"Of Peach Cobbler and a Butterfly Hunt"

Log Date:
	3/2/99

Log Cast:
	Farouk, Rabi, Aba (NPC emitted by Rabi), Faanshi, Drisana

Log Intro:
	The young shudra Faanshi has settled into a relatively quiet life
within the halls of Atesh-Gah, now that the war between the Empyreans and
the Varati is over. She occupies her time with such simple chores as she
is assigned, learning meditations from her elderly heart-mother, and fretting
over the comparative absence of her new mistress Kiera... and the state of
her naraki, called Thomas, also called Murako. But on a spring morning 
in the splendor of Atesh-Gah, especially by the lovely fountain situated in
its garden, even a humble servant girl might find in the shy witnessing of
her betters some moments of simple prosaic pleasure....

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Morning
          Date on Aether:  Wednesday, April 12, 3904.
           Year on Earth:  1504 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waxing Gibbous
                  Season:  Spring
                 Weather:  Breeze
             Temperature:  Comfortable
*==========================================================================*

Fountain - Courtyard - Atesh-Gah - Haven
       Concealed within the ring of tall, carefully groomed bushes and the 
  oddly comforting sight of droop-branched willows, is the merry and gurgling 
  presence of a marble fountain. As meticulously cleaned as the rest of 
  Atesh-Gah seems to be, the intricate stonework deceptively simple in 
  appearance. Perhaps ten feet across, the fountain itself is filled with 
  clear, cool water that bubbles forth from a raised pedestal in the centre of 
  the great circle. 
      Carefully tended gardens of bright flowers provide a colourful trim to 
  the circle of trees, their combined scent filling the air with a subtle and 
  sweet fragrance. The temptation to linger here and bask in the soothing 
  feast of the senses is only increased by the presence of the four stone 
  benches that are placed around the fountain. 
Contents:
Rabi
Obvious exits:
Courtyard <C>

Farouk enters the lovely seclusion of the fountain area from the courtyard.
Farouk has arrived.
Farouk walks into the ring of trees, and emerges in the fountain area. He is 
  quite pale.

Faanshi
     At first glance, some things about this individual are easy to discern. 
  The garments worn are those oft seen on Varati females, yet while this 
  figure stands tall at 5'9", the build is small for a woman of that race. But 
  woman she clearly is, if the glimpses of slender hands and feet and of the 
  shape beneath her flowing garb are to be believed. What portions of her skin 
  are visible are a warm shade of gold; a hint of a braid of coal-black peeks 
  out from beneath her sari. Shy or perhaps simply trained to submissive 
  silence she must be, for she rarely raises her eyes to anyone unless 
  specifically bidden, and she speaks so seldom and so softly that it is nigh 
  impossible to determine the quality of her voice. Only the most astute of 
  observers might notice that every so often -- perhaps when she thinks no one 
  is watching -- this silent one peeks with furtive curiosity out from behind 
  her veil at the world at large, with eyes set at a slight un-Varatish slant 
  in her face, eyes the color of summer leaves.
     She is simply clad, her garments of humble make but excellent repair, 
  perhaps the clothing of a servant whose household garbs even its servants 
  well. Her choli is a bright shade of red; her silwar, bright blue. A darker 
  blue sari with gold trim is wrapped about her slender frame, and a veil of 
  translucent light blue silken stuff conceals the lower half of her face from 
  easy view. On her feet are a penniless shudra's version of boots -- several 
  rags of blue, red, and gold cloth tied there and there along her calves, 
  ankles and feet, held in place by the long thongs of her sandals.

The garden seems as if holding its breath, the warm weather bringing the 
  potential of its new spring life just to the verge of exploding into actual 
  new shoots and leaves and flowers. One can almost imagine the lushness which 
  will soon fill here and which will soon break the garden apart into mazes 
  and lawns and gardens, of expanses of areas where groups may mingle or small 
  and private areas for more intimate conversations. Right now only the shell 
  remains. Rabi sits off under the willow trees with her sewing kit at her 
  side and a project in her lap; the breeze plays with the edges of her silks 
  and sets them to shimmering. There is another figure next to her, in the 
  simpler, plainer silks of a servant, who likewise sews. A tea service has 
  been set up on a tray and, from time to time, one woman or the other will 
  delicately tent her veils with a hand so take a sip from her cup.

