"Questions of Faith"

Log Date:
	8/21/99

Log Cast:
	Nasri, Faanshi, Haroun

Log Intro:
	With a great plague sweeping across the city of Haven, Faanshi has
been conscripted into service by the Atarvani -- for the Varati cannot
afford to let any healer, even a barely trained halfbreed, remain idle
when so many lives are at risk. It is not an easy service for Faanshi, for
she cannot help but compare it to the healings she'd done among the Mongrels
of Avalon -- and thinking of Avalon must inevitably lead to thinking of
Avalon's leader, Thomas Murako, towards whom the shudra maiden has been
drawn as she has been to no other man before. And in an Atesh-Gah where
death has recently violently visited, in a manner that has nothing to do
with the plague, she comes into contact with one that makes her question
the tenets of her attraction to Thomas, as well as the very nature of her
faith in Khalid Atar....

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Late Morning
          Date on Aether:  Friday, February 22, 3905.
           Year on Earth:  1505 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waxing Gibbous
                  Season:  Waning Winter
                 Weather:  Clear Skies
             Temperature:  Cool
*==========================================================================*

It's like being in a cage: granted, the cage is a lovely cage of lush green 
  garden bars around stonework such as to take one's breath away. If Nasri 
  were not aware that she is caged, she would be happy enough to spend much 
  time just looking at the embassy and its grounds, discovering the things she 
  hadn't found on previous trips. But she's been caged here before and to be 
  trapped a second time is near intolerable. It's Khalil's presence that keeps 
  her from making a mad dash at the gates, a rush to be torn to ribbon by the 
  blades of his Agni-Haidar comrades. She does her equivalent of pacing: she 
  moves back and forth over the cool grass and flagstones of the fountain 
  courtyard, a yatighan hissing its steely song across an arc guided by her 
  hands. The Varati girl is practicing something simple, a basic sword form, 
  and she practices it with a single-minded devotion. Strands of hair cling to 
  her unveiled face, plastered there by the sweat brought by her exercise. The 
  silk of her tunic top is darkened in a stripe down her back. She breathes 
  with deliberation as she carefully executes a turn and brings the blade up 
  to block her imaginary opponent.
A shadow passes along one of the paths behind her: some Atesh-Gah inhabitant 
  clad in silks from head to toe, a woman who glances in Nasri's direction and 
  stares for a moment before moving on. The dancing form is not unfamiliar 
  here, but some of the inhabitants cannot help but be shocked every time they 
  see this strange woman at practice, wondering why some man has not 
  disciplined her for such open disregard of Varati custom.

The next individual to enter the garden area around the fountain is no 
  exception to the rule of those who have stared oddly at Nasri and her 
  practicing. It is a thing that Faanshi has not seen -- well, since her trip 
  to Avalon, and even as she and her young dog Kosha trudge in from the 
  greater courtyard, the other female's activities draw the attention of the 
  shudra's leaf-colored eyes. Kosha's presence is heralded first by his bark, 
  for the pup's curious: is this other person playing some sort of game? He 
  trots ahead of Faanshi, ears perking up alertly, and the maiden who trails 
  after the dog calls tiredly, "Kosha! Kosha, stay...!"

Nasri smells of the sweat of her exertion and the perspiration has brought out 
  her natural scent to more prominence than usual: an animal musk, not 
  unpleasant, but there nonetheless. Predator. The girl advances: strike, 
  block, strike, block as she glides along the ground with the carefully 
  placed steps of a cat. She notes the dog's approach with a flick of her eyes 
  and, when the beast comes with range of the sword, she upends the weapon and 
  tucks its tip into the grassy ground. Regarding the young dog, she decides 
  then to sheath the yatighan. She crouches down, watching Kosha's approach, 
  and glances up at the more distant approach of his master. "Shikmai," she 
  says, and reaches out to offer her fingertips for a sniff. Dogs never did 
  very well with her; she wonders if this one will be an exception.

Nasri
     A tall Varati woman with dark brown skin. She is slender, lean muscles 
  over solid, heavy bones, with strong shoulders and narrow hips. She is not 
  pretty as much as she is handsome, a face of carved sharp angles around 
  brown cats' eyes, narrow lips, and a narrow nose with a bump across the 
  bridge. At night the cores of her eyes sometimes catch whatever little light 
  there is and glow an eerie deep green. Her hair is a thick mane of curly 
  black, a double handful gathered up at the back of her head and tied into a 
  ponytail while the rest cascades down to a point between her shoulderblades.
     Nasri is wearing a loose set of trousers of fine, bright white silk with 
  broad cuffs worked with dark teal and dark blue threads in an abstract 
  pattern that looks something like triangular blossoms. This is worn over a 
  longsleeved black tunic with a high collar left unbuttoned. A thick silk 
  jacket in shades of teal and blue is belted tightly over the white trousers 
  with a broad, equally white sash. The jacket front closes asymmetrically 
  with a loop at the small of her right shoulder and another down near the top 
  of the sash and the edges of its collar, front, and hems are worked in a 
  batiked design of curling green ferns. Solid shoes of black brocade-cloth 
  encase her feet, their toes worked to curl upwards slightly.
     A black silk cord around her neck holds two rings: a delicately carved 
  coral one and a golden ring with an emerald stone, and she is wearing a 
  dagger on her left hip, its hilt made of carved metal whose leather wrapping 
  partly conceal its sculptural quality.

