"On the Nature of Mercy" Log Date: 9/4/99 Log Cast: Amar, Akhunds (NPCs emitted by Faanshi), Devaki (NPC emitted by Faanshi), Faanshi, Jasira Log Intro: At some wee hour after midnight on March 14th in the year 3905, citizens of Haven driven into desperation by the ongoing crisis of the plague and the shortages of food within the city have erupted into riots, storming the embassies of three of the four races and demanding food. In the midst of it all, however, some other miscreants have chosen a different target: the forge of the metalworker Amar of Clan Al'Samar. The young metalsmith along with his beloved Jasira have been assaulted within the premises of the forge, Jasira direly so... and the determined young man has staggered off to Atesh-Gah in search of assistance once the streets have cleared enough for him to risk venturing out. The help he gets is, fortunately for the badly wounded Jasira, not long in coming... ---------- You pass between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah and return to the street. Palisade and North - Haven Some have likened the Varati home to a geode--rough and plain on the outside, while opulence and splendor lie within. Certainly the first part of that analogy is true. The only hint that these buildings house the more prominent members of Varati society are their size. Massive structures loom on either side of the street, crafted from brick, marble, granite, and even metal. And here, also, is the grand embassy of the Varati. Only shaping magic could have created such a structure, for it gives the impression of having grown out of the earth itself. Like the others, its decoration is minimal, yet flowing curves and the use of obsidian and marble make such ornamentation unnecessary. Flanked by stone pillars, the entranceway is constantly guarded by sentinels who may as well be stone themselves, so humorless are they. Only guests of the kingdom and ambassadors from other realms may pass within. A gate leads out of the city to a road that eventually winds into the distant, northern mountains, though few ever dare venture that far. Contents: Amar Atesh Gah Guards(#2830Vae) Aged Goethe Obvious exits: Atesh-Gah Streets Gate Aged Goethe rattles his cup at Faanshi. "Alms for the poor," croaks Aged Goethe. Atesh Gah Guards(#2830Vae) With the rumors fast flying, and the threat of rioting imminent, the walls of Atesh Gah have been surrounded by guards, both of clan Khalida and the Agni Haidar. They stand at attention, ready to repell off any who might dare try to breach the gate or the walls. Amar is a mess, bluntly spoken. He is bare chested, with soot, scratches and bruises all over him.. Nothing lethal though it appears. His hair is a total tangle, and hangs in sweaty clumps down his face, shoulders and back. His eyes are somewhat wide, and his shoulders slump, as if he is very very exhausted. There are blood stains on him too, on his trousers. It's obvious he has been.. part in violence, one way or the other, but been lucky enough to come out in one piece from it. He is leaning against a wall near the gates, too restless, and at the same time exhausted, to stand. He looks towards the gate from time to time.. Are they going to get someone? Once the rioters have been driven back from the gates of Atesh-Gah, a relative calm has settled along the stretch of street before the massive Varati embassy. Agni-Haidar can still be glimpsed in abundance, however, along with guards in the colors of assorted Clans, keeping vigilant watch over the immediate area. They're keeping the gates firmly shut, too, but eventually there does come a response to the anxious young man's urgently delivered query. Just enough to admit a small group of figures into the street, the gates open up. Two armed Ahkunds are the escort for a woman who, from the cut of her robes and the power in the way she carries herself, can only be a priestess of the Atarvani. Black eyes flash a piercing glance around the immediate area as she calls out, "Where is the one who has requested a healer?" Behind this woman, noticeably shorter than the priestess by several inches, is a much slenderer and daintier figure. Although this last individual is clad in the colors of Clan Khalida, although a veil conceals her face and a sari covers her hair as is proper, she must be very small for a maiden of the Children of Fire. This maiden says naught as she follows the Nabi out of the gates, keeping her head slightly bowed... but a pair of slanted green eyes peek momentarily over the top of her veil, as Faanshi tries to ascertain what she can without drawing