"A Woman's Place"

Log Date:
	6/6/99

Log Cast:
	Thomas, StormBearer, Milane, Faanshi

Log Intro:
	The company of Mongrels led by Thomas Murako has departed from
Haven -- and with them are riding one Sylvan Herald and a halfbreed shudra
healer. It's Faanshi's second journey by land anywhere, and the experience
so far is proving to be full of startling new notions and experiences:
riding on a horse. Beholding for the first time the changes wrought by 
autumn on the leaves of trees. Discovering a Mongrel woman who seems to 
adhere to Varati ways at least in manners and speech. Observing among the
company a camaraderie and equality she has never before witnessed... and
among those who ride at the company's head, a ready willingness to discuss,
even in front of her humble self, matters that seem to her inexperienced
mind to be the weighty, important things that are the stuff of the
conversation of leaders of men.
	Most startling of all, however, is the evidence that the man Faanshi
once knew as a naraki has brought about an astonishing transformation in
himself. He carries weapons. He wears armor. Dozens of Mongrel men and
women look to him for leadership, and he speaks with eloquence fit enough
to awe a simple shudra maiden. In short, to Faanshi, Thomas Murako appears
to have become a Warlord... and while Thomas has continued to be kind and
gracious to her, still, the young halfbreed can't help but begin to feel
a little fear towards him, especially when watching him interact with those
who follow his leadership...

----------
Darkness has begun to fall over the landscape, the sun's rays dying over the 
  horizon. The group of travellers has made their way off the main road and 
  into a small grove that will serve as a campsite for the evening. Though 
  they started late in the day, a good deal of distance was covered, with the 
  party ending up slightly to the South of the Ettowealona's territory. Those 
  who are more experienced in such things begin to help in setting up tents 
  and shelters, Thomas and others lending their strong backs and skill. Fires 
  are set up within the camp and within a half hour the air is strong with the 
  scent of fragrant meals. It takes Murako sometime before he has finished his 
  own tent, but with the aid of others a camp fire is soon burning before it. 
  Here is where one would find the Mongrel leader, his head bent over a bucket 
  of water. Having removed his shirt in the process of working, he now 
  splashes some of that liquid on his face and arms to cool himself.

Though many will sleep in tents tonight, there are ceraintly some who prefer 
  too sleep beneath the open stars. One of these, is the Sylvan Herald, 
  StormBearer. He has already checked out the layout of the immediate area 
  surrounding the grove, and is now approaching the newly made campfire. 
  However, one might note that his crow is nowhere to be seen.

Versed in hard labor and perhaps stronger than many of the mongrel men who 
  work to make camp for the community, Milane begins to help pitch wood pikes 
  into the dirt below and throw heavy animal skin coverings over them. There 
  is quiet leadership to the mongrel woman as she maternally directs her 
  brothers and sisters in the most efficient way to place tents and to allow 
  for protection from the perils of night. A dirty and callused hand is placed 
  gently on one of the younger mongrel boy's backs as he fails to throw an 
  animal hide properly -- he is just too little yet. And if a woman can do it, 
  why can't he. Milane leans down before him and mutters, "Acha, child. There 
  will be many more times. . ." She smiles, and pushes the boy along to get 
  some warm food by one of the many fires burning alongside the tents.
Slightly worn from the hard labor, Milane goes to the tent that has been 
  pitched for her and Faanshi. The societal rules for what is "proper" have 
  not necessarily been defined in this situation, as tents weave in and out of 
  the camp, holding both men and women. There is no separation. There is no 
  shame. They are brothers and sisters, a nation. Milane removes her shirt and 
  pulls it over her head to allow her skin to feel the refreshing chill of 
  night air, and to ease the placement of fire-warmed water on her breasts. It 
  does not even occur to her that this is improper. While bringing a cupped 
  hand of water over her head, Milane engages in sweet chatter with Faanshi. 
  "Acha, Imphada. I think we shall be in charge of the evening meal. I have my 
  masala spices, if you have a recipe?"