Farouk comes to a halt. He clears his throat, and then makes an odd squeaky 
  noise from his throat. He clears his throat again, and then says, daintily, 
  "There appears to be a halfbreed on the stables."

Fire might be sacred to the almighty Khalid, and the dawn-time sacred to his 
  holy Mother, but of the wonders that Faanshi has seen during the last 
  several weeks of her life few of them have touched her like the beauteous 
  fountain in the middle of this quiet garden. Only daring to have claimed a 
  bench by virtue of no one else being near, the young woman in the colors of 
  Clan Khalida has been by the fountain since dawn, first diligently praying, 
  and then beginning work on her own sewing.

Farouk
        A short, stocky Varati, this man has light brown skin, and wide 
  features. His face is dominated by big eyes, and expressive brows, but his 
  bulbous nose and broad mouth are also attention-getting.
        He is dressed in fine Varati clothes, a suit of flowing cottons, 
  designed to cover his weight. His feet are protected by leather zoris. He 
  has broad, serviceable dagger strapped to his side. His hair is receding, 
  revealing a shiny bald head.

Farouk looks about at the women, brows working furiously, as if trying to 
  express his great anxiety about the aforementioned halfbreed.

The voice of a stranger not far away -- or perhaps more specifically, that 
  voice uttering the word 'halfbreed' -- startles Faanshi out of the reverie 
  into which she'd fallen over her humble stitcheries. Green eyes lift their 
  gaze to peek around her surroundings, looking furtively for the source of 
  the voice.

Rabi looks up from her work at the first 'ahem' from the Varati male. She sets 
  down her work and folds her hands neatly in her lap, as does the woman at 
  her side: as one, the two bow. The other woman's bow is deeper, more 
  subservient. Rabi straightens up and tilts her head, looking towards the 
  stable, and she touches the other woman's arm to get her attention. She 
  points in the direction of the stables and nods and the other woman bows 
  again, saying: "Good morning, Imphadi. Are you perhaps referring to the 
  winged Kiera, who often is there? She is Birr and Chosen of the Most High."

They are discussing her mistress...! There comes a slight gasp of breath from 
  the shudra girl in Khalida colors, and then, Faanshi sits up on her own 
  bench, nibbling at her lower lip, though this is obscured by her opalescent 
  blue veil.

The other woman sounds like an old woman, and moves like one too; there are 
  wrinkles around the eyes left bare by the veil, the kinds left by frequent 
  smiling.

Farouk looks over to Ravi, and pauses for a long moment. His pallour returns 
  to something approaching normal (though he is pale for a Varati), and he 
  nods. Then he nods again. After nodding a third time, he lets out a long 
  sigh. "Ah. -The- halfbreed. I see. " He seems to regain a semblance of 
  himself, and rushes forward towards Rabi, bowing as he does so. "Imphada. I 
  am pleased to introduce myself. I am Farouk Al-Hassan Behzad, recently 
  summoned from the homeland to serve as seneschal of Atesh-Gah. And not a 
  moment too soon, I might add!" He gives her a courtly bow.

Drisana enters the lovely seclusion of the fountain area from the courtyard.
Drisana has arrived.

Is it impertinent of her to want to listen, if they speak of the Imphada 
  Kiera? Uncertain, Faanshi wavers, and then at last hesitantly returns to the 
  task of stitching the rip in the shirt she is attending, one of several 
  belonging to assorted shudra in Atesh-Gah. Ah. The man is clearly important, 
  and the woman with her attendant must be too... thus, the girl shyly lowers 
  her eyes, though the rest of her is restlessly attuned to the others' 
  presence, for it would not do to be oblivious should they require her 
  attendance.

