"In the Wake of the Storm" Log Date: 11/12/99 Log Cast: Samein, Faanshi, assorted shudras (NPCs emitted by Samein and Faanshi) Log Intro: Haven is a chaotic place even on its calmest days, full of the bustling life of five different races. But there is a different kind of chaos that many do not have the gifts to sense, much less use: the chaos of the aether, from which all mages draw their power. Most of the time, this vast unseen sea of energy is quiescent enough, tamely submitting to the will of mages of all kinds to shape, to heal, to See. But like the sea of the physical world, it is subject to its storms. And with no more warning than troubling visions that come to those with clairvoyance, a massive storm of aether sweep across the magic-users of Haven. With force that warps and twists the natural order of their powers, it hits the seers, the elementals, the shapers... and the healers. Including one young shudra halfbreed who feels her magic rage in a way it has not done since she was freed from the Clan that birthed her.... ---------- Night has fallen, and the chaos has passed, for the time being. Exhaustion hangs in the air like a tangible thing, and this exhaustion brings Samein stumbling into view like a bit of tumbleweed. The old mage is supported by a white-robed novice, an Esper whose power was perhaps too miniscule to sweep him away. He moves along on his own legs, but barely. Why he is beyond his bed is uncertain, but his eyes sweep the area with an unsettling clarity, looking for something. Faanshi had wanted to take shelter at the shrine of Ushas. She did not, however, make it that far. Still, even the garden surrounding the fountain south of that secluded grotto is a spot of relative calm, now that darkness has fallen and the storms that have ripped through the fabric of the aether have subsided. Little can be heard in this secluded spot besides the faint chirp of insects who, oblivious to the magical disturbances that have swept across the city, are going about their usual night-time cycle of life... little, that is, aside from the whines of a decidedly anxious dog. Kosha stands uneasy watch over a figure in red and blue and gold silks, who lies crumpled in a ball upon the earth near the foot of a willow tree. A swath of blue gauze -- Faanshi's veil -- lies discarded nearby on the grass, and the girl's sari has fallen away to reveal unbound and thoroughly tangled wavy ebony hair. Faanshi What is she? The most obvious thing to draw the eye to this maiden, the crowning ebon glory that is her hair must surely come straight from the Children of Fire -- and so, too, must the hue of her skin, a warm dark gold that speaks of the blaze of Ashur Masad's light upon generations of her forebears. Yet she is paler than many Varati, and standing as she does at only 5'9", she is small for a woman of that race. With a slender, delicate build that makes her seem in form akin to a young tree, she can be judged too dainty to pass easily for Varati or even Mongrel. Shy or simply trained to submissive silence she must be, for she rarely raises her eyes to anyone unless specifically bidden, and she speaks so seldom and so softly that it is nigh impossible to determine the nature of her voice. And she carries herself such that the thick curly mass of her black hair seems to serve as a natural veil, hiding much of her countenance from easy view -- but when she does chance to peek out from behind the strands that fall across her face, the clearest of signs that the Children of Earth also had a hand in her making can be seen. Her eyes, set at an un-Varati-ish slant, are the color of summer leaves... and unmistakably Sylvan. She is simply clad, her garments of humble make but excellent repair, perhaps the clothing of a servant whose household garbs even its servants well. Her choli is a bright shade of red; her silwar, bright blue. A darker blue sari with gold trim is wrapped about her slender frame, and a veil of translucent light blue silken stuff conceals the lower half of her face from easy view. On her feet are a penniless shudra's version of boots -- several rags of blue, red, and gold cloth tied there and there along her calves, ankles and feet, held in place by the long thongs of her sandals. Samein mutters in a low, raspy voice to his attendant, something about the verification of a vision. The studen, seemingly quite eager to learn whatever he may, nods eagerly, seeming a bit awed. He helps the old man over to the crumpled ball of silks, and at Samein's twice-repeated request, the old man is lowered to sit on the ground next to you. You feel a gaunt hand, running slow fingers through your hair. Kosha growls uncertainly as the two come near his huddled mistress, but once he realizes that the old man appears to have peaceful intentions, he resumes his own gentle nuzzlings of that tangled raven hair. Now that Samein and his escort have come close, it might be noted that Faanshi's now unbound tresses, spilling out over her huddled form in a curtain of night, are soaked with sweat; the scalp beneath them is radiating enough heat to be felt even through the thick layer of hair. At the contact, the girl groans tinily, a tremor shooting through her shoulders, but she does not otherwise yet move. Samein settles himself rather restlessly into place, his fingers running through her hair once again. He looks up, then, giving a quietly muttered instruction to the man who brought him. Sending for help of sorts, certainly. Although the old man seems quite exhausted, when his fingers touch your neck there is a spark there, a flow of pure, benevolant and controlled energy flowing to you like