Kosha does sniff, but perhaps something about the scent of the fingers makes 
  the canine uneasy. He lets out a bemused little 'whurf' in the back of his 
  throat, not backing down from where he stands, but clearly now trying to 
  figure out what manner of creature now crouches before him. Behind him, the 
  slender maiden in the colors of Clan Khalida hastens up, dropping a polite 
  if anxious little curtsey, and saying softly, "Namaste', imphada... forgive 
  my dog's impetuousness...! He is still part puppy, and curious..."

Nasri smiles, a smile meant to be kindly, but her teeth are a little too sharp 
  and it colors the intended effect. She laces her fingers between her knees 
  and, still crouching, says, "Do not apologise. I like curious things. 
  'Kosha' is his name? What does it mean?"

The pup's a big one, too big to be a lapdog, and promising to be even bigger 
  once he stops growing. But still, Nasri is bigger than he is, and as if 
  uncertain of his status with this strange young woman, Kosha just stares at 
  her, his head still alertly lifted, his big pointed ears perked up. And 
  Faanshi, in the meantime, once more bobs her sari-covered head, saying, 
  "Yes, imphada, he is Kosha..." The maiden pauses, then adds shyly, "In the 
  speech of Clan Sarazen, it means 'guard'."

"Is Clan Sarazen your clan?" Nasri asks. The breeze shifts, carrying her scent 
  away from the shudra and her dog, and a few locks of her hair wave behind 
  her like narrow black banners. "You wear Atar's colors." A hesitation. "I am 
  Nasri; if you like, you may call me that instead of 'imphada'."

Considering the change in the wind, Kosha seems to relax -- though he hadn't 
  actually quite raised his hackles, still there'd been a hint about the pup's 
  stance that suggested he'd been about to. Faanshi peeks at the other young 
  woman before her, over the top of her veil, and then gravely nods. "Thank 
  you," she murmurs softly, and there is a glimmer of gratitude in those green 
  eyes of hers. "I am called Faanshi... I was born to Clan Sarazen, but the 
  Amir-al took me to serve His own Clan, during the time of the war." Her voice 
  is soft and shy and earnest, as she speaks.

Nasri thinks about that. "May I ask why he did that?" She asks, tipping her 
  head to one side as she looks up at the veiled Varati woman. "And do you 
  worship him as a god?"

The green eyes above the blue silken veil blink; the question, clearly, takes 
  this maiden called Faanshi by utter surprise. Slowly she settles down onto 
  the cobblestones around the fountain, drawing Kosha to her and soothing the 
  retless pup's fur with the touch of her hands, but her startled gaze stays 
  upon Nasri. A soft sound like an inhalation of breath escapes her, though 
  her veiled visage doesn't visibly alter. "Yes," she murmurs then, in quiet 
  conviction. "I light a sacred fire to Him each night, and to his Holy Mother 
  each dawn." Still, despite the gentle firmness of her words, the black brows 
  visible above her wide green eyes knit together, in a bit of consternation. 
  Is this odd maiden some sort of test of the Atarvani, perhaps?

"Why do you do that?" Maybe Nasri is a test, but if she is she isn't aware of 
  it. Then again, the gods use mortals all the time for their mysterious 
  purposes, don't they? She recalls something and adds, "I will not punish you 
  if you say something that they--" she cants her head towards the embassy 
  proper --"think is wrong-to-say. I am trying to understand him." Her left 
  hand grasps the sword's sheath and pulls it around to rest across her thighs 
  as she, too, settles down on the ground to sit tailor-style.

Faanshi cannot help but continue to stare, so odd to her is the sight of a 
  maiden with a sword. Still uneasy, Kosha nevertheless readily pulls back 
  towards her, turning his head around and licking at her fingers as she 
  scratches him between his ears. Behind her veil she wets her lips -- though 
  this, too, goes unseen behind the azure gauze. After a moment, though, her 
  soft voice sounds out: "The Most High is... beautiful, and terrible. I have 
  seen his power, but I have also felt the touch of his mercy, Imphada Nasri. 
  You... asked why he took me into his Clan..." Her green eyes close for a 
  brief instant, as she steadies herself, and then she looks up again to 
  murmur, "He delivered me from the grasp of one who had been consumed by 
  madness... and who turned from the teachings of the holy surahs."

