothing great, lest he hurt himself with too much food. Perhaps we can make a soup. May we do this?" It's obvious that the old woman thinks this should be done, but is asking Kiera's permission out of deference to her position, and never mind that it is technically Faanshi and not Ulima who is meant to serve the winged young woman. "We may, or we may, likely, see what it is that is leftover from the meal, this evening, for our Clan. I think... This would help. He needs boots, too," Kiera speaks, once more having turned clnical, or having retreated to that, given that she did, once, show a different side to Thomas. Kiera is silent for a good long time, then, as she thinks, and then asks slowly, quietly, "You should not serve him, Ulima. Nor should I. I do not think that Faanshi should, for she outranks him. Can you see...Another slave about? We could have them fetch the food, and some water." The words come slowly, difficult in form and enunciation, though simple in concept. "Imphada?" The Mongrel man's voice rises slightly, as if out of nowhere. "If you have ..someone guide me, I can find the way." A pause as his eyes flip from Kiera to Ulima, scantly having noticed the passing of the sari-clad Faanshi. The young man's voice sounds wary, almost troubled, but still strong. Only scant hours after the Atarvani have placed him through utter agony, this once-proud individual appears undaunted still. Yes, their cruel hand has crushed his pride and dignity, but his will remains nearly indomitable, and this turns to something else. Men like these you can never truly crush. Break them and they will heal, change them and they will become masters of their new form. These are dangerous men, wonderous men. "If..if you will allow me to go that is?" His eyes quickly avert from both women, who he realize outrank him. Clearly he needs some clothes, but he has the state of mind to be successful. Though Kiera allowed Thomas to walk behind her, she does not trust him. Nor does she trust him with Ulima, for the old woman is frail. Nor will she ask one of the guards to escort Thomas. And she can't see any other slaves, handy. So. Kiera titls her regard on him, remains quiet for a long few moments, before she draws in a breath and murmurs, "Come here, Thomas. Let me take your arm, and you will walk with me to the campstove." She does not include Ulima in her glance, but speaks to her, "If Faanshi returns, have her fetch us, please. And may we borrow your bowl, Ulima, for him?" It's a bring your own feastgear type place. Faanshi, in the meantime, hastens to the first individual she can think of for aid -- the Nabi Jhonan, who healed her in the tent of Khalid Atar. From him, she wins his oldest shirt in exchange for the biggest of Kiera's feathers. And as she glances between Kiera and Thomas, Ulima considers, and finally simply nods. "As you wish it, little mistress. I will await my heart-daughter's return, and the bowl is yours for the using." The small household of Kiera keeps most of their stuff near the tarp, so not to have to go within and without the Khalid-Atar's tent, all day long. Or all night long. So there, on the ground, is a bowl. "Take that bowl, Thomas. Bring it." And we shall need boots, Faanshi. Those might have to wait until we return to Atesh-Gah, if Thomas still has feet, then. Or... Kiera can try to hunt larger prey, show these folks how to work hides. Rising as slowly as he sat, the Mongrel clambers to his feet at his master's bequest. The blanket remains wrapped around him, shielding his nakedness from all those who would gaze upon him; save those occassional glimpses of flesh which sneak through the cloth. "Yes, Imphada." He answers Kiera and takes a few paces towards the halfbreed, his steps unconcious and unfearing. The flames burned out any hestitation he had before, any fear. Obeying the command, he takes the bowl which his master indicates, as the naraki, he bears its minor burden. Soon he stands next to her, his thick arm offered to the young woman so that he may guide her through the darkness. Odd, she trusts him not to go with another, yet enough to lead her through treacherous waters such as these. Perhaps she senses that which is unspoken. With that same patience, he awaits their depature. That or Kiera thinks that of the three of them - Faanshi, Ulima or her - she has the best chances of living until rescued, if she finds herself in the grip of those strong hands. Kiera's fingers are tipped by odd nails, thick. Talons. Animal-like, and these ride light now on Thomas' skin. The small woman would be dwarfed by her newest aquisition, but for those huge wings of hers. The wings just seem to follow along, held easy and quiet, "See those two torches, the one above the other? Go toward that." Her grip tightens somewhat, so that she can feel the way the man moves through the dark, adjust herself accordingly. She is, fortuatnely, getting used to having very large men serve as her guide. And she can do OK with torches as her beacon. Watching the two of them, the imphada and the naraki, Ulima sinks down once more before the crackling fire. Her gaze is full of musings, the considering of implication... and of the hints of futures seeming to tinge the edges of her vision as clearly as the two young people occupy it. From the tent of Jhonan, then, to the Agni-Haidar who had borne her out of the tent of the now-dead Hashim... and Faanshi wins an old pair of silwar in exchange for arrow-worthy feathers from her mistress. She thinks, too, to ask