notice. Amar looks up at the sudden appearance of the priestess and the armed escort.. Grey blue eyes widen slightly, and his lips curl upwards slightly into a very small, lop-sided grin, which seems to be somewhat self accusing, as if the man was joking to himself.. Seems you got more than the healer, Amar.. . Trouble? He moves away from where he was leaning, and makes his way towards the priestess and Faanshi. He makes an attempt to bow, but it's very stiff, as if he would probably collapse if he tried harder. No wonder, regarding the condition he is in.. "Imphadi", he says in a tired, breathy voice.. Although even at a time like this, it holds a small hint of grim humor. ".. We had a little ... visit from luck-seekers.. " Better tell the woman all the whys and what right off.. They always do anyway. He smirks slowly. "All the could steal was statues and copper.. Hope they choke on it, " At least one of them will have severe problems walking the remainder of his life. He leaves that unspoken. Amar's weary gaze drifts over to Faanshi.. That must be the healer.. Amar Amar Haddad ibn Daheem al'Samar looks as if he is molded from stone. But not the crude and rough stone. It is more as if he was born from a solid slab of the finest marble, as if sculpted by determined hands, gracing him with a figure that depicts strength and invulnerability. His face is an almost perfect match of angular and round forms. The almost coppery skin is strong and tanned, yet with a youthful smoothness. His nose is straight, if slightly turned leftwards, if seen from a certain angle, but in a manner that seems to add character to him rather than detract. A strong jawline follows the bottom of his subtly fox-like face, with a relatively narrow jaw, yet strongly set and determined. His mouth seems to be constantly formed into a small, puzzled smile, or an amused, slightly lop-sided grin. His coppery skin seems almost flawless, except for a thin scar that runs just under his jaw. Long, wild waves of dark brown hair falls down his shoulders and back, rich and thick, almost unkempt. Amar's gray-blue eyes sparkle with life and humor, bordering on a more dreamy expression when he becomes lost in thoughts. His face seems to be a constant mix of someone thinking and daydreaming, yet at the same time sparkling with life and humor.. and perhaps a small touch of something that borders on arrogance. Amar is dressed in a simple, yet colorful attire. He wears a loose, white tunic that flows over his form. It hints slightly at broad shoulders and a strong chest and arms.. The form of a blacksmith, but without wearing the apron at the moment. It is slightly unlaced at the front, in an almost careless manner, offering a small glimpse of his coppery chest. Over the tunic he wears a west, dark blue in color, somewhat loose fitting too, but slightly less, in a manner that seems to keep his tunic in place, hinting further at what is behind. He is wearing a pair of loose silwar trousers, belted firmly around his waist with a thick blue sash.. The silwar are of a loose, light-gray material, flowing with his legs as he moves, cuffed and more tight at the ankles. They seem comfortable and made for easy movement. On his feet, he wears a pair of simple, sturdy shoes. A small leather bag is constantly hoisted over one of his shoulders, resting along his side. Devaki steps forward, her dark gaze sweeping over Amar, with a sort of directness that many women of the Varati generally do not show. But then, this woman is obviously someone of power, and this is borne out as she pronounces, "I am Devaki, Nabi of the Atarvani by the grace of Khalid Atar. These" -- and she flicks an imperious hand to each of the Ahkunds flanking her, who bear stoic expressions and readily displayed weaponry -- "are my escort. Take us to your wounded." The maiden behind her goes unintroduced, but as Amar speaks, Faanshi glances at him in consternation and more than a little concern as she takes in the sight of his battered form. The only sign of this, however, is a sharp flare of compassion in the leaf-colored eyes -- and their gaze quickly dips again as Devaki gestures regally for Amar to lead their party. "Amar Haddad ibn Daheem al'Samar, Imphadi Nabi. ", Amar responds, wearily, but still with what sounds like an unbreakable pride in his voice. Even in front of an Atarvani.. He might be battered, but what would he be without his pride? He seems too tired to be uncomfortable at her presence right now.. At least he has the wits to be polite.. At Devaki's 'request', he leads the party away.. [And soon, not far to the west