Nasri shifts slightly as she watches Faanshi's face and her eyes flicker an 
  eerie, luminescent green for a heartbeat's worth of time before returning to 
  their normal, ordinary brown. She says, "so you worship him because he 
  touched your life personally, and saved you from danger?" There is no 
  accusation in her voice, or patronizing tone, or anything of the sort: she 
  speaks as a student does who is earnest in her learning of a lesson.

"Partly that," murmurs Faanshi, "and partly because my heart-mother, who I 
  loved... taught me to... but all that I have seen of the Most High... has 
  been as my heart-mother taught." Her head dips down then, demure, or perhaps 
  nervous, or perhaps both.

"What did she teach you?"

Surely, Faanshi wonders to herself, this cannot help but be some kind of test? 
  Uneasily, but steeling herself with gentle determination, the shudra maiden 
  sits up as straight as a young tree there upon the ground. The puppy, by 
  now, has laid his head in her lap; Kosha quite obviously adores this slender 
  maiden in her silks of the Khalid Atar's colors. His tail wags gently at 
  each stroke of Faanshi's delicate sungolden hands. "She taught me the holy 
  surahs," is her earnest reply, "and that it was the Khalid himself who 
  created them to give to us... and that... although his path is not easy... 
  that his holy fire may consume the unjust... one who is true to the surahs 
  is cleansed by them... made strong."

If it is a test, here comes a hard question. "What do you think about the 
  slaves here who were killed slowly in the courtyard by his command?"

The green eyes over the blue veil close, swiftly, tightly; from the way they 
  crinkle up, it is very likely that the visage of this maiden has contorted 
  into a wince behind the cloth that conceals her features. Faanshi's face 
  turns away, and a slight but detectable shudder passes through her. "I..." 
  Her voice, now, has roughened. "I... think that... i-it is not my place to 
  give a judgement upon such things... Imphada... why do you ask me this...?" 
  Despite her avoidance of the question, it might be discerned from her 
  reaction that there is a sensitive soul behind that veil... and that the 
  brutal deaths of the two who had been nipped to death by the wyverns 
  affected her deeply.

"I have chosen to follow Atar out of love for one of his own," Nasri explains. 
  "There is a man here named Khalil, one of Atar's warriors, and his faith in 
  Atar is strong. He is honorbound to him, and among my own people the 
  honorbond is the strongest thing there is. So I try to understand it, 
  because for Khalil I bind myself to Atar. Among my clan, the honorbond is a 
  /truth/ -- we question such things and do not fear the questioning, because 
  a truth never has to fear from any questions -- it will always be a truth. I 
  am...unsettled," she says earnestly. "Because if something fears questions, 
  I am taught to think that it is not a truth."

Those words coax Faanshi's gaze back up, and perhaps something in what Nasri 
  shares with her eases some of the nervousness out of her, for the maiden 
  grows a bit less tense of stance. "You are blessed, then," she murmurs 
  softly, "if you... have such a man..." Her gaze dips swiftly down and away, 
  then, and now it may well be something other than fear that has provoked 
  this.

Nasri blinks. She tilts her head and regards the shudra. "I am blessed," she 
  agrees. "He is my fate, and I am his, worth enough to leave my home and come 
  here. He has faith for Atar, and so I feel I should too. I feel I should 
  understand everything, for a servant is a better servant for understanding 
  the master, yes?"

"Yes," comes Faanshi's answer to that, then, and that one soft syllable is 
  sure enough. The blue-saried head lifts up once more, the green eyes peeking 
  back in the direction of the sword-wielding maiden, shyly. "If... if you 
  will be the concubine of the Amir-al's warrior... or, or his wife... it is 
  wise to try to improve your understanding."

Nasri smiles. "Not wife. They can't have wives. But I don't mind." Mostly 
  because she doesn't understand the Westerners' strange concept of marriage. 
  The smile fades. "I do not understand, though, someone who claims to be a 
  truth and who cannot bear questions."

The other female considers this, risking a peek at the sword-bearer, and 
  finally Faanshi says shyly, "I... am not accustomed to... being asked such 
  questions, Imphada... at least... not here."

Nasri says, gently, "I won't punish you for answering them as your heart tells 
  you to answer. Questions are good to me. Answers are good to me too."