for boots... but unfortunately, the big warrior who had taken pity upon her has no boots that would fit smaller feet. With a steady step, the Mongrel walks towards the torches which are indicated by his master. "Yes, Imphada." His answer to her question. Still, the man does not know the name of the woman who's brand now lies on his back. Or if he does, she has not given him leave to call her by it. Even if she did, he would not, for it is not his place to do so. The bowl in one hand, the halfbreed woman upon his arm, the blanket wrapped around his mid-section, he takes it slow. Clad as he is, they make a somewhat odd pair. He can feel the gentle caress of her talons upon his skin. The dangers of this one are lesser now, for one could sense that the fire has dulled somewhat. Like a hot blade thrust into the water to cool, he steams but does not burn. He guides her, but it is she who commands him. "There," Kiera points to the large pot that comes out every evening, is filled and then emptied by the Clan. "This is where the Clan of Khalida eats, Thomas. You may draw your food from it, after the rest have. Now. You may. But Ulima is right. You should not have so much now, that you will become sick. Eat enough that you no longer hurt, then drink water. Can you do this?" The airy alto tones are level, without particular emotion, emitted from a stoney visage. Kiera steps backwards, to let Thomas have both his hands, and she stands carefully away from torches. "Tommorow, you may eat your fill, of what is left." Fly by night. Kiera never eats with the Clan, so she's hoping this is actually the way it works. Thomas nods once, his eyes heavy upon the woman who stands next to him. For fear of being repetitive, he does not answer her with words, as his path is very clear. After she has finished, he looks back towards the pot which rests several dozen feet from him, positioned between the two torches he used as guides. Then, he makes his way towards it, holding the bowl out before him in both hands. Reaching that place, he lets his eyes fall inside the darkened interior. Little lies within, the scraps of what the other Khailda slaves left behind -- fairly cold. He can't even identify exactly what this mixture is and yet with a shakey hand he scoops the luke-warm food into the bowl. After he has taken as much as he thinks will fill him, he moves off to the side, standing just inside the light of a burning torch and begins to shovel the contents of the container into his wonton mouth. He eats hungrily but not overly quick, finding the substance to be visally unappealing, but tasty and filling. Continue her search for boots, or return with the clothing? For a short time, Faanshi vacillates, then chooses at last to return to Kiera's tarp with the tunic and the silwar she has found. Back she goes, and once Ulima has advised her of Kiera and Thomas's departure, off she goes again with garments cradled against her breast to find her mistress and the new slave. Stoic, statue-like, Kiera bears silent witness to Thomas' meal, or what she can see of it. Her gaze slowly hoods, further darkening a deep hazel regard. And she does not see Faanshi, but rather hears her approache, already familiar with the light tread of the shudra woman. Unconciously, Kiera reaches out with a light breeze, dances it over Faanshi by way of greeting, before she speaks, "Here, Faanshi. He eats. Then will drink, then shall change. I forgot to ask you to look for boots. Will the feathers suffice?" Kiera does not look over, but continues her study of Thomas. "I have a tunic and silwar," murmurs Faanshi in her soft low tones, drawing to Kiera's side. She does not glance at Thomas herself, but rather, keeps her eyes shyly directed to her winged mistress's shoulder. "I asked Janizar Abdullah for boots, but he is too large... his boots would not fit. But I thought tht I should bring you these clothes, imphada..." She tentatively proffers them, a simple tunic of undyed linen, and black silwar. The Mongrel man isn't an overly appealing figure to focus upon. He crouches next to the light, his fingers soiled with the food, his mouth covered with its passage. The denial of food for any length of time can make a man into a ravenous beast, something which Kiera can certainly understand. He doesn't look up at anyone, or over at his master as Faanshi approaches with what will be his clothing. Soon, he has finished, and his eyes scan around for the place where the Varati slaves and clansmen draw their water from. A small skin which hangs from a post. Standing up completely, he trods his way over towards that place, heedless of the rocks which harm his feet and the soot which has made them black. Fiddling with the skin for a moment he empties part of its contents into the bowl and then begins to slowly drink. The fires of the Atarvani have scorches his soul, and no amount of water could quelch the flames which even now burn hot in his mind. Now, Kiera looks at Faanshi, and for her, to her, smiles. "Thank you, Faanshi." Her slender fingers curl through the cloth, absently testing it. "My boots are too small for him. And I did not think to take boots, when I was killing anyone, at Lyceanae. I was farther... Away." When Thomas moves, Kiera's attention snaps back to him, rides him, before she murmurs again to Faanshi. "You have done well. Thank you. He will not be uncomfortable if he sleeps in clothing, by the fire. And that blanket. You take the rest of yours, to the tent." Kiera will wait, here. "I will speak