Just as the man begins to move, Rabi picks up something at her side -- not 
  sewing, but a small piece of slate and a nub of white chalk, too. She rises 
  gracefully and bows another greeting. The old woman beside her gains her 
  feet as well, but more slowly and carefully. It is the old woman who speaks: 
  "it is our honor to meet you, Imphadi. This is the Imphada Rabi, mahisi of 
  the Seraskier al'Faisal of the Agni-Haidar, and I am Aba, her servant. 
  Please forgive her for not speaking, Imphadi, but she is mute. No disrespect 
  is intended."

Rabi's hand moves across the slate: she is writing. And no ordinary writing is 
  this: the letters formed are even and delicate and lovely. It is a 
  calligrapher's hand, but without the usual ornateness of a court scribe. 
  Instead, the words are almost plain, but for the unconscious grace that 
  ripples through them like the racing of gazelles. The slate reads: "Well met 
  and welcome; I hope your journey was quick and comfortable?"
The mute woman tilts the slate around so that Farouk may view it more clearly.

Farouk nods to Rabi, and to the older woman as well. "It was quick and most 
  comfortable. Our Lord was sure that my arrival would be expedited, and his 
  servants' attention to me was lavish. I have not yet had the honour of 
  meeting the Seraskier, madam, but would be most pleased to do so. He and I 
  have -much- to discuss." He looks around, and then frowns. "Have you only 
  these two ladies-in-waiting, madam?" He seems disgruntled by the thought.
Farouk also, noticeably, is completely unfazed by the fact that Rabi is mute, 
  and reads her writing with a quick ease uncommon even among the educated 
  nobility.

Stalking butterflies. It's a very tricky thing to do, that, especially so when 
  the silly insect decides to go and hide in the bushes. A certain lil' six 
  year old Varati girl, her head currently adorned with not just a rather neat 
  circlet, but also a new decoration of Empyrean feathers, bounces on in 
  through the bushes. Mentioned feather decoration, by the way, consists of a 
  long, screaming pink silk ribbon which has been tied in a pretty bow at the 
  back of the child's head, the ends left to trail behind her. It is nearly 
  completely hidden behind numerous white feathers. Oopsie. Strangers, here. 
  There's Mama, Rabi. There's Grandma, Aba. But Farouk and Faanshi are to 
  Drisana complete strangers, so, she'll just try to hide in the shadows over 
  here. U-huh. Shy.

Rabi smiles, although the expression is hidden by her veil. She shakes her 
  head and the light ripples off of the veil and its calligraphed edges. She 
  rubs at the slate with her fingertips to clear off the old words and writes 
  anew in their shadow. "Aba is my only servant, Imphadi." A simple phrase, 
  that. It is Aba who notices that Drisana has bounced in and, very subtly in 
  that way of good servant, the old woman waves.

The handkerchief appears, as if by magic, in Farouk's stubby fingers. He hands 
  it to Rabi. "If madam would accept my handkerchief, rather than sullying her 
  fingers on the chalk, I would be most honoured," he enthuses. "Forgive my 
  surprise. One would expect such a grand lady as yourself to have many 
  servants, and certainly, guardians, especially in these troubled times." He 
  casts a quick glance at the quiet shudra behind him. "And who are you then, 
  imphada?" He addresses the shudra with less respect than he offers Rabi, but 
  it is still not the casual disregard that many Varati hold for their slaves.

Oh dear -- _two_? Faanshi peeks up, somehow suspecting that the newly arrived 
  noble is including her as attending upon the lady called Rabi even before 
  the correction of Rabi's is offered. "I... I serve the imphada Kiera, 
  honored sir," she offers in soft, clear tones. "My name is Faanshi."

A widening of the eyes -- /this/ is not hidden by the veil and so it is clear 
  to see in Rabi's expression of surprise. She smiles again and inclines her 
  head, accepting the handkerchief. Chalk is the least of the worries that the 
  calligrapher bears in terms of stains on her fingers -- ink is so much worse 
  -- but the intention is what matters and she is flattered. She wipes her 
  fingers off and then quickly wraps the cloth around her palm so that the 
  tails of the handkerchief do not drag across the slate while she's writing.