Faanshi might be smiling herself at that -- but with that veil in the way, who 
  can tell? Still, the leaf-green eyes peek up again, their gaze a trifle 
  lightened. "Thank you, Imphada," she murmurs, and there comes into her 
  gentle voice a fullness, a gratitude that suggests a unseen smile. "I... I 
  do not get to talk with very many people...!"

"You are welcome, Faanshi," Nasri says earnestly. "So...you are still faithful 
  to Atar, yes?"

Faanshi's blue-saried head dips again, in a gentle nod, and her eyes have 
  regained some surety. "I try to be," she whispers. "I fear the Amir-al... he 
  is... harsh and terrible, but he has his mercy... one such as my mistress 
  can win his favor... and I hope to do the same."

Nasri tilts her head again, fascinated. "It doesn't bother you, to fear him 
  so? Aren't you afraid that you might say something that angers him and 
  become food for the wyverns?"

That, too, is apparently a difficult question to answer. Faanshi pulls in a 
  very soft, slightly unsteady breath, and focuses her gaze upon the dog who 
  still does his best to try to curl up into her lap for all that he is 
  overlarge for that particular place of repose. How to tell this Nasri that 
  fear of saying something that angers the _Khalid_ is rather less of a fear 
  than saying or doing something that would anger simple mortal men? "Not 
  many... care to hear what I have to say, Imphada," she murmurs then. 
  Something in her tone is a trifle wistful... a trifle wry. "I am only a 
  shudra."

"I care to hear," says Nasri.

Those four simple words resonate through Faanshi, in a way she has not 
  experienced for some time. The memory of the last female who had spoken so 
  to her brings up a lump within her throat... and for a moment, that memory 
  threatens to lead off to others, bringing a rush of color to her cheeks, a 
  tinge that comes up even over the top of her veil. Out of gratitude for that 
  offered statement, she breathes, "You are most kind...!"

"Perhaps," says Nasri, offering a smile. "But you still fear the question."

"Perhaps... I do," whispers the shudra, then. "I-I have seen the anger of the 
  Amir-al, firsthand..."

Nasri says, gently, "Do you know why he did what he did?"

Faanshi stares over at Nasri at that, and after a moment breathes out huskily, 
  "Do you speak of the slaves, Imphada... or of what I have seen...?"

"I speak of the slaves," Nasri says. She's curious: what /has/ Faanshi seen? 
  But she does not voice that question, not yet.

Another gentle shudder runs through the frame of the shudra girl. "I..." 
  Faanshi swallows hard. "I-I know only... that it was said... that the Nayaka 
  ordered their deaths...." She trails off, then, uncertain... and it seems to 
  cost her effort to continue, "I-I do not know if the Most High ordered him 
  to do so."

Nasri reaches out and touches Faanshi's knee...if Kosha will let her. "I do 
  not mean to frighten you. But it is something to wonder. I ask myself these 
  questions and I think: he is a god; he may have other reasons, unsaid 
  reasons, for doing what he does, to tip the balance or nudge fate the way he 
  wants. If he is a god, he will not always act in ways we understand. But it 
  is still unsettling. It is that thing of truths, you see?"

The pup does start, his head lifting up as that touch draws near to his 
  mistress. Faanshi pulls in another breath, and declares promptly, "Oh, but 
  Imphada, he _is_ a god...! I have seen... at least, felt... do... do you 
  know of Lycenae...?"

Nasri nods gravely. "I've heard, yes. You saw it? What does a god have to fear 
  from the frightened speech of slaves, though?"

Faanshi's veiled countenance turns away again, but this time her gaze goes 
  skyward, her eyes distant, pensive. "I... was with the armies of the Amir-al 
  when he made the smoking mountain," she whispers. "My heart-mother did not 
  let me see... we stayed within the tent, praying to the Khalid's Holy 
  Mother... but we felt the earth move beneath us... and my mistress flew with 
  him when he caused the smoking mountain to come up from beneath the 
  earth..." She pauses, then, her brow furrowed in deep thought, before her 
  green eyes return to this odd young woman before her.

Nasri is looking off to one side when Faanshi looks at her, her gaze turned 
  inward as she ponders this news. There is a dilemma inside her, and it says, 
  "you must have faith and trust." But she does not know that she can. The 
  perspiration of her workout cools against her skin and goosebumps raise up 
  against the chill.

With that, then, Faanshi considers, and finally she murmurs, "Imphada... I... 
  spent the first seventeen years of my life... praying unto the Khalid that 
  he would... deliver me from the Warlord of Sarazen... it... was... a dark, 
  dark time... and I did not know if I could have faith in a god I had never 
  seen... but at last... he did deliver me. I do not know if this could give 
  you faith... but it did me."