of Atesh-Gah...] You enter Amar's forge through the stout wooden door. Amar's Metalworks - Haven(#2573RADM) The first impression many probably get of this room is that the owner definitely hasn't wasted the fairly cramped space of it. The faint, orangish glow of the oven and forge, mixes with the more yellow light of the candles, together illuminating the room, adding some kind of homey warmth to it. It is built entirely of rock, although, it is so cluttered with things, that you barely see the floor or the walls except for a few freed spots. In one, small, doorless room that is linked to the mainroom, there are boxes and piles lining the walls, filled with every kind of metal object imaginable. Drainage pipes, bolts, discarded, rusty weapons.. Anything possible out of metal that someone seems to have thrown away are scattered there. The forge itself is a stout oven with three different openings, likely for different temperatures, and an anvil, with tools lining the walls nearby. On a shelf next to the forge itself, shining new tools lie, a bit helter-skelter, like everything else in this room. A table, opposite to the forge, is filled with strange, almost inhumanly shaped sculptures of metal. Beautifully smooth curves, mingled with those made of more sharp angles, line the table. They seem to be a mix of all different kinds of metal, molded together. There is one more small room, which seems to be the living quarter. A light blue drapery, a contrast to all the metal and rock in the room, works as a door to a small room, with a bed that lines one of the walls, and a small closet and washstand the other. (This room has +views. Type '+help +view' for more info) (This room has places. Type '+help places' for more info) Contents: Amar Jasira Obvious Exits: Out When entering Amar's ransacked shop, there is little sign of the woman he sought a healer for. Little sign, except for the trail of blood that is smeared upon the floor and seems to lead to the other side of the forge furnace. There, trembling and wide-eyed, huddles a bedraggled Jasira. Her eyes are wide, unblinking and the now cold iron poker shakes in her hands as she holds it out defensively to ward off any new intruders in hopeless desparation. Her pale blue and pink sari is dripping with blood all down the side from a wound that cannot be seen, as her knees are drawn up to her chest. What can be seen, and likely smelled, is the charred wreckage of the material and her skin along where it has been burned away in a diagnal line from her left hip to her right breast. Blood and puss ooze from the burn which is surrounded by forming blisters. It appears that some of the cloth was actually burned into her flesh in some spots. Her breath comes in ragged sobs as she shakes, murmuring, "Dear Sun, protect me, protect me..." Her voice is far away, as if she is unaware she is speaking. For certainly she would know better than to pray to any other than Khalid, if she were aware others could hear, would she not? The Forge looks as if a horde of elephants squeezed themselves in, realized there was nothing to see, fought about who would get out first through the door, leaving quite the mess behind. The truth is perhaps not all that far away.. Pieces of metal lie scattered everywhere, tools, strange statues of Amar's creation.. There is coal, soot and blood as far as the eye can see. On the floor lies another iron poker and a viciously curved blade.. It has one main blade, and another that looks as if it was used for gutting with.. It may be ineffective to fight with, but it does look pretty intimidating. The only thing that seems to be untouched is a thick metal door on one side of the room. No ordinary band of looters would be able to get through that door, for sure.. Amar stumbles in, completely exhausted even after a short walk like this, his hair falling forward, sweaty, across his face.. He brushes it aside absently and awkardly, as he desperately looks around the room for the injured woman. Four figures enter the forge in Amar's wake. Two of them are Atarvani Akhunds, obviously armed, their stances and faces wary as they too survey the immediate area. The eyes of one of them, the shorter one, narrow speculatively as he studies the signs of the battle; the taller one has a face as impassive as stone, however, and it's impossible to guess what might be going on behind his countenance as he shares the duties of flanking the Nabi with his comrade. The third figure, a tall and imperiously straight woman in the red robes of an Atarvani priestess, sweeps into the place with all confidence, clearly