Not nearly so large and grand as the mighty hosts of the Varati with whom 
  Faanshi had once journeyed, not by several long shots, is this company of 
  Mongrels. But still, it is a sizeable company, composed primarily of 
  strangers, and the shudra girl is rather daunted from the moment she climbs 
  awkwardly down from Thomas's white horse. Milane's presence proves a boon, 
  however. Unconsciously latching onto the older woman as a source of 
  direction and advice, the brightly garbed maiden silently trails about after 
  her, lending her aid to such tasks as tent construction -- apparently, 
  Faanshi is not entirely unfamiliar with such a process. And she willingly 
  conveys needed items into the hands of those who know what to do with them. 
  But when Milane turns to offer her this new suggestion, and when Milane 
  strips down in front of her, Faanshi is once more taken aback. Her 
  gaze swiftly dips down to her feet, as she admits softly, "I... do not know 
  much of recipes, but I could carry dishes to serve the food, if it is 
  needed...!"

Thomas finishes with the water, his large hands scooping the last of the 
  liquid onto his chest and then letting out a soft exhale. Turning away from 
  the bucket, the Mongrel clears his throat and surveys the camp for a few 
  moments, his darkened gaze flitting past all the inhabitants till it comes 
  to a rest upon Faanshi and Milane. He watches them for a moment or so, 
  letting his hands fall to his sides. The /reason/ for this extended perusal 
  could be because of the Mongrel woman's scantily-clad form, or perhaps the 
  dichotomy between the shudra girl and her newfound companion. Smiling to 
  himself, he looks towards the approaching StormBearer next and waves, 
  "Greetings, StormBearer. I trust you have settled yourself in?" His other 
  hand trails through his hair, making it slightly wet as well. Moving towards 
  the campfire, he grabs his sword from a place where it was set aside, 
  carrying the weapon towards a log, where he rests it. Bending down a touch, 
  the fire reflects against his tanned skin, its wetness giving him an almost 
  luminescent sheen. Again he speaks to the Sylvan, "Evening meal will be 
  ready soon. I wish I could say it would be more extravagant, but I had not 
  time to hunt for fresh meat."

StormBearer's face is a mix of emotions, but for the time, he seems to be 
  happy. "Greetings Thomas. You are correct. I found a Pleasant place to spend 
  the night, If I choose to sleep." he says as he approaches the fire, taking 
  a seat on the ground near it, he continues "I have eaten nothing but grass 
  for a week on previous journeys. I am sure that this will be a feast 
  compared to those times." he brings the lute over his back, setting it 
  comfortably on his lap.

A few men have stopped to stare on the bare breasted form of Milane next to 
  the demure and proper Faanshi. It does not stop her from the pouring 
  of water along her torso, wetting her muscled torso after a bout of hard 
  labor. She is not a lady, and therefore, does not need to keep herself well 
  veiled. She continues speaking with her newfound companion. "Oh, your help 
  with dishes would be so appreciated, Imphada. . ." Milane closes her eyes 
  and leans over the small fire that warms her skin and murmurs under her 
  breath,
        "Do us peace for our children,
        In life or kine or horses
        Slay not our people in anger, Ushas!
        Bearing oblations we invoke Thee ever."
A private prayer. Milane then refocuses her dirt-brown eyes on Faanshi while 
  putting a black blanket over her torso to cover what she must. "Let us go 
  join Thomas and the others, so we may keep each other company as the night 
  becomes beautiful." She bows slightly at the waist, while flashing a 
  reassuring smile at the Varati clad maiden. "I will only go if you will join 
  me, Imphada?"

"I... I am only Faanshi," the girl in the blue, red, and gold silks protests 
  at Milane's repeated usage of 'imphada' to her, "but... all right, yes..." 
  Not entirely certain how going to join Thomas at the fire works with the 
  need to hand out dishes to the hungry men and women in the camp, Faanshi 
  nevertheless bobs her head in lieu of a smile, for she caught the murmured 
  prayer to Ushas and finds Milane a great comfort even as she peers in 
  bemusement at the way she has bared herself before the passing men. "Will we 
  cook at the fire...?"
In the meantime, a loud string of yips and yaps from a small fluffy puppy 
  signals that Kosha wants, in no uncertain terms, to make himself heard. The 
  woman who had taken the puppy into the wagon weaves through the camp, 
  carrying the small dog, and approaches Faanshi and Milane. "I believe this 
  little fellow wants to see you, miss," comes the cheerful greeting, as Kosha 
  is handed over. This makes the puppy yap even more loudly, his tail wagging 
  ferociously.