Nasri smiles again. "It is my nature to question everything," she says. "But 
  there is one simple thing that he did that touches my heart too, and if I 
  can be said to have faith in him, it is from that thing as his delivering of 
  you is your own font of faith in him."

Heartened by this, Faanshi asks softly, "What did the Amir-al do for you...?"

"He made Khalil," says Nasri quietly.

The shudra's smile goes unseen, but her eyes do brighten. For all that her 
  voice is still wistful, her words are steady as she murmurs, "Oh, Imphada... 
  when you say that you sound so..." Words seem to fail her.

Nasri chuckles. "Faithful?" She offers, grinning at the shudra. She nods. 
  "Aye. The questions all seem to flee when I think of Khalil." She sighs and 
  laces her fingers together, resting the resultant tangle of digits on one 
  knee. "And you, Faanshi? Do you have a mate?"

Once more, color so vivid surges across the veiled girl's features that the 
  hint of it colors the sungolden skin around her eyes. She shakes her head, 
  but swiftly, and once more her gaze drops down to the attentive puppy. Kosha 
  whines hopefully, nudging at her with his nose, trying to convince her to 
  scratch him behind the ears again. "Such... such a thing is not possible, 
  Imphada," she murmurs sheepishly.

Nasri raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Two seconds of silence; three; four. Faanshi's eyes close, and her hands go 
  still on Kosha, making the pup whine again. "I... am a halfbreed, Imphada. 
  No man of the Varati would have me... and--" Quite abruptly, she cuts 
  herself off.

"Then they're stupid," Nasri says bluntly. "I don't understand you Westerners 
  at all -- just when I begin to think I understand..." she shakes her head. 
  "Do you have magic?" She asks, looking at Faanshi again.

Faanshi does not look up again, but she does whisper, "I am a healer, Imphada."

"Then you have status." There. It's so simple. Why can't these people 
  understand it? Nasri folds her arms as if she were dealing with someone 
  particularly recalcitrant.

Ah, but it's not quite so simple as that. Faanshi swallows down the lump in 
  her throat, searching for her voice, searching for that inner place within 
  herself that she'd begun to feel in Avalon... and which a Sylvan woman had 
  begun to encourage her to find... and to which she has been clinging ever 
  since this dire sickness that has befallen the city of Haven has sealed many 
  of the Children of Fire inside the walls of Atesh-Gah. "Only when... I can 
  control my magic," she breathes out hoarsely, "will I have... any status... 
  and... even then... oh, Imphada..." She will not cry. She cannot cry. But 
  the threat of tears begins to haunt the edges of her vision, begins to 
  roughen that soft, sweet voice. She straightens up where she sits, an oddly 
  stoic posture for one with such a delicate frame, far more delicate than 
  most if not all women of the Varati. "The... only man in my thoughts... 
  is... not for me."

Oh ho -- now that is something different, not even tied to status. "I'm 
  sorry," Nasri says gently, contritely. "But do not let someone tell you you 
  are not worthy, Faanshi."

Ushas! She'd thought it would be easy, to keep this bottled up within her... 
  but now that Faanshi has let the first few words out, more seem to press at 
  her defenses, demanding to be set free. She shakes her sari-covered head 
  fervently, but now as she looks up again, those large green eyes are 
  haunted. "He... he is not Varati, but... he is very like a Warlord... he is 
  making a nation. He leads. Great men do not marry servants." These last few 
  words, at least, come out of the veiled maiden with a bit more firmness, 
  even if it is a firmness born of resignation. "I will control my magic... 
  and... if the Amir-al is willing I will be... a priestess of his holy 
  Mother, as my heart-mother was before me... but _he_... he will still be... 
  not Varati."

"Atar's wife is not Varati either," Nasri points out. "As for great men 
  marrying servants...great men mate great women, Faanshi, servants or 
  otherwise."

Faanshi does not answer that immediately. Instead, her green eyes shift their 
  gaze towards the blade with which Nasri had been practicing... and then, 
  softly, plaintively, she inquires, "Imphada Nasri... does... the warrior 
  Khalil object to you... having a blade...?"

Nasri shakes her head. "No, he understands this--" she pats the hilt "--is 
  part of my nature." She smiles. "It shocks the others, I know. But you see, 
  in my clan a woman would not dream of burdening her man by being useless 
  when it comes to a fight. What if she is the only one with the children when 
  the enemy comes? Is it proper to fail them when they need her? Plus," the 
  smile becomes a grin. "It's /lots/ of fun."