Farouk relinquishes his handkerchief to Rabi gracefully, even as he nods to 
  Faanshi. "Ah. Well, then, Faanshi, we shall be good friends, I suspect. I 
  look forward to working with you to ascertain that all your mistress' needs 
  are being met. Does she frequest the, ah, stable roof often, imphada?" He 
  smiles nervously, obvious trying to make the best of an uncomfortable 
  situation.

Another handkerchief appears in Farouk's opposite hand, and he mops his brow 
  anxiously. How many of these things does the man -have-, anyhow?

Startled by being addressed by a word she'd thought reserved for those above 
  her station, Faanshi looks up abruptly, lifting her green gaze off the 
  ground, enough that it might be seen that she blinks a few times. Then her 
  sari-covered head dips shyly again, and she ventures, "My mistress is..." 
  How to put this? "... ill at ease with closed-in places, sir. She has been 
  atop the stable often, since I came with her to Atesh-Gah."

Oh, man, she's caught. Unable to help herself, bubbling giggles erupt from the 
  girl who'd attempted to hide from The Strangers, and Drisana will just rush 
  on over to give Aba a tight, squeezing hug. Looking from Rabi to Farouk, 
  she'll just stand there. Or rather, bounce up and down in impatient wait to 
  get to give Rabi a hug, there. Then, a little blink, and she bows politely. 
  First to Farouk, "Imphadi," then to Faanshi, "Imphada." Then, back to the 
  bouncing.

Farouk continues to mop his brow. "She has? Oh, dear. That will never do. An 
  open-air cabin could be built..." he trails off, his anxiety wiped away, 
  deep in thought. Then he starts in surprise as Drisana streaks by. He 
  follows her, an expression of horror apparent on his broad features. "Oh, 
  my. Oh, dear. You are quite dirty, little miss." He looks over to Rabi. 
  "Your daughter, madam?"

Rabi smiles as she receives her hug and caresses Drisana's head 
  affectionately. She pulls out the string of feathers and admires it, nodding 
  to Farouk as Aba does the introduction: "this is Drisana, daughter of the 
  Seraskier and Rabi. Drisana, this is Farouk Al-Hassan Behzad, the new 
  seneschal." Aba dips down and explains for Dana's benefit: "A seneschal is 
  like the head of a household, only for the Atesh-Gah instead of for a 
  family." A light coughing fit comes over Rabi and she turns to the side, 
  pressing the back of her handkerchief-wrapped hand against her mouth up 
  under her veil to stifle the sounds.
When Rabi recovers, she turns back to examine the child critically. Dirty? 
  That can't be allowed to be. But where is the dirt?

Faanshi restricts herself to a small nod in reply to Farouk, even as she peeks 
  now at the arrived child. Drisana, too, seems to startle her, for the girl 
  in Khalida colors blinks again and peers over at the child in something that 
  may well be wonder.

Farouk starts forward, his horror changing to concern. The man's face is a 
  swirling ocean of expression. "Oh, dear, me. Are you quite well, madam?" He 
  pauses while Rabi writes, nods to Drisana. "Imphada. A pleasure. I look 
  forward to chasing you around the gardens." He offers her a friendly wink, 
  and points down at the hem of her dress, where a smudge and a few leaves can 
  be seen. "Chasing something in the hedges, miss?"

Dirty? Blink. Blink. Gazing down on herself, Dana doesn't see any dirt either. 
  Maybe some stains from the grass on her knees, like any child. "I'm not 
  dirty?" Confused gaze, and, lookie, you rub on her knees, and the green goes 
  away! Then, down to the outpointed hem, brushing away the leaves and the 
  smudge. "Yaah, butterfly! Pretty big one, Soosoo's uncle says it's called 
  'Lemon Butterfly', it's really pretty." Big, beaming grin up to Farouk at 
  that, before Aba will get a *schmacking* kiss on her cheek. "Thanks for 
  explaining!" Another bow to Farouk, then, "Please to meet you, Imphadi 
  Farouk Al-Hassan Behzad!" Bubble, bubble, pearls on a string as the words 
  simply flow out of her mouth.