Sitting on a log next to the fire, Thomas remains top-less, apparently in 
  little shame of his muscled physique. He looks over at the Sylvan Herald as 
  the man sits on the ground, his lips curling just a bit in amusement. 
  Reaching over to grab his sword from the place he rested it, he slides it 
  from his sheath as he speaks, "You must excuse my ignorance into the ways of 
  the Sylvan life, friend. I am afraid I have not spent much time among your 
  culture to know the simplicity with which you lead it." The blade comes to a 
  rest upon his lap and he reaches around to pull a small sack from his side, 
  setting it next to himself. "I come from cultures where extravagance is a 
  way of life," Murako explains his previous statement, "and money and wealth 
  are expected. Many of us were slaves and know that harsh dichotomy of living 
  in the shadow of such privilage. Just beyond our reach." Shaking his head, 
  he turns his gaze towards Faanshi and Milane as they begin to approach the 
  fire. They are still out of range for him to call out to them, but once 
  again, he seems to be strangely fascinated with the both of these women when 
  they are together. So different, yet so alike. The Mongrel leader has in the 
  past demonstrated that he is a student of people, and it is no different at 
  this moment.

Milane chuckles at how adorable Faanshi is to her. Her innocence is so 
  refreshing, and the older mongrel woman wants to protect her and keep her 
  eyes young -- for some reason. She beams at the sight of the puppy, and 
  controls her fingers from indulging in the soft fur before the maiden has a 
  chance to cuddle her pet. With a trace of laughter in her voice, Milane 
  continues. "Yes, Faanshi. . .we will eat my the fire with the others. It 
  appears the evening meal is already made. Can you imagine! By our brothers, 
  as well. This is _not_ usual for mongrels." She nods her head over at a 
  basket of ceramic bowls before going to retrieve a few herself. "And here 
  are the dishes." It is obvious that Milane would not need help with the 
  minor weight of these items. It is an act of companionship, of sharing from 
  the mongrel to the Varati clad maiden. "Help me?" She smiles, while leaning 
  up with exactly half of the bowls in her hands.
Turning forwards, Milane spots the familiar form of her leader and friend, 
  Thomas Murako. She comes forward, just so her voice can reach him. Her eyes 
  twinkle with mischief, as she calls out the first strike of the evening. "So 
  you let the women do all the work in your camp, Thomas?" She clucks her 
  tongue, "Tut, tut, where are your manners?" Where are Milane's manners? She 
  has made no effort to wrap the shawl around her body, and the sight of 
  maternal curves are readily available without shame. Milane continues 
  further, looking behind her to make sure Faanshi is all right. She calls 
  back to her friend, "Do you need help, Faanshi?"

Faanshi cannot exactly be seen to light up as her puppy is presented to her, 
  but from the way she accepts the little creature and cuddles him close while 
  Kosha inundates her in a flurry of explosive barks and attempts to lick her 
  face -- an interesting operation when one is wearing a veil -- it's easy 
  enough to see that she is delighted to be reunited with the puppy. "Thank 
  you," she pipes earnestly to the woman who's brought him to her, and only 
  when Milane indicates the bowls does the maiden quickly put down her little 
  dog, bobbing her blue-saried head. She dutifully accepts half the bowls, 
  balancing them cautiously before following Milane towards the fire... and 
  she answers earnestly, "No thank you, Imphada Milane, I can carry them..." 
  Then she catches sight of the shirtless Thomas, gives a little gasp, and 
  locks her attention on the bowls.

Yes, a shirtless Thomas! Tanned skin, darkened nipples, and muscles well-toned 
  with the effort of many days of hard labor. The wetness of his washing still 
  clings to his skin in small beads, hair matted with wetness and pushed back 
  out of his face. His eyes, brown in the light but black in the dark, find 
  Milane's as she chides him, "All the work, eh? Milane, you know me to be a 
  man of manners. Would I ever leave a woman to labor in such a fashion?" 
  Chuckling softly, he glances down at his blade, continuing to speak, "We men 
  do our share." Reaching down into the bag he took from his waist, the 
  Mongrel man pulls out a whetstone. Placing it to the sword's edge, he 
  strokes it down the length of the metal in one motion. Pausing, he looks 
  back up and espies the obviously embarassed Faanshi, speaking to her, 
  "Greetings, Faanshi. I see you have found a new friend?" And then his eyes 
  find Milane once again, the chuckle having faded to a smile, "Both of you 
  will be preparing this meal? I have the feeling that we are in for a treat 
  of some sort."