to you later, Faanshi." Read: I'll see what you think about what's wrong with him, since it doesn't seem to be phsyical. Something... something, indeed, is wrong. Faanshi's hands are itching in the center of her palms, and beneath her sari, beneath her veil, beneath her thick dark hair, the very tops of her ears are prickling uncomfortably. Feeling ill at ease, the young shudra nods gravely. She allows herself to meet Kiera's gaze for a moment, to emphasize that she understands something beyond what has been spoken, and then quietly withdraws to rejoin the wise-woman back at their fire. Soon, the naraki has finished his food and drink and is making his way back from the circle where the food is served. His large form is backlit by the fire, the edges of him seeming somewhat fuzzy in the darkness. In a moment or so, he has covered those twenty paces and stands next to you once again. "Thank you, Imphada, for allowing me to eat. I am grateful and the food was good." If you knew Thomas before, yes, something /is/ very wrong. But to understand what it means to be broken is not an easy thing. To lose everything you have -- even your pride -- and then serve those who you once called enemy. No, something is not right, but neither is it wrong. Though his eyes see the clothes you hold in your hand, he does not ask you for them, rather averting his gaze, standing close enough to you that your fingers can take his arm once again if it pleases you. The cold of the winter still seems to have not been noticed by him, its chill winds whipping past the skin which has been exposed above and below the blanket. Neither does Kiera understand, nor does she like it. She just *itches* with the discomfort of this situation. Somewhere in the abck of her mind, the monolouge jeers her, her decisions, and prods - what will she do next, with this? But the Kiera that is presented remains unflappable - as best she can manage, to a Varati Master - "These clothes are yours now, Thomas. And you will eat, to keep yourself strong and able, do you understand? Your tasks will be to do whatever is required of you by the shudra Faanshi, and the wise-woman Ulima. Others may tell you to do things. You will do them. You will tell me, if these tasks were unreasonable, for I am your master and protector." Which seems odd enough in the first, much less the second. "My name is Kiera Khalida. They may not know the first name, but all will know the second. I will name you in the morning, when I have looked upon you again, for you are no longer Thomas of Haven, and you never will be, again. You have a new life, and should have a new name, as such." She pauses, then asks quieter, "Do you have any questions?" The clothes are proffered. Thomas takes the clothes which are offered with that same shakey hand, "No, Imphada. It will be done as you have ...as you have instructed. I will obey, for you are my master and ..my protector." He bows his head once and keeps his gaze averted. He still calls you Imphada, even after you have told him your name. Perhaps yesterday, he would have /glady/ called you Kiera, but now, he only knows one way. The way of the flame. Tucking the preoffered clothes under his arm, he stands next to the halfbreed and awaits her next move or motions. In the same way that he has changed, so she must change as well to become what he needs to survive. So she told him to learn the ways of the Varati, and so he stands before her, a slate upon which she and the others may draw. His old life is behind him now, and when he is renamed, the last of that will vanish forever. "May I lead you back to the place we came from?" His voice isn't meek, but is subdued still. "Yes." Kiera stops the 'please'; that she tends to use, lately, with the Clan guard - to be polite. She just nods and again places her hand, fingers riding lightly, upon the man's arm. Oh man. Timin's going to... Well. There is one /small/ satisfaction in all this. Timin is going to ... Kiera has to smile, just slightly. She doesn't know what Timin is going to do, but Timin is /not/ going to be pleased by this turn of events. Then again, maybe Thomas will become Thomas again, once he sees his home of Haven, and Kiera will not have this particular burden, with its questionable rewards (other than iritating Timin). Her step is light, the rustle of wings, lighter, even as they reach the tarp. "Sleep, here, Thomas. You will be safe." And back at the tarp, Ulima and Faanshi look up from the fire. The smell of herbs hangs in the air, just below the crackle of the few scraps of precious wood upon the fire and the more prevalent odor of burning peat. Faanshi rises at the approach of her imphada and the naraki; Ulima does not rise, but her black gaze rises nevertheless to take in the sight of the two drawing nearer. It is Ulima who greets them, too, for Faanshi stands distracted by the pricking of her ears, one hand rising unconsciousl to the side of her head: "We have made tea, Imphada Kiera, and added a dollop of honey for the drinking, if you wish to drink." "Thank you, Imphada. Sleep well." The Mongrel man answers, his wide, vulnerable gaze upon the daughter of Khalid Atar, "Wherever you may rest." His words are soft, and fading as he turns. And then, with a slow step, he steps beneath the tarp and into the ring of firelight within. Once inside, he moves off to a far corner and sheds his blanket, changing them for the tunic and silwar. The clothes, while not fitted for him at all, are better and more respectable than the