Rabi chuckles silently and dips down to pick the leaves free of her daughter's 
  sari, giving Drisana another hug. She looks up at Farouk and nods, glancing 
  at Aba, who says, "the Imphada has taken a small chill, Imphadi, but she 
  will be fine." She says this with the complete confidence of a woman with a 
  considerable repetoire of home remedies. Rabi looks again at Farouk and 
  tries not to giggle at the image of the man actually chasing after such a 
  little bundle of energy.

Behind her translucent veil, Faanshi smiles to herself, but her eyes lighten 
  perceptibly before she once more shyly dips her attention to the shirt and 
  needle she still holds in her slender golden hands.

Farouk looks to Rabi, smiling indulgently at the child's display, and then 
  nods to Rabi. He turns to Aba. "Imphada," he says, with great respect, "I 
  have my mother's recipe for a wonderful ginger and honey tea that might help 
  with your nagging cough. There are a few herbs in it, but I may not reveal 
  them, as I swore to her on her deathbed I would never reveal the secret's of 
  Behzadi medicinal teas." He nods, proudly, but saddened at the memory of his 
  dear, departed mother. He looks over to Drisana, and offers her a raised 
  brow with his wide grin. "As for you, my little butterfly hunter, we shall 
  have to see about running around the gardens in such a state. We shall have 
  to see. Perhaps I will take you into Atesh-Gah proper, and show you how one 
  removes grass stains with a bit of hot water and lime soap, hrm?"

"But I got them all away now?" Eyebrows lift upwards at Farouk's words, before 
  going down together with Dana's gaze to examine her knees. Yup. All clear. 
  "And I can't chase butterflies without getting a lil' dirty, 'cause I've 
  tried, and I can't do that, 'cause they never stay in the clean spots!" It's 
  all very logical to her, and Drisana will reach back over her shoulder to 
  tug somewhat nervously at one of the feather-ribbon ends.

Rabi stands up, already writing. When she has completed her work, the letters 
  are clean and compact. She shows the slate to Farouk. "Please do not trouble 
  yourself on Drisana's account, although I thank you for your kindness in 
  thinking of it; as for the tea, I would be both grateful and honored. 
  Perhaps you would bring the tea to supper tonight at our household? I regret 
  to say that my Imphadi will not be there, but it would honor us if you would 
  allow us to welcome and thank you with a meal."

Farouk smiles to Drisana as she talks on, and then reads Rabi's handwriting 
  with that same disarming speed. His smile notches up in brightness to the 
  solar range. "Very, very kind of you, madam, and though I am deeply honoured 
  by your kind invitation, I am afraid that I must decline. Atesh-Gah is in 
  such a -state-. I couldn't possibly imagine entertaining a social occasion 
  until I have things here more firmly in hand." He bows to her, deeply, his 
  girth getting in the way. "But I thank you, and would be greatly pleased if 
  we could perhaps postpone to another day?"

An eyebrow arches in curiosity. Rabi dips her head gracefully as if to say, 
  'of course.'

Farouk mops his brow once more, anxious. "Really, madam, I am most honoured 
  and terribly sorry, but my duty to Him" and it's obvious who 'Him' is "must 
  come before my personal pleasure. I am sure your table is of legendary 
  quality, and I can already witness that your company is second to none" he 
  pauses "but His, of course."

Rabi smiles under her veil. She rubs out the words and writes, "of course, 
  Imphadi -- no explanation is necessary. When your work is done enough to 
  give you some free time and it pleases you to do so, merely send the word." 
  She holds out the slate and her golden eyes are warm.

Farouk smiles with relief, mops his brow, and bows once more. "You are too 
  kind, madam, to leave your table open to a wretch such as myself on such 
  short notice." He straightens, and adds, "This deserves the highest grace I 
  may bestow. I will make my mother's peach cobbler. Such a delight, dare I 
  say it, has never graced your table. While I am sure that madam's staff are 
  cuisinary experts, my mother's peach cobbler is a delight that even 
  surprised the Amir-Al himself with its resonant flavour and wonderful 
  aftertaste." He pauses, and taps his chin. "It is, of course, best served 
  with a blueberry-flavoured tea, little sugar, and no milk." He looks off for 
  a moment, obviously considering dinners long past.