trusting in her escort to look to her safety. Her face is veiled in crimson, but her eyes flash black and alert over that bright red curtain that hides the lower half of her face. That face comes up slightly, as though she has caught a scent of some kind or heard a sound... and the moment she enters the forge, her path swerves to carry her in the direction left by the trail of blood. Lastly comes a maiden significantly shorter and daintier than the woman in red, for all that she is not particularly short. Faanshi, however, releases a small horrified gasp at the sight of what is before her, a sound that suggests she's taken it almost as if a physical blow had been struck her. That tiny sound earns her a stern glare from the priestess, who bids her sharply, "Silence, girl, until I require your assistance." And with that, the priestess seeks out Jasira's huddled form in the gloom. The plump, yet delicate form of Jasira cringes back as the shadow of the tall woman decends over her. A whimper of fear escapes her lips, eyes unblinking as they focus about waist high on the woman before her, as if unseeing. "Please don't hurt me..." she cries softly, begging for mercy, "...He'll be back, I know he will.... he wouldn't just leave me... please don't hurt me..." New tears of weariness and fear spread down her soot covered face. A puddle of blood has collected around the area in which she sits, and she winces when she tries to scoot further away, into the safety of the shadows there. The iron rod droops as one hand leaves it to grasp at her stomach. Yes, it was a close call, to say the least.. Most of the looters simply too what they could and ran away.. .But two were intent on Jasira.. One fended off with violence, the other one with words.. Amar makes no move to be in the way of the tall woman.. His gaze drifts across the forge once more.. By the mother of Khalid, this is going to take time.. and cost, to get fixed.. when doing this, he also glances for a moment at Faanshi... Is that the healer, or is the priestess going to do that part? His attention is quickl drawn back to Jasira though... Jasira Midnight. Dark. Forboding. Concealing within her shaded gaze the mysteries of an evening's folly. Fathomless mahogany, swirls into the black depths of her eyes as this young woman glances back at you. Gently rounded features are framed by a foliage of unkempt curls and waves, soft and often shimmering in the manner of infrequent stars glimpsed through the swaying boughs of a forest night's sky. It reaches just past her shoulders, and most of it is gathered together by a strip of black leather, while the more rebellious strands dance playfully about her face. Skin, graced with a warm tan color, is supple and free of wrinkles or any other blemishes, save for a blade thin scar running along the ridge of her jaw. This may easily go unnoticed more often than not. Sable lashes edge her dusky gaze, adding even more to her shadowy presence. A small, somewhat cutely upturned nose rests above nicely shaped lips which may give the impression of a windsome or thoughtless smile. However, first impressions can be deceiving. Her shapely, yet slightly plump form is draped in a comfortable and servicable sari. The loose pale pink and blue material flows down over her body with tasteful appeal, enhancing the curves in a subtle manner, and hinting absently at cleavage due to the manner in which it is carelessly donned. With her sleeves often pushed up to gather at her elbows out of her way, two small silver bracelets can be seen glittering in any available light upon her left wrist. A pale blue sash is wrapped about her waist to keep the garment in place. It accents the gentle flare of the light colored material as it washes down over her hips to her ankles. Sturdy, light brown sandals adorn her feet. The contrast of darkness bathed in pale colors lends its own alluring measure to her appearance, one of thoughtful speculation as to which aspect is to be believed. One of the Akhunds falls back to guard the entrance while the other executes a thorough search of the place, just to make sure no one else had snuck into the forge while its apparent master went to Atesh-Gah for help. In the meantime, the priestess looks critically down at Jasira, then drops down gracefully to kneel straight and tall at her side. "I am not here to hurt you, child," she says severely, "but rather the opposite. In the name of the Khalid, may He live forever, cease your sniveling and remember the third surah!" With these words, she reaches forth a long-fingered hand to Jasira's brow, summoning