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

Haroun
     It is easy to imagine this man having been carved out of the living rock 
  of a mountain's deepest, strongest roots. Tall, perhaps hair's breadth under 
  six and a half feet, with the chiselled, broad-shouldered, powerful physique 
  of a Varati warrior in his prime. Strongly muscled arms and legs, a wide, 
  deep chest, rock-solid shoulders, and a thick, corded neck suggest great 
  strength and ruggedness. His skin is the dark, dusky shade common to his 
  race, his eyes a deep, dark black, glittering brightly in his dark features. 
  His hair is a lustrous jet-black, cut short and spiky on the top and sides, 
  but gathered in a ponytail in the back, reaching down to his shoulder blades.
     He could have been a handsome man... -could- have. But his features have 
  been marked with a life of violence and pain. The lines of his face look as 
  if they were roughly hacked out of dark granite, then worked over with the 
  chisel a little longer for good measure. Grim, severe, almost harsh 
  features: a nose that's been broken more than once, his left ear half 
  torn-off by some savage attack, a web of scars crisscrossing his face. At 
  best his is a face well-suited to conveying ruthless determination and a 
  cold, methodical precision. When he turns his narrowed gaze upon you, it's 
  like having twin crossbows leveled at your heart. One gets the distinct 
  impression that when he looks at you, he is calculating the most efficient 
  way to kill you.
     The sense of not-so subtle lethality about him is enhanced by the way he 
  moves, the way he carries himself. Rarely a wasted action, every motion is 
  executed with the fluid, steeltrap co-ordination of a skilled fighter. Even 
  at rest, his posture is that of a coiled spring, ready to explode into 
  motion at an instant's warning.

Faanshi's gaze lingers on the blade -- but that is all the attention she 
  permits herself to exhibit towards it. "In Avalon," she murmurs after a 
  time, "the women carry weapons like the men do. I... do not know... if I 
  could do such a thing, Imphada... I-I become... ill when I am around a hurt 
  person... until I can heal them." Slowly, then, her gaze lifts up once more. 
  "But... the warrior Khalil... accepts this in you... I... do not think that 
  I am so fortunate..." Her voice cracks, just a little, and those eyes -- all 
  that is visible of her countenance behind the veil -- grow suspiciously 
  liquid.

"Faanshi," Nasri says. She taps the hilt of the sword again. "This isn't for 
  everyone, and you're not sher. You can't be what you're not, nor can you not 
  be what you are. And if your man does not accept such a blessed gift...I'm 
  sorry, I truly am, but he is a fool."

Two figures sit near the fountain, both female: one is dressed in the silks of 
  a proper Khalida servant, and is properly veiled too. A young dog crouches 
  at her side, whining when she forgets to scritch it. The other woman sits 
  tailor-style across from her, a sheathed sword across her lap, and is 
  unveiled. And bareheaded. And wearing a choli -- cloth wrapped to be like 
  trousers rather than like the skirts of a sari. The two converse, and the 
  latter -- that would be Nasri -- glances up at the newcomer. She takes in 
  his clothing, his demeanour, the way he carries his shoulders, and there is 
  a smile in her eyes although her expression remains grave. She dips her head 
  and shoulders in a polite bow which nonetheless allows her to keep her eyes 
  on him. Wary, this one is. "Shikmai, saiy'd," she says.

In a tiny, mournful voice, Faanshi answers, "It is not my gift that he 
  rejects... o-or does not understand... he asked me to come to Avalon... to 
  heal his people. It is... our ways, Imphada..." The halfbreed maiden hangs 
  her head and admits unhappily, "He invited me to meet his eyes with mine, 
  and--" The moment Nasri's attention diverts, however, she goes rigid. And 
  silent. A dainty sungolden hand flies up to the place where her mouth must 
  be, behind that veil.

The play of light and shadows in the courtyard of Atesh-Gah are re-ordered 
  with the entrance of the Agni-Haidar warrior Haroun. Clad from head to toe 
  in jet-black armor and clothing, his face hidden beneath his helm and silk 
  mask, he is like a fragment of liquid shadow, suddenly deciding to detach 
  itself from the walls, to move about in the world of light and life. Haroun 
  almost seems to appear in the courtyard, rather than walking into it, his 
  visored gaze sweeping left and right across the grounds to take in 
  everything before him. The only splash of color upon him comes from the 
  golden lion hilt of the wickedly curved falcare at his belt, and in the 
  whites of his dark eyes as they settle upon each of the two women.

Nasri is likely the only one to meet this man's gaze openly as she raises her 
  eyes to meet his, curious about the manner of his gearing. The mask seems to 
  be what's attracting her attention; she's never seen that on an Agni-Haidar 
  before.