The Mahisi can't help but wonder, though...such a state? /Perhaps I am 
  complacent, but it seems fine to me. More than fine./ She reminds herself 
  that she was merely vaisya once, in the life before this amazing life. 
  /Starve a man and the merest morsel of bread is a feast fit for a king./ She 
  hopes that Farouk's arrival, though, will not set the servants into an 
  uproar. She rather fears that it will.

How... very... strange, Faanshi thinks to herself, keeping humbly quiet 
  throughout this entire conversation, though ready to speak should she be 
  addressed. A lady who does not talk... this extravagantly befeathered 
  child... and now this man, this rather round man, who talks far more of food 
  than any man she has beheld to date. The young shudra sneaks bemused glances 
  at each in turn, and it begins eventually to dawn on her that she's seen 
  some of those feathers Drisana wears, before. This gets the child a few 
  extra glances.

The madam's staff is standing next to her, and tilts her head with keen 
  interest, rather surprised to hear a recitation of this kind out of a 
  kshatri man. As a servant, Aba does not interrupt. But she does listen, 
  nodding faintly as she compares and contrasts the seneschal's food-matching 
  with her own internal database of food preparation and serving techniques.

Ah, mother, grieves Farouk. If only I had not left your recipe book at home. 
  These poor people look absolutely starved! He clucks his tongue to himself, 
  regretfully. I should have come months ago. But the palace back home was in 
  -such- a state. Oh, bother. I'm here now. We'll get this place into shape in 
  no time. MMmm. Peach cobbler. I miss you, mother.

Rabi listens politely. She transfers the chalk to the hand holding her slate 
  and fingers through the feathers in Drisana's headdress, smoothing down the 
  fletching with careful touches.

Drisana
        A pair of enormous puppydog eyes, as black as the underside of a piece 
  of coal, are framed by heavy brown lashes and set above a tiny, perky 
  buttonnose. Opaque, gauzy silk veils cover the rest of her face and head, 
  her hair light enough to give through an odd glimmer hinting at the redgold 
  colour beneath. Also, some ringlets occasionally slip out from their prison, 
  silky yellow wheat tinted in copper falling all the way down to her 
  tailbone. The square of skin that is visible is smooth dark chocolate, 
  without any visible blemish, softer than the highest quality suede.
        The rest of her short 2'5 is clad in a sari of multilayered, thin 
  silk; vibrant peaches and apricots, shading softly into one-another at her 
  every movement. Pressed in coalblack patterns of butterflies decorate it, 
  the obsidian a beautiful contrast against the red and yellow hues. The black 
  silk veils are held in place by a black obsidian headcirclet, carefully 
  shaped into a brittle looking, and highly realistic filigree pattern of 
  flames. To the flames are black butterflies attached, their wings glittering 
  with gold lace, and sparkling with tiny bloodred drops of gemstones. 
  Protecting the precious silks from rain and wind is a waterproof black outer 
  cloak, an abaya with black silk lining and deep hood, edged with heavy gold 
  embroideries of stylized flames and more 'Atar's Bless' butterflies. 
        She smells sweet and fresh of perfumed soap and newly bathed, clean 
  child skin, and when she speaks, her voice is purely angelic.. The reason 
  she is still alive, perhaps, even though her dialect, and vocabulary, hints 
  of a still onclinging, thick streetaccent.
Carrying:
Rubia

Rabi's hand leaves Drisana's feathers and she writes again after clearing off 
  a spot on the slate. "May I ask what the news is from the homeland?" She 
  tilts the stone towards Farouk.

"Itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny, eeny, meeny, miny.. Moe!" Those big eyes which 
  were previously shut opens at the last word, and Drisana stares expectantly 
  around. SooSoo said it'd worked for her when she wished she'd get her big 
  sister's necklace.. Nope. No butterfly. But that other lady is looking this 
  way. Rabi's hand gets a quick, affectionate clap by her daughter's smaller 
  one, before the girlchild moves on off over to Faanshi. "Hihi. I'm Drisana, 
  but I'm called Dana. What's your name?" It works with the other kids, and 
  surprisingly often also with adults. Big, sweet smile up at the shudra.

Farouk looks down at the chalkboard for a moment, then responds, "You 
  certainly may. Most are settled back down now that the war is complete. 
  Still, the funeral pyres burn day and night. However, unlike previous wars, 
  our funerals are much more done up, as befits our fallen heroes. New slaves 
  are, of course, pouring in, and I'm told that the incidence of" he coughs 
  nervously "improprieties have risen. Still, with a word from the holy 
  Khalid, I'm sure these problems will disappear. As well you can imagine, 
  many in the homeland were whipped into a frenzy by his final display of 
  godly righteousness."

A mixture of expression flits across Rabi's eyes: sadness, lonliness, and 
  something like satisfied pride, too. She nods gravely, listening. Then she 
  writes, "did you have a chance to see that work of His on your travel here?"

Farouk looks about himself for a moment, as if hoping to avoid the lady's 
  gaze, then finally meets her eyes. "I did," he says, and his round face 
  pales once more.

Faanshi's eyes brighten a little more. "I am Faanshi," she says softly to the 
  child. "You... know the imphada Kiera, yes, little one?"

"It must have moved you very deeply," Rabi observes in white-on-grey, small 
  little loops and long arcing lines. She meets his eyes hesitantly, not 
  understanding his expression. Surely he should be proud and happy to have 
  been so blessed? But he looks...frightened, or even guilty.

Faanshi's eyes slide their gaze over to Farouk again, at the mention, even 
  discreetly, of the doom of Lycenae. She unconsciously straightens again, her 
  attention distracted from the child.

Farouk mops his brow once more, regards his handkerchief, and daintily folds 
  it up. As he does so, he says, "It was awe-inspiring." He says nothing more, 
  and puts away his handkerchief.

"Yaaaah, Imphada Kiera is really really nice, and she gave me a whole sack of 
  feathers, and I used some for this here pretty ribbon, and I'm going to get 
  a bracelet, and one for my foot, and some to put in my hair so it'll be 
  really pretty, and, and.. Is you a friend of hers too, Faanshi?" Babble, 
  bubble, Dana will glance over her shoulder to the other two adults as well.

Aba winks at Drisana when the child makes eye contact with her.

"I am her shudra," Faanshi says very softly to the little one, her gaze still 
  upon Farouk and Rabi, a look that might be awed memory in her leaf-hued 
  eyes. Only after an effort does she jerk her attention back around to the 
  child before her. A touch of wonder returns to her voice as she adds, 
  "And... I hope that I am her friend, yes."

The wink causes the child to giggle, then back to give Faanshi a grin. "Oh, I 
  think you are? Kiera is really really nice. How come you're her shudra now? 
  She didn't have one early earlier?"

Rabi bows her head. She imagines that the sight must indeed have been so. "I 
  hope to see it myself someday, with the children," she writes, and then 
  adds: "please excuse us, but Aba and I have things to take care of within 
  the household now." That and her chest feels like it's burning with the 
  effort she is giving not to start coughing again. "Welcome again, and 
  success to you. I look forward to hearing from you in regards to dinner, and 
  to trying some of your cobbler, my thanks again."

Oh... oh dear. How to answer that? Faanshi can be heard to pull in a breath, 
  emotion of some kind flooding swiftly across her unveiled eyes before she 
  regains her composure. "Imphada Kiera," she says at last, "saved me from... 
  a bad man. And the Khalid..." Her voice softens noticeably, turning 
  reverent, humble. "... allowed me to join His clan and be her shudra."

Rabi shows the slate to Farouk as Aba packs up the sewing supplies. Aba tucks 
  the two kits under her left arm and bows. "Good day, Imphadi," she murmurs.

