"Sarazen is Summoned Forth"

Log Date:
	1/20/99

Log Cast:
	Khalid Atar, warriors of the Agni-Haidar (NPCs), Hashim (as
played by Faanshi)

Log Intro:
	The Varati hosts have thronged into the lands of the Empyre to 
make war upon the Children of Air -- and among their vast numbers are the
warriors of a lesser kshatri Clan, Sarazen, led by the Warlord Hashim.
In recent years this Clan has been strangely quiet amongst the Varati
people, the only word of them hinting at the dour, ascetic habits of he
who is their leader. Loyally has Sarazen brought its troops to war as the
God-King Khalid Atar has bidden... but the matter of their strange silence
is enough to raise even divine eyebrows.
	And thus the Hawk of Heaven sees fit to call Hashim into his
presence one night -- much to the dismay of a man who has spent the last
seventeen years with a secret which may well damn him in the eyes of his 
god increasingly nagging at his conscience, his heart, and his soul....

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Evening
          Date on Aether:  Friday, January 27, 3904.
           Year on Earth:  1504 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Gibbous
                  Season:  Winter
                 Weather:  Clouds
             Temperature:  Cold
*==========================================================================*

You head north, to the Amir's tent.
Tent - Varati Camp - Somewhere in the Empyre(#2117RFJnh)

     Though all which surrounds the God-King should, and usually does, speak 
  reverently of his stature and position, this, his war tent, only whispers. 
  The God-King does not travel in this war with his entire retinue of people 
  or trappings, but his quarters are quality and, in their way, lovely to look 
  at. The material of his tent is fine-woven, water-tight and dyed to please 
  the eye. Its structure is elegant, notable, but without undue 
  pretentiousness. The Khalid-Atar's mobile desk, his bedding, is of fine 
  quality, but practical. Suitable. The area is less cluttered, more roomy, 
  than other tents, but never-the-less, space is conserved pragmatically, 
  effectiveness being far more desirable than impressiveness. 
Contents:
Khalid
Obvious exits:
Out <O>

Khalid
     The first angel. The fallen angel. The god-king of the Varati. Khalid 
  Atar. This figure may be all of these things, but he is much more than 
  simple phrases or religious ideals. He is power incarnate; the living legend 
  of fire and immortality made flesh and bone.
     Standing just over six feet in height, he is perhaps shorter and slighter 
  of build than most of his people. Yet this seems to suit him; he has no need 
  for great physical stature. His dusky-hued body is more than fit; it is 
  leanly muscular, cut to perfection. Raven black hair cascades down his back, 
  wavy and full, reaching nearly to his waist. But it is the eyes, the eyes 
  that draw true attention. At odds with his dark complexion, they are matched 
  flames of crystal blue; burning stars of the fiery night. Uncontrolled and 
  unpredictable emotion rages in those cold blue eyes - mirth and deadly humor 
  mix freely with fierce, ruthless passion. Those eyes are framed in a 
  handsome face; a noble, determined countenance, marred only by the brooding 
  lines that furrow his brows. The final stroke on this masterpiece are the 
  ebony-stained wings; strong and sleek, they extend from his back in all 
  their dark, regal beauty.
     A snow-white tunic provides contrast with the rich brown of his skin; its 
  banded collar embroidered with an intricate geometric pattern in gold and 
  blue. Its loose sleeves, cuffed tightly at the wrists with more gold and 
  blue embroidery, billow free of the sleeveless jerkin. Black breeches hug 
  his legs, simple in cut but made of richly textured, thick silk, and are 
  tucked into solid boots of fine leather, their cuffs worked with an elegant 
  design of gilt-edge vines. A sash of white and gold is wound around another 
  sash--royal blue--which is wrapped around his waist. A long curved sword, 
  crafted out of what appears to be ebony, is thrust through the sash. It is 
  complemented by a smaller matching ebony blade and a silver-tipped whip, 
  both of which also ride at the hip. A crown-circlet rests atop his forehead, 
  holding back wisps of unruly hair.

Hashim
     Standing at 6'6", this man possesses a powerful build to go along with 
  his height, a bulky frame beneath dark bronze skin that proclaims to all who 
  might behold him that he is without a doubt of the blood of the Varati. 
  Morever, a Varati Warlord, for he is never far from weapons openly carried 
  upon his person -- a starkly designed sword and a pair of daggers to match 
  it. He is not a young man; the streaks of gray in his long black hair and 
  mustache attest to his advancing years. But he is also not an old one, and 
  he moves as a warrior whose fitness is undiminished by his age. His black 
  eyes, set in a weathered and forbidding countenance, look with a typically 
  dour regard out at the world around him. Haik, tunic, silwar, and boots of 
  the colors of Clan Sarazen, black, gold, and emerald, are his garb; along 
  with these, he wears brigandine armor and gauntlets.