StormBearer nods quietly to the Mongrel Leader's statement. "I understand all 
  too well, but too the opposite effect. When I first came to Haven, I was 
  supprised to see such opulence. It still affects me some, but I have begun 
  to grow used to it, when I am staying in Haven that is." Then, at the voices 
  of the approaching females, he turns to see both Milane and Faanshi, but 
  then turns back to the mongrel leader, watching to see any response to his 
  talk.

Milane dims her eyes to Faanshi, and bows her head over the bowls.
         "Just Milane."
She was owned by a warrior. "Thomas, if you use the whetstone in just the up 
  direction, you will achieve a better cut with your blade. If you stroke in 
  two motions, up and down, you smooth over what you made sharp and it takes 
  twice the work." A side thought.
Milane continues forward to the fire wih Faanshi by her side, and finds a spot 
  to work the evening meal and the flames. She closes her eyes and enjoys the 
  rapid warmth on her brown skin, against the increasingly cool temperature of 
  the coming night air. She exhales, and playfully remarks, "Oh, I thought the 
  men might have taken the liberty of cooking. I should have known /better/." 
  She rolls her eyes, and places a firm hand on her bare hip. "Hmmm. . ." she 
  muses, at the thought of charging the evening meal. She looks to Faanshi and 
  asks with a soft tone, "Is there a favorite spice you have, Faanshi? We will 
  use that to center our meal."

Kosha quite contentedly trots along at Faanshi's heels, and as the women come 
  up to the fire, the little dog scampers about, sniffing eagerly at this 
  thing and that: Thomas's boots, and then StormBearer's, and then over to 
  investigate a rock very near to the fire... ooh! Fire! Warm! Mmmmmm! The 
  puppy plops right down near the campfire, yawning mightily.

Faanshi, meanwhile, manages a mute bob of her head to Thomas, having heard 
  him, for all that she is very intently not looking in his direction. She 
  bobs her head to Milane, too, murmuring the name as if trying it on for 
  size, and then kneeling down to place the bowls a suitable distance away 
  from the campfire. "I like rosemary," she murmurs tinily.

Hrm, seems as if his Hand has given him wisdom once again -- indeed a bad 
  choice was not made in accepting this woman's offer to serve as his advisor. 
  Thomas eyes the blade as Milane tells him a better way to employ the stone, 
  and after arching a brow to consider this course of action he moves it in 
  the method which the Mongrel woman suggested, nodding approvingly as the 
  motion seems to better accomplish his ends. Though he follows her advice, 
  Murako smiles at her following comment, "I would gladly take the liberty of 
  cooking if you would have hoisted the poles on the tents and done some of 
  the other heavy lifting that the men must undertake. Perhaps we could trade 
  someday, though I must warn you, my cooking is an atrocity. " Grinning just 
  a touch, his eyes drift down to examine the measures of skin that peek forth 
  from beneath his Hand's meager dress, then quickly dart towards StormBearer 
  -- what a convenient distraction, "Aye. Haven is a place where all the races 
  have come to mix. This mixing has in some ways brought understanding. I 
  honestly do not know where this land would be were there not others who were 
  keeping the racial pejudice and hatred in check."

StormBearer nods, his eyes showing contemplation of the words of the Mongrel 
  Leader, but he seems to have an opinion on the matter "It seems to me though 
  Thomas, that you may get a glimpse. For away from Haven, I am correct, there 
  is little to stop people from assualting your people, even if it is not an 
  open assualt.

The Hand's eyes narrow at Thomas. Milane may have sworn fierce loyalty in 
  blood to this man, but she did not swear a sweet tongue for his masculine 
  pride. "Excuse me, Thomas." Milane points to the northern half of the camp. 
  "I. . ." Milane points to herself. "I. . .helped put those poles in the 
  ground and throw the animal skins over the top. Do not think that because I 
  am a woman I do not lift, Thomas. . ." Milane grits her teeth, and with it, 
  swallows her feminine pride. "As for the evening meal, I would like to eat 
  something nourishing so that I can continue to bear heavy weights upon my 
  feminine back." Exhaling with frustration in Murako's direction, after 
  surveying the wet flesh of his well muscled torso, Milane turns back to the 
  comforting site of Faanshi. "I have rosemary. So, let me show you how to 
  infuse the spice into the meat and garden to make it taste of it, no?" 
  Milane smiles and reaches into the sack tied around her waste to retrieve 
  her herbs and spices, and places the dried rosemarry in the boiling pot of 
  food before the fire.