Farouk bows deeply to Rabi as she and Aba leave. "Imphada. A pleasure."

"Bubai, Mama, Grandma!" Dana will just give her two older relatives a tight 
  hug each before she'll return to her conversation with Faanshi. "Oooh, 
  you're Khalida?"

Rabi bows in return, smiling. She steps back before moving over to Drisana, 
  touching the girl's head again. Aba says, "come in soon for lunch, Dana 
  dear." The old woman nods to Faanshi in greeting and Rabi dips her head as 
  well. And then they both move off down one of the paths leading back into 
  the circle of Embassy buildings.
Rabi returns the hug gladly, adding another of her own.
Rabi leaves the garden fountain and steps back into the main courtyard.
Rabi has left.

"By the mercy and grace of the Most High, yes, I now serve the Clan
  Khalida," Faanshi says, very softly. She glances up and bobs her head politely 
  to the departing women, before glancing back down at the child, her green eyes 
  very full.

Farouk appears to be pondering the hedges for a few long moments, shaking his 
  head in dismay. He turns to the shudra and the child. "If you ladies will be 
  so kind as to excuse, I really -must- get back to work."

"Did she hurt him really bad? Like Father did those other men who tried to 
  hurt us? 'cause Imphada Kiera is really really tough. I like her lots." 
  Drisana sits on the edge of the fountain, idly twining that favoured 
  ribbon-end as she watches the shudra. Then, up to look at Farouk, giving him 
  a big smile and another bow. Polite child, see. "Have a nice day, Imphadi 
  Behzad!"

To Farouk, Faanshi respectfully bobs her head once more. "Yes, imphadi," she 
  murmurs to the man. "Good day to you."

Farouk nods to them both in passing, and leaves the fountain.
Farouk leaves the garden fountain and steps back into the main courtyard.
Farouk has left.

Faanshi blows out a soft breath, and then peers down at the child. "She did 
  not hurt him," she explains solemnly, "but she brought him before the 
  Khalid, because the Most High wished to pass His judgement. She brought me, 
  too, and Ulima, my heart-mother."

She is but a child, of course. Thus, 'mercy' is so far a very fuzzy thing, and 
  Dana is still inclined to the 'if you push me, I kill you!' mentality of 
  children. "Oooh. Did the Amir-Al hurt him?" Since he was termed as being a 
  'bad man', he's categorized as one of the other bad men Drisana has met 
  during her life. And thus, he doubtless deserved any pain brought onto him.

Faanshi considers this, her memory of that night still vividly etched in her 
  mind. She never looked upon the visage of Khalid Atar save for the one time 
  he bade her -- but she can remember the cadences of his voice, the divine 
  wrath in his words as he pronounced his punishment for Sarazen's Warlord. 
  The recollection still powerfully affects her, and her voice turns into a 
  whisper as she answers, "He... gave the Warlord a choice, to either fight 
  Him, or to be put to death, the next morning. Warlord Hashim..." She pauses, 
  swallows hard behind her veil, and concludes, "... chose to be burned. A 
  Warlord is dead because of me, little one... so I must be a very good 
  shudra, now."

"Oooh. Yeah, you will have to." The child's big eyes turn that huge size once 
  more, awe colouring her voice as well. "But ifn he was a bad man, he 
  deserved it." Then. Butterfly. There's a big, no a *huge* butterfly over 
  there, and Drisana's head swivels around. The Butterfly Catcher begins her 
  famous Stalk Process. Tip, tap, toe.. "Imphada Faanshi, it was really nice 
  to talk with you, I hope we get to do it again, I'll just go and try to 
  catch that pretty insect!" Whispered, this is of course. The butterfly might 
  hear her otherwise.

A soft ripple of sound that might be laughter wafts out from behind Faanshi's 
  blue veil. "Good luck to you upon your hunt," she whispers back.

There it goes. Butterfly at six oclock! Dana throws you a big, flashing grin, 
  and then she'll just rush on out into the courtyard. "Come back, butterfly!"
Drisana leaves the garden fountain and steps back into the main courtyard.
Drisana has left.

[End log.]