a trickle of water to one dying of thirst. The moment power begins to flow into her, it is obvious that Faanshi's body is flooded with pain. Fever caused by no natural illness heats her blood, and it seems that each and every inch of her skin is charged with too much sensation for a single person to bear. The halfbreed girl twitches spasmodically when your magic begins its work; her own does not seem to immediately reply, her reaction purely physical for the time being, her body first shying away as though in severe agony before accepting the first promises of relief this new energy is bringing her. Samein's hand shifts, pressed lightly now against your cheek. He is hovering above you, apparently just short of falling, even his cheeks slack with fatigue. But still that thin trickle of restoration continues, drawn forth from the decimated remains of his own deep well of power. The younger man has disappeared now, and you and Samein are alone in the oppressive stillness of the night, only the combined labored breathing of the two humans, combined with the stirrings of dog and insect breaking the monotony. As Faanshi's face is reached she winds up on her side, her unveiled features now open to full view, the mixed nature of her blood now clearly apparent, With her hair in wild disarray, it can also be noted that the one ear in view is misshapen, smaller than it should be, its top heavily scarred. A shuddering breath creeps out of her then, and her eyes creep open as she turns her head towards the fingers giving her blessed surcease from pain. As of yet there registers no recognition in her gaze, her eyes darkly febrile against the pallor of her sweat-streaked skin. Seeing her stir, Kosha lets out a tiny hopeful yip, a surprisingly high-pitched sound for a dog his size. Samein's hand grasps your shoulder then, rolling you over towards him, half-leaning against his folded legs. He peers down at your face, considering for a moment the aftermath of the storm. A muttered Varati curse could be heard, old and heavily accented. The old man swabs at your brow with his hand, the strength of his limited effort waning already. He is so low in energy himself. Moved, the maiden utters a noise half-sigh and half-whimper, and as soon as her face is turned up Kosha nudges in to try to lick her unveiled cheek. It is the dog that finally seems to rouse her; Faanshi's gaze focuses, and she breathes in husky relief, "Kosha..." Only then does one green eye peer up around the dog nose half-obscuring her vision, to find the seamed face looking down upon her own. "Sa... mein... sir... I...!" Something that might be alarm and might be frantic relief makes her try to sit up, but too soon for her currently fragile strength. Samein shushes you softly, his own frail hand pressing on your shoulder, encouraging you to remain where you are. "No need for that. I... suspected that you were in a bad way. Worse even than me." He gives a wry grin. It was somewhat obvious from the pause that 'suspected' was an inaccurate word. Samein is plagued by visions even now. Between the hand pressing against her flesh and the canine still determinedly licking her face, Faanshi cannot yet quite manage the resolve to sit up. "I... do not... feel very well," is all she admits, in what seems to be her habitual stoicism despite the lack of even her normal soft volume to her voice. She is speaking now barely above a whisper. "A-are you all right, acarya? Imphada Kiera... everyone else...?" Again alarmed, she tries to rise. Samein again gently restrains you, holding on to your shoulders and making soft sounds of attempted calm. "I am.. as well as I shall be. As with all of the others. Be still. You have suffered perhaps more than most. Better help than I is on the way. Mundane healers are more useful now. That, and sleep." He grins wryly, reaching up to touch your cheek. "But I think you shall be fine. The storm has passed, has it not?" Where Faanshi's Sylvan heritage had been strongly hinted by her eyes, with her veil off it is now unmistakable. There is a delicate cast to her cheekbones that no Varati maiden would have, as though her bones are made of something more frail than the stuff of the bodies of the Children of Fire. And it is the touch of the hand against her cheek that finally makes her realize that that customary swath of gauzy blue is not where it should be, besides. Color floods her cheeks, and with a chagrined gasp she shoots a hand up to her face. Samein smiles wearily down at you, his eyes briefly surveying your face anew. He murmurs quietly, "You are rather pretty without the veil, I must say. As a matter of esteem, most certainly." The old mage is fading fast, now that his direct purpose here is fulfilled, and you seem to be out of danger. He is fairly swaying where he sits, as if about to fall over. "You will be all right, certainly. And... all the rest, I think." He looks up suddenly, staring at the blankness of the night air. Faanshi turns an even more apparent shade of crimson, mumbling in chagrin, "Th-that is what Lyre says..." But she swiftly refocuses her attention upon the here and now, adding plaintively, "You should sleep too..." And the girl starts to try to sit up again, but this time more carefully, one hand reaching up unthinkingly for the support of the strong neck of her loyal dog; Kosha is all too happy to provide this particular duty, a canine smile brightening his attentive visage as his mistress seems to be regaining some semblance of energy and life. This time, Samein does not stop you from sitting up. In fact, he seems quite happy to let the situation reverse itself, slowly lowering himself