Faanshi can't help another peek of general startlement at Milane -- not only 
  is she scantily clad, but she is talking back to Thomas...? The veiled 
  shudra then catches herself, and once more points her gaze downward; bowls 
  and the simple tasks of preparing food are a much safer place to rest her 
  attention. Once more, shyly, she bobs her head. "Yes, Milane," she murmurs, 
  and then anxiety prompts her to whisper to the woman, "Please forgive me, 
  but... are you not... _cold_?"

Thomas continues to stroke his blade up and down with the whetstone, bringing 
  the metal to an even sharper edge, "You are right, StormBearer. Little 
  stands between my people and assult, but it is my hope that we can work to 
  stint those who would obviously see us fail, and react to those who we 
  cannot anticipate." Turning the blade over he continues to give the sword 
  attention with the stone. "Admittedly, we are not strong, and our enemies 
  are many. I and others amongst our number have worked very hard to mimize 
  the threats to Avalon by opening relations with many of the major nations. 
  It is my hope that by quickly moving to seek aid from the others, we might 
  grow strong quickly. That is our only chance for true survival, for 
  otherwise we will be forced to live in the shadow of the Pure Races. We 
  would be little more than a different kind of slave." It is Milane's words 
  which reach his ears next and as the Mongrel woman so strongly retorts his 
  jest, the smile on his lips fades just a touch. Feminism isn't something 
  that is widely seen in this era, and the idea of 'equality' among the sexes 
  is lost to all but the growing liberal factions amongst the Empyreans. It is 
  clear by his reaction that Thomas was never a party to this belief, and for 
  all his political liberalism, he stands by his guns in this respect, "I did 
  not know, Milane. There was no disrespect meant by my words. I merely made 
  an observation that many women cannot do the sort of labor that is handled 
  by men. It was clear that I made an incorrect observation on your part." 
  These words are surprisingly flat, and hollow. As if he wasn't entirely 
  pleased with the retort that his Hand gave him.

StormBearer listens carefully to the words of Thomas, turning them over. For 
  once, storm must admit it "You seem to be doing a good job." Remember that. 
  Despite all his politeness, its not often that a complement comes from him. 
  Though he still has many questions, his stomach is starting to complain. But 
  he's used to that on journeys, so he thinks little of it. He looks absently 
  towards the rapidly darkening sky, and begins to play a light melody upon 
  the lute. It is quick and flighty, moving quickly with many highs and lows.

It is the displeased tone of Thomas Murako that breaks Milane from her playful 
  revelry. She had forgotten her place in this world. All day she had been 
  bantering with her brothers and sisters -- and had been taken back to the 
  joy of her youth when she would do that very thing. As a little girl, Milane 
  was brazen and bold and able to speak with courage and confidence. But as a 
  woman, Milane was a slave. She quickly remembers her place. In a flash of 
  her brown eyes, Milane's spirit is gone and her voice returns to its 
  unnaturally quiet state. She places the shawl more protectively around her 
  torso, to cover her skin and nods slightly to Faanshi. "I will keep my skin 
  more covered." Milane feels shame, both inside and out.
Quietly, Milane goes about preparing the meal as quickly as she can making 
  sure to emphasize her hands gestures so that Faanshi may learn about meal 
  preparation if she chooses. Milane does not smile further, and her eyes are 
  kept to the fire. She whispers under her breath to Faanshi, "I think the 
  meal is prepared, now. Please. . ." her voice trembles slightly. ". . .if 
  you would please bring the bowls so I may ration out the food for the 
  community?"

If it hadn't been made clear enough to her already, Milane's behavior to 
  Thomas drives home to her how the man's position in the world has altered so 
  dramatically since she originally met him -- from naraki to a leader of men, 
  to someone Faanshi would be calling a Warlord if he were a Varati, and to 
  her eyes at any rate, it certainly seems as though he has gathered unto 
  himself the beginnings of a Clan! Even his tone to a woman is that of a 
  Warlord, and it bothers her in a way she cannot define, coming as it does 
  from Thomas Murako. But still, she edges a little closer to the other woman, 
  sympathy blossoming quietly within her breast. Slender, gentle golden hands 
  proffer up the first of the bowls, and for a moment, Faanshi dares to touch 
  and clasp the older female's shoulder in a fleeting but palpable contact.