up her power to take stock of the young woman's injuries. In the meantime, Faanshi moves as if to follow the priestess, but something seems to distract her attention. Her green gaze flicks uncertainly to Amar, and while Devaki focuses herself upon the obviously more severely wounded individual, this shy maiden who accompanies the Nabi summons up the courage to take a step or two in the young man's direction. "Namaste', Imphadi, please forgive me," she whispers then, "but... you are hurt. I can assist... if you will permit me...?" Jasira's face twists in pain and fear, the crisp mannerisms of the priestest do little to calm her delerious fear and she scuffles further into the corner. She cannot get away though, and she whimpers at the womans touch. A brief look of panic rises in her eyes as the third surah is mentioned and she glances about as if for some way to get away. "... I - I'm fine!" she assures her while almost falling sideways from the pain, her body drawing in on itself even more. Her gasps coming raggedly as she fights to remain conscious. The power sent forward reveals to the healer the drastic extent of the severe burns upon the woman's torso, and also a deep wound along her belly and right side. Whatever caused the wound still seems to be suck within it. "...I'm fine... " Amar's words mirror Jasira's from the other part of the room, as he answers Faanshi. He grins slightly, even though it turns out into a wince instead, baring his teeth.. His strong, but battered chest rises and falls deeply as he takes a deep breath.. ".. Alright", he mutters.. "I may be a bit torn at the edges.. " He leans back against his anvil.. No one succeeded to destroy or steal /that/.. He chuckles softly, as if finding his response amusing.. Perhaps an attempt to bring something to laugh att into an otherwise very grave situation. Instead he ends up coughing.. No.. laughing sounds like a really bad idea right now. Devaki might have all of the bedside manner of a serpent, but one thing _can_ be said for her: that she is in firm control of her power. It takes her only a few breaths to survey the nature and breadth of the damage to Jasira's body, and she in particular feels the presence of... what?... still lodged within her rent flesh. "Girl," she calls out without turning her head, but clearly addressing Faanshi, "find me hot water and clean cloths immediately! Before we can heal her wound it must be cleansed!" Faanshi swallows hard, feeling the various scratches and bruises and batterings that Amar has taken as dull pressures on the edges of her senses. Her hands itch; her ears prickle. But she starts as the priestess calls out, and she blurts to Amar, "Please, where may I find--" Jasira's eyes begin to roll back, though she fights it for all she's worth. The iron poker she was holding falls with a metalic clankclank to the floor, and both hands move to her stomach. She groans low in her throat. Her normally tanned skin is pale in comparison to its correct color and her moves to get away are weakening. "...no... he'll be back... Amar... he wouldn't let him take me.... he wouldn't... Fegid... slave... shudra...Ammmmmar..." she gasps, sobs threatening though each fought contraction of her body seems to induce more pain. Amar looks as if he has no idea what Jasira is rambling about... And perhaps he hasn't... Partly at least. He takes a deep breath, leaning against the anvil, and he opens his mouth as it to make a grim remark about this... Fegid, but is cut off at the sudden change of situation. Bruises and scratches can heal on their own in time.. Jasira's injuries look like the kind that can't. Amar winces, as he pushes himself up to stand fully again.. He starts rummaging through the mess in the room.. He turns, and heads towards the forge itself, closer to Jasira and the priestess.. He moves in on the other side of the oven and takes a deep breath. "Still some that wasn't splashed out.. " He lifts the bucket, muscles getting tense, and pours it down into a kettle.. Maneuvering a metal bar, he drags the kettle close to the oven.. It is still glowing inside there, indeed, it can take days for such a hot place to cool down on it's own. As the kettle is near enough to start warming the water, he sags against the metal bar, then down on his knees in exhaustion. As Amar tends to the heating of the water, Faanshi pauses in momentary consternation, her gaze flashing from him to Jasira to the priestess. Then, swallowing hard, she steels herself to join Devaki as she kneels by the wounded girl. The Nabi shoots Faanshi a gaze afire with displeasure at her