to lie on his back, still staring out into the night air. He murmurs softly, "Yes... I suppose so. I was asleep when the worst of the storm manifested itself." He gives a soft shudder. "Visions. Too many visions." Faanshi sits up with very slow, very hesitant effort, as if not entirely certain of how her body will continue to behave. As she leans heavily upon her anxious hound -- Kosha now settling for licking her right ear rather than her cheek -- her hair falls in loose dark tresses around her face, hiding the left ear that is as misshapen as the right one. The halfbreed rubs a hand across her eyes, profoundly relieved to discover that her horribly disheveled clothes no longer seem to scald her sense of touch by the sheer simple contact against her body, and the nausea that has haunted her for days has subsided to a manageable level. Her gaze tracks your motions, though, and she repeats uneasily, "Visions, acarya...?" Samein reaches up slowly to rub at his temple, his eyes closing for a moment. There is a fairly long pause before he answers, long enough that one might believe him to have fallen asleep. Finally there is a slow, sleepy murmur, "Visions... visions like those that have been imposed all along. As well of those of you, and several others. A running tally of torments. Not very... pleasant." He falls silent again, and his hand drops down to rest at his belly. The old mage takes a long, deep breath. Visions. Another magic Faanshi at the moment is quite happy she does not possess. Hard enough to have spent the afternoon and much of the evening with her entire body seemingly afire with too much sensation, even individual strands of hair upon her head seeming to scream with the touch of cloth and air upon them. Not entirely certain how to react to the notion that someone besides her dead heart-mother has seen her in visions, she settles for saying instead, "D-do you... think it is... over now, sir?" As she whispers this she begins with awkward motions to try to tame the wavy mass of her hair. It falls to well past her shoulderblades, and without a comb in immediate reach, trying to restore it to its usual braid promises to be a trifle difficult. Samein reaches upwards wearily with one of his hands, his eyes still gently closed. He seems vaguely fascinated with your hair, his fingers drifting along the ends of it, catching lightly at strands and waves. He murmurs wearily, sadly, "No. It is not over. But this part of it is over. There is still a shifting, but.... different. Different." The last is almost a whisper. He repeats again, almost ludicrous in the number of repetitions now, as if convincing himself, "You shall be fine." "I am not important," Faanshi says gravely. Samein's eyes open at last with this, staring upwards once more. You see the familiar scowl creep across his features, something specific to Samein but found surprisingly rarely in his interactions with you. He scoffs quietly, "Nonsense. You have much potential to do good. Perhaps more than I ever did. We must mold the energy of idealism into the prudence of Will." The old man makes an abortive attempt to sit up, and then falls backwards almost immediately, satisfied where he is. Initially, the maiden is distracted by the fingers that play with her hair, peering at them oddly, apparently never having seen someone's hand do that before. Kosha on the other hand seems to think that this is a marvelous game, and while your hand passingly drifts across the ends of those ebon strands, the hound swings his head back around behind Faanshi to nudge at her hair from the other side. Bemused, the girl peers first at you and then at the dog, and it is to the latter that she pipes, sounding uncharacteristically stern, "Stop that, Kosha!" Only then does she add earnestly, wearily, "The Amir-al... the Pasha... Imphada Kiera... you, sir... you are the important ones. I am but a shudra... I do not worry for myself." She pauses, catching her breath and giving up momentarily upon trying to rebraid her hair as long as Kosha's trying to bury his muzzle in it. Then she concludes tinily, "That is why I w-wanted to go to the shrine... though I guess I didn't get that far... I-I could not let myself touch anyone...!" Samein waves his hand slowly in a dismissive gesture, before letting it fall once more. He turns his head a bit to the side, smiling towards the dog, and murmurs, "All of those whom you mentioned are powerful people. They can easily fend for themselves. Why would you need to worry for them, lowly shudra? Worry for yourself." Apparently inspired, his hand lifts itself to resume its fascinated progress in your hair, playing hither and fro with the dog, more deliberately entertaining Kosha too, now. Accustomed as she is to her hair being safely confined in a braid beneath her sari, Faanshi finds herself deeply bemused by the use of it being used for the entertainment of her hound. Even as she tries to peer over her shoulder, Kosha yurfs playfully, his naturally ebullient doggy spirits returning now that his favorite human is more herself. He lets out a *chuff* of air through his black nose and then mock-butts at the old Varati's fingers. "I -- um -- I keep myself clean and healthy," the maiden points out then, as she tries to free at least some of that mass of black from the reach of Kosha's teeth. "Do not the holy surahs of Pride and Self-Reliance teach us that we should, sir? And... and I know that I have a gift and that it is proper that I use it and nurture it... the, the Amir-al caused me to be born with it, and it honors him if I use it as best I can." Wait a minute. Several consecutive sentences, out of