It has been two days since the grand army has penetrated Empyrean 
  lines. No resist was given or met by the Varati forces. Surprising, perhaps, 
  or may not. Which such a large force as this one, it would take another 
  'grand army' to defeat it in the field. Anything less would be a waste of 
  men and supplies.

Khalid resides within the tent. He is seated at a desk, apparently reviewing 
  maps and scrolls. Fierce blue eyes are hooded as he inspects the information 
  presented by his scouts. You stand on the doorway to that tent, having been 
  summoned and escorted by the silver and black clad Agni-Haidar.

To look upon him, one would not necessarily guess that Hashim of Clan 
  Sarazen is nervous. Tall and powerfully built, clad in the colors of his 
  clan and armor more notable for its signs of use and excellent fit to his 
  frame than its ornamentation -- for it has none -- Sarazen's Warlord enters 
  the tent with a steady, confident stride. Summoned, escorted, he'd already 
  controlled his flash of inner panic at the arrival of the Agni-Haidar in his 
  sector of the encampment. Only now, when he enters the tent of the Amir-al, 
  do the man's dark eyes betray the faintest glimmer of unease. But this is 
  the only sign that all might not be well with him, for as soon as he enters, 
  he immediately kneels before Khalid Atar's seated figure. "Sarazen offers 
  its greetings and awaits your word, Most High," his voice rumbles forth.

It takes a moment or two for Khalid to acknowledge your presence, but 
  when he does finally, it is with a raise of his head and the flicker of 
  those powerful, fierce blue eyes. Like a hawk examining its prey, the 
  Amir-al surveys your form and figure for long, silent moments, before he 
  speaks, "Rise, Warlord." Deft hands begin to roll up the maps and scrolls as 
  he continues to watch you.

Duly bidden, the Warlord rises to his feet. He is not a young man, but 
  he is not an old one either -- Hashim might not move with the liquid grace 
  of a boy, but what he lacks in youth's fluidity, he possesses in controlled 
  power, and he is standing within two breaths of his having received leave to 
  do so. He settles into an at-ease stance, fixing his gaze upon a safe and 
  neutral spot upon the wall of the tent. Once he is on his feet, he rumbles 
  only, "How may Sarazen serve, O Khalid?"

In the background, the dreaded Agni-Haidar stand ready, watching. They 
  are monsters out of legend. Their failures are barely remember, for it one 
  could count on one hand the times the death guard of Khalid Atar have 
  failed. More than one Warlord has fallen under their blades and all Warlords 
  fear their presence.

Huge, powerful black wings stretch somewhat, as Khalid Atar rises from his 
  perch upon the chair. "You will walk with me. And while you walk, you will 
  tell me of how your Clan does. It has been sometime since I have talked with 
  one from Sarazen."

All Warlords fear the Agni-Haidar, indeed. For Hashim, their presence 
  in the tent is a prickle of constant trepidation somewhere between his 
  shoulderblades, an awareness that their unfathomable gazes absorb and record 
  his every move. Nevertheless, their presence behind him is nothing compared 
  to the presence before him. As his God-King rises, a brief, hard swallow 
  ripples down the dark bronzed throat of the Warlord. His voice turned a 
  trifle rougher, he nevertheless respectfully inclines his head, and 
  unflinchingly replies, "As the Khalid commands."

Rising to his full height and stature, which is actually below your 
  own in physical measurements, if not power or sheer aura, Khalid smoothly 
  moves towards the exit. Pausing for a moment, he points towards a small sack 
  set at the entrance and intones, "Bring this along with you." As his black 
  wings fold against his back once more, he instructs the Agni-Haidar, "Leave 
  us. We will be walking alone for a time."

Hashim has never really conceived that his deity and ruler does not 
  match his physical stature. Even now, the man seems to look only in the 
  direction of the Amir-al when he speaks, and never quite truly _at_ him, so 
  this may well be why he has never registered such details. _Walking... 
  alone?_ Hashim thinks to himself, with a chill of nervousness striking 
  somewhere within his breast. Grateful for the distraction of the Khalid's 
  bidding -- for it gives him an opportunity to reconquer his composure -- the 
  Warlord once more nods, and steps to fetch the indicated sack set before 
  preparing to follow his Lord.

The weather is not as bad as it has been in recent days; there are 
  clouds and it is cold, but at least it is not snowing. Khalid's boots crunch 
  upon the tightly packed ice and snow of prior storms as his wings unfurl to 
  claim the cool, crisp air. Tossing his head back, obviously in enjoyment of 
  the pleasures of the outdoors, he questions, "So tell me, Warlord, do you 
  study your surahs often?"