presumption, but she does not waste time on recrimination, not right now. "Beside me, halfbreed," she orders the maiden, nodding at her sharply to kneel as well, "and move her clothing aside so that I may see her flesh, but take care to guard her modesty. We will attend her burns first." Readily enough, Faanshi does as she is bidden, and her eyes turn liquid in dismay and shock over Jasira's abused and broken state. "Oh, Ushas," she whispers, even as she stretches forth her hands to try to separate cloth from the blood and scorched skin that seems to cover as much of the wounded one as her garments do. Panic filled eyes tear themselves from Devaki when Amar's form comes into view. Relief and dread mix with sad accusation upon her features. "...left me..." she murmurs to Faanshi as the girl kneels near her. It is barely understandable, but there is a hurt tone in her voice which makes it sound as if she's telling on Amar to the young half-breed. If she could move her hand from her belly long enough, she might even point at him. Dark eyes dance between the tall priestess and the apparent pupil, before resting again on Faanshi. Blood splattered brows wrinkle in pain and residual terror, she whimpers again as more tears streak down her face, "...leftmm..." Her head shakes in its weary attempt at vigorous objection to the motion Faanshi makes toward her clothing. She has not the strength to stop the girl, however, and a scream echos off the walls of the small forge as the fabric is tugged on even gently. If Amar hadn't left Jasira to get the healer, she would die. What choice did he have? Grey blue eyes look at Jasira in confusion for a moment.. Then he winces at seeing and hearing her screams.. He looks away, and instead stumbles through the torn drapery, into the little room where the bed is. Kneeling, he drags out what appears to be cloth. After all, a smith needs cloth, for all kinds of reason.. He moves back, handing a bundle of it to Faanshi, before he collapses on his knees, once more. He seems to have no single, obvious injury, but he seems so worn out that he as a whole won't be able to handly much more. His face is hidden from the tangled mass of sweaty hair covering his face. Nearly sick herself between the feel of poor Amar's exhaustion and the terror and pain of the girl lying before her, Faanshi swallows hard beneath her veil. She can feel, too, the power of the priestess as Devaki's magic surges forth to begin to mend the burned flesh. And those small mumbled words from Jasira provide her impetus to do something more than the Nabi has specifically ordered; she leans ever so slightly forward, whispering as gently as she can, "Amar came back, Imphada. Amar came back. To bring help. To bring us. We will help you..." Her voice is soft and sweet, carrying just a hint of tears giving it a rough edge... but there is no hesitation within it even as Devaki shoots her a wrathful stare. Jasira's watery eyes stare back at the too pale eyes of the Varati girl, her breath uneven and raspy in her attempts to control the sobs from the emotional and physical pain. She shakes her head again, as Faanshi has misuderstood something, "...not my husband...not married..." she gasps out, then groans again as the healing magic begins to separate the clothing from the burns. A fear filled gaze searches behind the encouraging girl though, as a moment later, a touch of relief shows upon her her features, perhaps the meaning of the words spoken finally sinking in. She looks for Amar, but before she realizes it, her eyes are rolling back in her head, she is very near unconsciousness. Inhaling deeply, and with a great deal of effort, Amar simply plops down on the floor, leaning with his back against the anvil. He reaches up to push away sweaty hair from his face, so he can see at least. ".. You wouldn't want to marry me.. ", Amar responds in a tired, but somewhat amused mutter.. Perhaps he is hoping to keep Jasira's mood up a bit.. Or he is simply too out of things to have any clue of what he's really muttering about.. ".. I am too arrogant and insolent.. and I stare at your.. " He trails of, half chuckling, half coughing.. ".. like all the other men do.. " He reaches out to take a small hammer, that lies just next to that viciously curved dagger, up in his hand, turning it over in his hand slowly.. "... Not to mention people say I talk to much.. " Pause. "...Do I talk too much?", he murmurs, half whispers, not expecting anyone to respond or hear it. Not even himself. So nice to just.. sit back for a moment.. "You may concern yourselves with your personal affairs