makeshift set he formerly wore. The exchange of Ulima and Faanshi with Kiera is ignored in favor of getting himself decent. Within a few moments, he emerges with the blanket folded over his arm and seeks a place nearer the fire so that he might keep his exposed feet warm. Even the cold air of the night slips nto the covered area here. He remains silent and now more pensive than meek. Soon, the night will steal away the rest of Kiera's conciousness, and she will succumb to sleep. But if she returns to the Khalid's tent, she runs the uncertain risk of having to face the God-King, and Kiera is not ready for that. Far better, would she rather have the company of these two companions, even if it is marred by the presence of the broken-but-not-broken man, who so disturbs her (and Faanshi!) now. Kiera nods to Ulima, and draws down her own small cup that was, actually, given to her by one of the Agni-Haidar, not so long ago. "I would like this, yes." She does not kneel, does Kiera, nor does she sit, but rather stoops or stands, ever aware of her wings, and the threat that the muddy ground would be to them. Ulima inclines her head, and gestures with a gnarled hand to Faanshi, saying gently, "My child, the pot." The shudra girl starts, yet again, but then catches herself and takes up the crude clay teapot to pour the fragant tea within into Kiera's proferred cup. The scent of honey intermingled with mint and a touch of chamomile wafts up into the air as she pours -- herbs for soothing, herbs for relaxation. Faanshi's hands shake, but none of the tea is spilled, and once Kiera's cup has been filled the taller girl moves to pour a cup for her heart-mother. Ulima's gaze shifts from the face of the naraki to the veiled countenance of Faanshi, and at last to Kiera, to whom she inquires, "You will be away from us again tomorrow, little mistress?" This day has been a long one. Ever since his capture at the hands of the Varati, the Mongrel has been chained, under-fed, tortured, stripped of everything he holds dear, and countless other things that can't even be remembered by his waking mind. Crouched next to the fire as Kiera approaches, his eyes get fixated on that spot with that same intensity as before. This time however, the blaze seems to take on an almost hypnotic effect, the man's eyes growing heavy with each sway of the orange and reds. In a moment or so, he has slowly succumbed to the sleep which is the first good rest he's had in a long time. The blanket lies cast, half over him at some odd angle, his head lying on his right arm -- that serving as a pillow to shield his head from the hard earth. Perhaps in the midst of your conversation you missed this much, but by the time you look over, the naraki is sleeping. Yet, even as he closes his eyes, the flames do not stop dancing, and this night will be far from a peaceful one. "Tomorow," Kiera nods, "And again and again, every day, until the Empyreans have surrendered. I scout now. Days." Her scouting during the night would be nigh-well useless. And so the light talk, the mundane conversation trails on, each seeming somewhat subdued and Kiera suffering as the night wears on. She will, finally, retreat to the ttent, after bidding the three a good night, a fare well. And early dawn, the next morning, Kiera is awake and present, almost before the globe of the sun has pulled itself even into the horizen. To Thomas, she paces, and waits for him to awaken. When he does, when his regard touches her, Kiera speaks only these words: "Good morning, Murako." Murako is spoken as if it is a name, and she further mentions, "This is a word that means 'new moon'. For you have chosen a new life, like a new phase of the moon, and you may now choose to be covered with clouds, or to shine brightly and look upon that which is around you. I hope you choose the last." She pads away, then, with a quiet, "I shall see you this evening, Murako." It does not take long, no, for the talk to subside, for the honeyed herbal tea to be drunk by the women. None is offered to the naraki, for although Faanshi thinks of it, and green eyes flash to the young man, it is swiftly seen that he has dropped into slumber. As Kiera retreats to the tent, so, too, does Ulima retreat on the arm of Faanshi, the young female supporting the old one; between them, too, from wise-woman to shudra, flows a soft adminition to light her sacred fire and pray over it to the Khalid, for Faanshi has not yet done this this evening. And thus, as Ulima is settled in to rest her aged body and steel herself for another day against the cold, Faanshi brings out her little bier in which she lights a tiny fire to Khalid Atar each night. And on this night, she is moved to carry her little fire out beneath the open sky, her green gaze moving of its own accord to the prone figure in disturbed slumber beneath the tarp. Her hands itch. Her ears burn, and her belly shifts in queasiness as she prays to Khalid Atar that she can control the niggling insistence that Something Is Wrong, Something Should Be Mended. Only when her little flame is blown out by the cold night breezes does she retreat to the tent with Ulima... and even then, her sleep is troubled. It is, next morning, a Faanshi heavy-eyed from lack of sleep who stirs before the coming of the dawn. And who moves to stagger outside, to pray to Ushas for the clearing of her mind and heart and magic... and who swallows hard, there at the flap of the tent, as she hears Kiera's voice and what it carries. The name. Murako. [End log.]