Under the weight of the sack he lifts, Hashim does not stagger -- his 
  arms are strong, and once he has his burden into the best possible position 
  for carrying it for however long he might be bidden, he shows very little 
  effort at the bearing. Only when he'd lifted the sack did his bronzed and 
  weathered features crinkle for a moment, at the smell of what is within it: 
  fresh meat. But this, too, is no difficulty for a Warlord. He takes a 
  deferential position just beside and behind the Khalid, within easy 
  conversational range, but keeps his strides paced to match those of the One 
  he follows. "Daily, Most High," is his reply, his breath coming forth to 
  curl round his head, pale tendrils of white that join with the streaks of 
  gray in his long hair and mustache to set off their black hue.

"Tell me of the seventh surah then, Warlord. How does it apply to 
  others in this world. Those who are not Varati? Perhaps the Empyreans? 
  Perhaps the shudra?" There is a twist to his tone, a coloring of emotion in 
  his voice. Khalid's back is to you and it therefore is impossible to read 
  his expression or even those usually expressive blue eyes. His right hand 
  casually falls to the hilt of his whip.

For the space of a heartbeat, Hashim knows another ripple of fear. 
  _Shudra_. The word hangs in his consciousness, seared there, unbanishable. 
  Once more a hard swallow courses down the muscled length of his throat, and 
  despite the chill in the air, the Warlord fancies himself uncomfortably 
  warm. Hastily he pretends to shift his burden to cover his moment of dread, 
  and then he manages in gruff tones, "The seventh surah is that of respect. 
  As the Khalid has taught us, we must bestow even upon the kafir respect and 
  honor... even unto the Empyreans. Clan Sarazen will do honorable battle with 
  them. We will not kill their women or children, or harm their aged or 
  infirm."

For a single moment, it appears as if Khalid has slowed in his pace. 
  Was it when you paused? Or perhaps when you spoke those first few words? "I 
  see, Warlord," comes that soft murmured reply. He lapses into silence as he 
  climbs the hill towards his goal. And that goal is the Wyvern Queen. -His- 
  Wyvern Queen. A more majestic beast has never seen the light of day on 
  Aether. At least not in the last couple of decades. It is huge, like a 
  dragon and ferocious in its power and grandness. A stead of a god. Its wings 
  beat once as it sees the approaching pair. "So Warlord, what are your 
  feelings on this war?"

Something within Hashim's gut twists oddly. Acutely aware that Khalid 
  Atar shows him remarkable honor this night by asking for his company, he is 
  nevertheless increasingly discomfited, feeling out of place, vulnerable. 
  Only a lifetime of rigid self-discipline keeps his inner turmoil out of his 
  expression and voice, as he answers the bestowed honor of his Lord's inquiry 
  the only way he knows how. This, at least, is a truth he can bear to speak 
  in the presence of his entirely unexpected Companion. "Our cause is just, 
  Amir-al. The kafir have their place in the order of existence -- we fight 
  for the place which is ours."

"And what is our place? Why do we wage this war, specifically 
  Warlord?" Khalid has yet to turn around or look in your direction since this 
  journey began. "Hush," he whispers to the Queen who has begun to claw at the 
  dirt with huge, powerful talons. Snarling and hissing, she bares her 
  tooth-filled maw as black eyes deepen in their hunger and aggression. She 
  does somewhat settle down as the God-King begins to stroke her long, 
  graceful neck. "Come, Warlord. Open the sack."

The sight of the great wyvern Queen's baleful regard for a moment, 
  just for a moment, gives Hashim pause. But he dares not flag in obeying his 
  Lord's request, and never mind that the Queen might take off an arm of his 
  along with the meal he now knows that he has brought her. _That_ idea 
  touches off a strange kind of calm inside him: _I cannot let her wound me, 
  for surely I would not return in time to..._ No -- he will not think of 
  _that_. Besides, could he truly keep the Queen from taking his limb, if the 
  Khalid willed it so? _Does he -know-?_ Now, a hint of his trepidation 
  flickers across the face of Hashim, as the Warlord begins to bring forth the 
  fresh meat for the wyvern Queen. "Our place," he rumbles as soon as he's 
  seized his errant thoughts, "is beneath the sun, along with Atlantean and 
  Sylvan... and Empyrean. Our place is to live outside of darkness, O Khalid."