after we have saved this girl's life," comes the sharp order of the priestess, and she concludes briskly, "Silence!" The aether ripples in a strong and palpable wave, sinking down into the burned flesh of Jasira's body, ordering skin and the tissue beneath it to remember how it feels to be whole and unmarred... and ordering it to shift into that very state. Faanshi blushes crimson beneath her azure veil, as the desperate words are exchanged before the injured maiden and her apparent beloved. She cannot allow herself to feel envy of their attachment; such is not important. Allowing them to regain their health so that they can discuss such a tender subject properly is. Within Faanshi, though, another emotion besides envy springs up in her breast: a tiny flare of resentment of the priestess and her callous attitude. And thus, although she has not been ordered, Faanshi begins to extend her own power... seeking out that wounded place with the object still lodged into the flesh. Devaki can heal the burns, she avows to herself; _she_ will heal this. Jasira's teeth clench together and a grinding groan rips at her throat as the flesh begins to mend itself. She breathes in painful, deep gasps. Her eyes open again and focus, a faint smile ghosts over her lips, "Apparently, you do." she grates out to Amar, in answer to his question after the rebuke by the healer. Her mind must be returning at least slightly. Unable to hold the tenseness of her huddled position any longer, Jara allows her legs to straighten of their own will, thus revealing the wound at her stomach. It looks to be an iron rod, one very similar to the poker she held a few moments ago, but it is broken off, likely just another piece of the metal which would eventually being melted down for something else. Blood wells out around it and has soaked the entire side of her sari. Amar isn't looking at Jasira or the healers.. He doesn't want to see her pain, and he somehow seems to feel that he shouldn't look. He nods, a small, lop-sided grin curling his lips slowly upward towards one corner, as he whispers.. "I thought so... " He suddenly grows quiet, only to whisper again.. ".. I have a pretty nice voice though.. You have to agree... ", he murmurs again. He sounds nothing but distant at the moment however, and he is likely to drift off into sleep at any moment. Of course, he lowered his voice considerably after priestess' brisk remark. No matter how tired, he's not stupid enough to enrage the wrong people intentionally. Devaki cannot help but notice what Faanshi is doing; even if Amar and Jasira might not be sensitive to the flow of the aether, the Nabi is, and then some. A sharp hiss of irritation bursts out from behind her veil -- but not for nothing is this woman a Nabi, a high-ranking priestess amongst the priests of the Hawk of Heaven. "We will speak of this later, halfbreed," she snarls in unmistakable fury. But her power does not waver, not once. Neither does Faanshi's, for that matter. The shudra maiden's magic reaches deep into the wound in Jasira's belly, a surge of power with a more raw and elemental feel to it than the polished magic of the priestess. That magic begins to bid the young woman's flesh to yield up its hold upon the iron object lodged within, enough for Faanshi to reach for it with her own hand... and pull it free. Jasira moans in exhaustion and pain, scowling unintentionally at the priestess. When the bar begins to loosen and Faanshi is able to grasp it, she whines loudly at the pain, gasping loudly. She grits her teeth in preparation for the pain she knows is coming, but it does little to ease the searing fire that shoots through her as the rod is removed. A loud scream wracks her entire body, her back arching in reflex. When it is free, blood spurts out, flowing quickly down her side in large red rivlets. "... she .. she is helping..." the nearly unconscious girl attempts to defend she who is kind among the healers attending her. "... she's helping... and ...