Faanshi's show of obeisance to the warrior is prompt. Much to Kosha's dismay, 
  she shifts position there where she'd sat upon the ground, coming up to her 
  knees and dislodging the dog from his place half-curled against her lap. 
  Both her hands come up to clasp at her breast, and her head bows over them 
  into the deferential posture of a well-trained servant maiden. "Namaste', 
  imphadi," is her only greeting, delivered in a humble tone. The dog, though, 
  does lift up his brown gaze to the man, his posture shifting, too. Unlike 
  Faanshi's, however, his is openly alert. Perhaps this near-grown pup is her 
  guardian?

Haroun settles his gaze upon Nasri, nodding hius head slowly in 
  acknowledgement of her greeting. A simple, but respectful gesture... though 
  his eyes linger overlong on the sword stretched across the woman's lap. He 
  is indeed masked, a custom usually seen only on those who dwell in the deep 
  desert, but this Agni-Haidar wears one as well. The effect is a little 
  unsettling, as if an Agni-Haidar needed any help in looking even more 
  imposing. There is nothing to be seen of his face other than his eyes.
From the way he's moving, though, there doesn't appear to be any threat to his 
  actions. He is simply making his way into the courtyard. To what purpose 
  remains a mystery as yet. But he makes no move to approach the women, nor to 
  do more than marginally acknowledge their presence.
Haroun turns his gaze from the armed woman to regard the shudra, and in a 
  rather uncharacteristic gesture, he motions with one hand for her to desist 
  her supplication. Not necessary with this one, it would seem.

Nasri continues to watch him with the sort of quiet intensity of someone who 
  is studying an action of particular fascination. Her gaze flicks down to the 
  lion-headed pommel of his sword and then back up to his shoulders and face 
  again, and her expression is of respect in return. There is no fear in her 
  -- none, absolutely none -- but there is that respect. She recognizes him as 
  a true warrior, and not as a man simply pretending the part. He is, after 
  all, one of Atar's own, and in her experience the god does not make a 
  warrior halfway. She smiles at Haroun's gesture and looks at Faanshi, 
  curious as to what her reaction will be.

Haroun, for his part, seems more or less unconcerned by the presence of the 
  two women, and even less caring of what their perceptions of -him- might be. 
  There was, however, and unmistakeable sense of appraisal in his gaze as he 
  swept it over them. But now, he makes his way to one end of the courtyard, a 
  respectful distance away from the fountain. Close enough to hear any 
  conversation louder than a whisper, but not so close as to be intruding upon 
  them. He finds a place near the base of one of the willows, and drops 
  himself down into a kneeling position, adjusting his falcare as he does so. 
  Resting back comfortably on his haunches, Haroun reaches up to unbuckle his 
  helm, and pulls it from his head, followed by unwrapping his mask and 
  setting it beside the helmet. Unmasked, he is a less indomitable figure 
  perhaps, but with his face, he doesn't exactly look more friendly. He takes 
  a deep breath, and then clasps his fists together just above his navel, eyes 
  tracking upwards to take in the night sky. A long, slow, deep breath expands 
  his broad chest, and is then let out slowly.

Ah, she's seen this before. Nasri nods, perhaps to herself, and returns her 
  attention to her shy, veiled companion. "You were saying, Faanshi?" She says 
  this quietly; it is an unconscious reaction around someone who is 
  meditating. Although, if Haroun is anything like Khalil, the sky could be 
  slupring up the earth like a thirsty calf at its mother's teat and he 
  wouldn't notice it for his meditation. "Did you meet his eyes?"

A good servant does not raise her eyes to her betters -- but she does keep 
  track of their gestures, and so, Haroun's gesture to Faanshi does not go 
  unnoted. She bobs her blue-saried head once to him in acknowledgement, does 
  another little bow over her clasped hands, and only then does she shift 
  slowly out of the position of deference. For a few moments, the maiden seems 
  at something of a loss, perhaps thrown off her stride by the arrival of an 
  unmistakable male authority figure. She does settle back down on the ground 
  again, but gingerly, as if she now half-expects a dagger to poke her from 
  between the cobblestones. "Y... yes, Imphada," she murmurs. Nervously, she 
  turns her attention back to the other young woman. "He has beautiful eyes... 
  but... but I... saw him without his shirt on, and--" Even with that veil in 
  place, it's obvious when a blush of red tinges her entire visage. 
  Half-wondering whether the warrior over there might hear her conversation, 
  she's resumed speaking in a whisper, and now seems rather hard-pressed to 
  complete her thoughts.

Strange it is, that men with such a legendary capacity for swift, brutal 
  violence can be so contemplative, as well. Is one linked with the other, or 
  are they perhaps at odds, a battle each of the Agni-Haidar must fight within 
  himself, each day? Haroun's demeanor gives no clue to the answer to this 
  question, unfortunately. He simply holds himself in his meditative posture, 
  fists clasped before him, coal-black eyes upon the skies above him, his 
  breathing slow, deep, regular.