"Ah, this is so?" Khalid's lips curve into a faint smile and it is 
  difficult to see if he is pleased or displeased with the answer. "Are you so 
  unambitious, Warlord?" Keeping a steady hand on the Queen's neck, he 
  instructs, "Feed her, Warlord. But beware. She has a...large appetite." A 
  long, serpentine tongue slithers out of the beast's mouth, even as saliva 
  begins to coat her jaws.

Taken aback by the Khalid's inquiry about _himself_, Hashim blurts 
  unthinkingly, "I desire naught for myself, Most High..." His dark gaze is 
  now riveted upon the creature before him, as he hauls out a sizeable handful 
  of the meat from within the sack and holds it forth for the Queen's 
  consumption. Never mind that the stuff now rests steaming cradled in his 
  gauntleted palms. Gauntlets can be cleaned.

Jagged rows of bleach white teeth are exposed as the Queen snatches a 
  piece of meat from your hands. She chomps down heartily on it and waits to 
  be fed another. Interestingly enough, she is mostly careful of your limbs. 
  Perhaps from extensive training. For awhile, Khalid simply watches the 
  scene, contented not to interrupt. He finally explains, "I meant for our 
  people. The Varati are the chosen, Warlord. They will stand first. Once you 
  have finished feeding her, set aside the sack and draw your blades. I think 
  it is time for another lesson." His remarks are ripe with emotion and there 
  is a dangerous play to those blue eyes.

Once more, long decades of control give Hashim the ability to focus 
  his attention, to keep the dread in his belly staying down there where it 
  cannot escape to overwhelm him, to feed the mount of the Amir-al. He cannot 
  help, howe ver, flashing a startled glance to the One beside him, as he 
  holds forth another haunch for the Queen to seize and swallow. Only when the 
  sack has been emptied does the Warlord murmur huskily, "As the Khalid 
  commands." _Draw... upon Khalid Atar?_ The thought quite obviously does not 
  sit well with the man, even as he obeys the order. The sack is set aside. A 
  rag is pulled out from a pouch at his belt, to swiftly wipe his gauntlets, 
  to make sure he can securely grasp his weapons. His sword is unsheathed, 
  with a *sh-h-k* of metal against leather. The dagger at his left wrist is 
  flicked down into his gauntleted hand.

Hissing again, the Wyvern Queen regards you with furious, black eyes. 
  She growls and paws at the ground, obviously sensing your fear. And it is 
  weakness. To be exploited. You are prey to her...yet with a single, snarled 
  word from Khalid Atar, she backs down and lowers her wings. There is the 
  soft whisper of those divine blades being drawn against silk as both right 
  and left hands find their weapons. "So Warlord, let me ask you this -- how 
  far does your ambition reach? Truely?"

_He means this. By the Holy Fire, am I to be struck down at last...?_ 
  Already in a combat-ready stance, the sword and dagger poised to defend 
  should the Khalid choose to strike first, Hashim rasps in tones made more 
  fervent by the fear within him, "It reaches to help bring our people to our 
  rightful place, Most High..." The politically -- and in this case, 
  religiously -- correct answer, perhaps. Now, though, the heaven-blue eyes of 
  the Khalid are upon him. Now, Hashim does not dare look anywhere else but at 
  Him. And in doing so, he dares utter nothing but truth.

"And what if an enemy was weak? Tell me what you would do then?" These 
  words are only the prelude to the attack. The real attack. Blades whirl 
  inward in a fury of blackness, guided by the hand of a creature that has 
  been responsible for the deaths of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. 
  Perhaps millions. Khalid is atop you in moments, yet he does not press the 
  advantage, but only guides his attacks into forcing you into a defensive 
  position.

*Clang!* Black blades meet those of mortal steel, and for the moments 
  of the initial rush, Hashim is hard-pressed merely to keep the weapons of 
  the Khalid away from his vital places. But defend himself he does, for all 
  that the speed and strength with which he must react brings a sheen of sweat 
  to his dark brow. "If my enemy is weak, Amir-al," he gasps, "then I deliver 
  unto him... a swift death blow... for to do otherwise goes against four of 
  the surahs."

Chuckling low, a sound that is barely heard above the clash of 
  weapons, Khalid hisses out, "Is that so? And where do your eyes wander to? 
  You have not called a Clan Jihad in sometime." Stone meets steal, 
  unbreakable stone with a razor's edge, forces back those mortal blades. It 
  is incredible that he moves so well, with those large black wings. Easy 
  targets, one would think, yet this is not so. They move with fluid grace, 
  showing that he has mastered even his weaknesses and turned them to his 
  advantage. For with a dip of ebon feathers and a twist of wing, he is able 
  to pivot faster and more easily than any other.

[Unfortunately, this scene was never finished -- but I save it here for
 posterity. -- Faanshi's player, 10/5/00]