*weasing breath* ..she's not ...not...angry ...about it..." It is all she can manage, Her legs move upwards, trying to curl in to her body again to protect it while so much blood escapes. Amar has no intentions of putting his nose into what would be the priestess' business.. If the woman is halfbreed, so what? As long as she is under supervision, of course.. He is just about to drift off to sleep, when Jasira screams. He blinks, only half aware of what's going on, trying to focus his eyes on Jara and the two other women.. No point.. Need to rest.. The little hammer is still in his hand, as if he was about to start working on a new grand project, and got exhausted before he could even get started.. The Nabi Devaki is entirely unmoved by the young woman's screams, ruthlessly pouring forth her power now to join with that of the halfbreed maiden. And as her demeanor is hard as iron, so is Devaki's magic -- cleansing and purifying with the full, fiery strength of an Atarvani at the height of her power, bidding blood to cease its outward flow and flesh to close around it without much in the way of concern for easing the pain of she whose flesh this is. Nor does she have much concern for the way she is draining the reserves of the shudra maiden working with her; what is visible of her face goes starkly pale, and her brow beads in sweat as this work of power continues. However, the task is soon enough accomplished. For all the blood that has leaked forth from the wounded one, staining the clothing of the women who kneel beside her, her flesh and skin are restored after a handful of seemingly eternal minutes. No more blood will leak forth... and no scars will linger upon her skin. Jasira moans quietly as the wound is finally closed and her head falls back in sheer exhaustion. Her body grows limp and she murmurs incoherently about the oddest of things, "... not married... shudra... no slave... can't marry... oh dear sun..." is that blasphemy escaping the healed woman's delerious lips. Is she calling to the sun rather then Khalid? "...Reggie... papa...slave" the rest trails off into the sleepy mumblings of incoherency. If the healers wish to take on Amar now, he is leaning against the anvil, soundly asleep, the little hammer cradled in his hand.. His head falls forward, rolling slightly, hair hanging down over him.. Oh, he's exhausted allright. "It is done," pronounces Devaki then, with grim satisfaction. But there is not much pleasure in her voice as she rounds on Faanshi to order her, "Clean the girl, then, halfbreed, if you are so eager to touch her. I shall attend to the man. Move, move!" As she speaks, the priestess rises to her feet to step over to Amar's slumped and enervated form. It might be noted, too, that as she moves she casts a distasteful glance first at Faanshi and then at the blood that has stained the lower reaches of her scarlet robe. The halfbreed maiden rises too, more shakily, more stiffly. But she moves as quickly as she can to recover the cloths and water which Amar had fetched, bringing them to Jasira's side and beginning to try to clean the poor woman up as best she can. Her hands shake, but she strives to conceal this so that Devaki cannot see. It helps that tasks of cleaning are more familiar... the work of a shudra. The work of a servant. Jasira continues to murmur and mumble, but she is far too exhausted to fight off the halfbreed's attempts to clean her. Her hand raises slightly in protest, but falls back down almost immediately, allowing herself to be cleaned. Eventually, her breathing evens out and she begins to snore. It is, indeed, done -- the healing, at any rate. The cleanup of the stains of blood on the floor, the wet rags and dishes, and much of the rubble left by the miscreants who looted this place, is left to the shudra gi who accompanied the Nabi into the forge. Moving Amar and Jasira to places where they can get decent rest is designated the task of the Akhunds. Devaki takes as her task the directing of the other three... and she spends far fewer words upon the halfbreed than she does upon the two priest-guards. Only when the place and its inhabitants have been set as much to rights as can be expected does the Nabi order one of the pair of Akhunds to remain behind and insure that no other ruffians break in. "You" -- the other Akhund -- "and you" -- the exhausted Faanshi -- "will accompany me back to Atesh-Gah. It is possible we will be needed elsewhere if the turmoil continues in the city, this night. " With that, then, after pronouncing a blessing of the Hawk of Heaven upon the forge and the wounded ones they have tended, Devaki takes her leave. As the Nabi has bidden, so shall it be. But even as she slips out of the forge in the wake of the Atarvani priestess and her escort, Faanshi glances back over her shoulder at the curtain that shields the other room where the maiden has been set down for her rest... and the improvised pallet in the main room where the young man has been put for his. "Ushas keep you," she murmurs in the tiniest of whispers, almost apologetically for all that the now deeply sleeping Amar and Jasira can hardly hear her. But perhaps, she thinks, just perhaps, it will help. [End log.]