Thomas Murako might be the leader of his people. He might be the man who is 
  leading a nation dedicated to the ideals of freedom. Ideals that for this 
  world are seen as somewhat revolutionary. Yet, there are apparently pieces 
  of the Mongrel which are throwbacks to a past that remains shadowed in 
  mystery. His words sound amazingly familiar, as if they were not newly made 
  from some transformation, but had always been there. Beliefs that had been 
  hidden beneath something else that are only now reawakening. His eyes follow 
  Milane's shocked reaction to what he just said, but he continues to stare at 
  her even after she's gone about her tasks, further evidence that what she 
  said might have been over the line in his eyes. Silence as the two women 
  prepare the bowls of food. That uncomfortable lack of speech that is only 
  punctuated by StormBearer's lute. Yet, as he sees how impacted the Mongrel 
  woman is, feels Faanshi's compassion for her plight, a twang of guilt forces 
  him to turn towards the Sylvan man, his face softening, "StormBearer. Would 
  you like to begin your tale now? I am certain that a moment of good 
  story-telling could lighten the mood and tired spirits." A weak smile passes 
  his lips as he removes the sword from his lap, sticking it firmly into the 
  ground to his right.

StormBearer nods and strums a happy tune upon his lute, preparing to tell a 
  story of which he is all to familiar, and of which he must tell many people. 
  It starts like this: "Once, far away, in another part of the world, there 
  was a fertile valley. It was a good place, where crops grew quickly and 
  healthily, and where gems and gold were found in the rivers. A tribe of 
  sylvans lived there, and they were happy and prosperous. They became smart 
  in thier ways, learning some of the arts of the other peoples, and becoming 
  more sylvan than other tribes around them. But they lost thier edge. Thier 
  warriors dwindled. They gathered and hunted lightly, but they had few 
  weapons, for they needed them not."
StormBearer continues the story, though the tune on the lute changes, becoming 
  darker, and you can tell something unpleasant is about to happen. "Then One 
  day in the valley, a great noise went up, as if the earth itself had been 
  rent apart. And the people looked to the elders and shaman and cried for 
  help! And the shaman tried to have a vision, but none came, and the people 
  cried out to Nokomis "MOTHER! HELP US!" and the people cired out to Liu 
  "TALESINGER! HELP US!""
StormBearer continues, the light tune on the lute now becoming saddened and 
  bleak "But Nokomis and Liu were silent, for they knew what had to happen in 
  that valley, and it saddened them greatly. Then, the people pointed towards 
  a great light comming from over the moutains, and behold, there came a great 
  beast over the mountain. It was as a great eagle, save all white, and it was 
  covered in fire, and lightning flew from the bottom of its wings to strike 
  the trees of the forest. The people looked at it and cried out, for it was 
  fearsome to behold."

The strength of the Hand is replaced with the shame of a mongrel woman. She 
  blinks back water from her eyes. There will be no tears in the eye of the 
  nation to shame herself or her leader tonight. It will be later -- so the 
  woman uses the edge of her shawl to dab away what salted water that would 
  escape. After placing the last of the food in the bowls she is met with the 
  touch of Faanshi's affectionate hand. And under her shakey breath Milane 
  offers a "thank you. . .namaste. . ." before turning to help the Varati clad 
  maiden dispense with the rations of rosemarry flavored food.
Milane declines the opportunity for evening meal -- remembering what her 
  warrior owner had told her about food in large gatherings. It is not her 
  place. She curls up by the fire, and places her head upon her gathered knees 
  to enjoy the Sylvan's tale in her private space.

And as StormBearer speaks his tale, strumming at his instrument, Faanshi bobs 
  her head again to the Mongrel woman. Then, silent and shy, she helps Milane 
  pass out the bowls of food, going first to Thomas -- for after all, he is 
  the leader here. The very picture of a proper Varati-bred maiden, she holds 
  out the bowl to him to take as he desires; not once does she look up at him, 
  nor does she speak for fear of interrupting the Herald's story.