Nasri cants her head. She leans forward slightly, palms on her knees, 
  half-mindful of the dog, and says, "it sounds very nice." She smiles, and 
  then the smile fades. "But you're afraid." Strangely enough, the presence of 
  the meditating Agni-Haidar comforts rather than unnerves her. It seems a 
  natural part of this place: look, Nasri, something /expected/ is happening. 
  Like the twilight rainfall in the jungle.

The thought of this still as of yet unnamed not-Varati, this maker of nations 
  who apparently possesses beautiful eyes, is bringing out even more of a 
  shyness in the shudra maiden than Nasri has thus far seen from her. Now 
  Faanshi cannot even manage a vocal reply; all she does by way of response is 
  to bob her head. Her hands seek out the comfort of her puppy again, 
  distracting Kosha from his measuring inspection of Haroun. Apparently 
  content that the fellow isn't about to do something untoward to his 
  mistress, the young dog returns with a ready will to the duty he'd just had 
  interrupted: warming Faanshi's lap with as much of him as will fit in it. 
  His hindquarters nevertheless drape off the side of her leg, his tail 
  wagging back and forth.

Dogs. So blindly loyal. Kosha is very sweet, but Nasri eyes the beast with 
  some unconscious distrust anyway. She says, softly, "you're not trying to 
  punish yourself for something, are you, Faanshi?"

"I... I do not understand what you mean, Imphada," the halfbreed mumbles.

Deep breath follows deep breath, until the Agni-Haidar seems to have settled 
  body, mind and soul into whatever state he wants them to be in, and then a 
  long, slow, deep breath is let out, his shoulders relaxing somewhat, into a 
  state that could be called relaxed. For an Agni-Haidar, anyway. A normal 
  person might call it rigid, but no one ever called the Lions of Fire normal. 
  With this subtle change in his posture, Haroun also takes the time to look 
  around the courtyard a little more, apparently waiting for something to 
  happen. The way he keeps his eyes on the eastern horizon, he seems to be 
  awaiting the rising sun, the embodiment of Atar himself.

"Well," Nasri to Faanshi quietly. "It seems to me you're not letting this 
  happen."
The girl adds, "is it because you are honorbound to your mistress, or to Atar?"

Troubledly, Faanshi peeks over at Nasri again. Half-hidden though her 
  countenance might be, still, the painful uncertainty of her gaze is 
  apparent. She thinks of closing her eyes, but behind her eyes is lurking the 
  memory of a bare, broad pair of shoulders... far less dangerous to keep her 
  eyes open. "The Most High bade me serve Imphada Kiera," she murmurs, trying 
  to sound as resolute as possible. "Therefore... I serve Imphada Kiera. When 
  she is not here... while the sickness threatens..." Her voice roughens 
  again, but she keeps speaking. "I serve the Atarvani while I-I learn to 
  control my magic. That... that is the way of things."

Nasri nods sympathetically. "The bond is often hard to obey."

Haroun seems to be content to wait out the rising of the sun from where he is, 
  and given that there's some time before that happens, he cannot help but 
  turn his gaze to the two women, catching a few snippets of their 
  conversation. For the moment, however, he simply watches, nothing more.

Is the sword-maiden beginning to understand? Hoping so, Faanshi breathes in a 
  sigh of something like relief, lets it out again. "Yes... yes, Imphada. The 
  path of the Son of the Dawn is harsh... but I follow it, willingly...!" 
  There is no further mention of this man with beautiful eyes; apparently, as 
  far as the shudra is concerned, he cannot be allowed to be an option.

Nasri rises to her feet, noiseless and graceful, her left hand easing the 
  sheathed sword to rest at her side as it should. She touches Faanshi's 
  shoulder. "I must go find the priests for my morning lesson. Be well, 
  Faanshi, and may the future bring you the happiness you seek." She thinks, 
  /that's the other funny thing about gods. They always do what you least 
  expect. And you don't expect your man, do you, Faanshi?/ The bare-headed 
  girl smiles to herself and glances over to the meditating Agni-Haidar. 
  Seeing that he is, indeed, not meditating, she nods to him once more. 
  "Shikmai," she murmurs again, this time in parting. Turning, she pads 
  stealthily along a path that dips below the sheltering branches of willow 
  trees; a few remaining silver and gold leaves drag along her hair and 
  shoulders, welcoming her into their embrace. The shadows have her: she is 
  gone.
Nasri leaves the garden fountain and steps back into the main courtyard.
Nasri has left.

[End log.]