Faanshi? Still, aside from the unusual spate of words, this big-eyed halfbreed woman-child appears to have gotten it firmly into her head that the strength of her magic has absolutely nothing to do with her station in life... and that her station in life is to serve. Samein makes that scoffing noise in the back of his throat once more, closing his eyes. Fatigue only adds to his natural bluntness, "The Amir-al had no direct control over your birth, nor your abilities coming to fruition afterwards. Most halfbreeds posess wild magical ability. The ability is a gift from no one, and the ability itself is worse than useless without training. If I gave you a gift, some fantastical machine which I told you had at least as great a chance of killing you or driving you insane as blossoming into a useful mechanism, I think that you might be less than joyful. Magic is luck, or fate, or pure random chance. And no one can /give/ you internal control." Rather interesting words from a former Atarvani. Perhaps the Amir-al himself might be plenty curious to hear them, if he were around. Samein reaches up to pass a hand over his brow. The other hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers splayed, but he does not so actively play with Kosha, now. Rather interesting words indeed, and uncomfortably received. Faanshi lowers her eyes, listening but feeling increasingly ill at ease, and at last she murmurs very quietly, "My heart-mother taught me that the Amir-al and his Holy Father and Holy Mother make us. I am not wise or learned and I do not know. But the Most High delivered me and my heart-mother from the Warlord... so... even if he did not make me... if Ashur Masad and Ushas made me... their Holy Son... made me anew." Strange. The stammer that usually haunts her words has vanished in the simple faith of these statements of hers. But as Faanshi speaks, her voice grows more ragged and tears begin to well up within her eyes. She feels fragile, as though the slightest breath of wind will cause her body to shatter, and there is much in the world she does not understand: why a Sylvan was moved to mate with her mother and sire her. Why a Mongrel bard has been sending her gifts of flowers and sweets and uttering soft compliments to her in his glorious baritone voice. And why now the venerable mage who has begun to try to enlighten her has his hand in her hair and is saying words that sound harsh and unbelieving about the God-King. She cannot find the words to explain that she understands that none can teach her control but herself, not right now. She has just spent several hours trying to keep her own magic from escaping her, turning it inward upon herself to wreak its havoc rather than to harm anyone else she might chance to touch. Because she has done this, she cannot now find the control to keep herself from beginning to cry. Tears have a way of circumventing the flow and the clarity of logical arguments. Whatever additional opinions Samein might have posessed on the subject, whatever rationale to disprove the myths he might have drawn out triumphantly, these things are rather useless now. Besides, he could probably use a good cry himself, and yours is suddenly an enviable position. The old man extracts his hand from your hair and grasps your shoulder, wordlessly pulling you down towards him, to the somewhat limited comfort of an exhausted old mage and the cold ground. But at least Kosha's still there, with more than enough energy to add. Wait, wait, weren't we playing just now? Kosha twitches his ears in consternation as Faanshi, at that silent touch, curls up again again into a silk-clad heap. And while the dog moves to try to snuggle protectively up against her, the maiden simply... cries. The rigid, almost choking control she has exerted over her magic tries to come into play here, too; her tears are not easy ones. Her teeth grit, her eyes clamp shut, and she barely utters a sound as dampness leaks out through her dark lashes. But she is tired, so very tired, and so... she cries. Samein weakly reaches to touch your cheek, as if attempting to brush your tears away, and pulls you slightly against his bony form, offering a somewhat softer place than the ground. He makes quiet soothing sounds, but he does not really move from where he lies, nor is there really much need for it. Mostly the old mage merely lets you have this outlet in relative peace, his nearness tangible, and rather paternally benevolent. Few enough people have allowed Faanshi to cry when she needs to that when such a boon is granted her, she cannot help but succumb to it. And thus, like a small girl in the shelter of her grandfather's hug, she trustingly huddles up against the old mage's offered shoulder. The eldritch heat and crackling pain that her magic had called up her flesh have ebbed, leaving profound weariness in their wake and the occasional residual tremble in the reed-slender form that now lies beside you. Kosha sets himself to keeping another anxious vigil, resting his sizeable head against her free shoulder. And it is thus that the halfbreed and the hound are first spotted by the youth who had been escorting you before, returning to the garden with two more young shudra in his wake. The sight of the disheveled and unveiled maiden curled up in a heap between the arch-magus and the dog is enough to give them pause... but only momentarily, for much has occurred this night to give the staunchest of the servants of the Varati cause for surprise and dismay. Only Kosha sees them coming, however, lifting his head alertly and giving the trio of shudra a stern soft bark of warning that would make any sentry proud. [End log.]