As the story continues, the music stops altoghether. He continues in a 
  slightly hoarse voice, as if it is slightly painfull for him to recall. "And 
  the beast fell upon the valley." a single tear falls slowly down his cheek. 
  "When this happened, there were two tribe members away from the rest. A bard 
  and a graisha hunter. They heard the noise. They saw the beast, and they saw 
  it fall upon the valley. They ran with all thier strength, and even then, 
  they do not know how they made it back in such a short time. But they were 
  to late. The village was gone, burnt down. The graisha shouted to the Sky 
  Father for justice, and changed into his animal form, flying to the 
  mountaintop which the beast had claimed."
The music resumes, but in a pained, fragile melody, which rings of loss and 
  lonlieness. "I waited there for my friend for two weeks. After that he 
  returned, still in his animal form, a crow. He has never changed back 
  since." And with that. It is done.

If Thomas' words to Milane disturbed him, it certainly doesn't show upon his 
  visage. The man's attention is focused on the Sylvan as he weaves his tale. 
  His eyes become focused upon the man, transfixed as if he was almost trying 
  to drown out his retort, or if he had let something slip, something that had 
  been held in check. One of his hands rests upon the hilt of his blade, the 
  other reaching up to take the bowl of food as Faanshi offers it to him. 
  "Thank you." he mutters, giving her a brief glance accompanied by a small, 
  weak smile. By the time he has begun to eat, the tale is done and a strange 
  silence overtakes Murako for a moment. The observant would notice that he 
  has yet to look at the Mongrel woman who disappeared after the food was 
  prepared.

StormBearer doesn't seem to be hungry anymore. His eyes are heavy and and the 
  weight of the past if upon him. Food offered is set beside him until he is 
  ready to eat. He takes up the lute once more, and begins slowly a sad tune, 
  yet beautiful.

It is the tune that Milane had been singing under her breath throughout this 
  journey. The mongrel woman's eyes widen in astonishment as StormBearer 
  catches note-for-note, the harmony and rhythm of her ballad. Her eyes easily 
  shine again with water, and now have an excuse to let tears come. A way to 
  vent the shame and sadness that falls upon her, much in the days of her 
  warrior's keep. The alto voice of the older women begins. It is the texture 
  of the sweet, incremental tones of the Varati that linger and mold over one 
  melodic structure. It is the rhythm of the Sylvans, that can feel nature so 
  close to their hearts. This hybrid of cultures is carried forth in the rich 
  voice of a mongrel woman:

	Whoso draws nigh to the city of eleven gates
	Of him who is not born, whose thought is not perverse,
	He grieves not, for he has won deliverance: Deliverance is His!
	As swan he dwells in the pure sky
	As god he dwells in the fire
	Of water born, of kine of Law
	I devote my blood to him.

Milane continues on, leaning her body towards the flames of the fire and 
  closing her eyes to feel the emotion of her prayer. Water comes and goes in 
  delicate streams, as the woman releases the old Varati prayer in Sylvan 
  harmonics.
Song: Katha Upanishad V:3-4

Faanshi might perhaps notice Thomas's smile if she lifted her eyes from the 
  bowl she holds out to him... but as it happens, she never looks up, not 
  once, from her own hands. And thus she misses entirely whatever gaze he 
  might choose to turn upon her. Her only acknowledgement of his muttered 
  words is a graceful little curtsey, exactly the kind of obeisance she has 
  made time and again to the Warlord of Clan Sarazen... and a little tremor of 
  fear flickers across her heart. If Thomas bears the armor and weaponry of a 
  Warlord, if he leads men and woman like a Warlord, will he begin to act as 
  Hashim had done and... but before she can finish _that_ thought, though, she 
  shoves it hard into the back of her mind, abruptly deeply troubled. And she 
  retreats from Thomas like a nervous bright-feathered bird, retreats into 
  handing out bowls of food to hungry Mongrel men and women, missing too the 
  curious glances she gets from some of the followers of Murako... for she 
  raises her eyes to no one. And like Milane, she takes no food for herself. 
  Bits and pieces of StormBearer's tale filter across her hearing, and one 
  fact -- the fact about the crow -- lodges in her memory, but if the shudra 
  maiden has a reaction or an opinion, it is muted by flickering firelight and 
  further hidden by the veil that conceals her countenance. Only when Milane 
  begins to offer up her prayer does Faanshi seems to relax a little, settling 
  down wordlessly just outside the immediate glow of the fire.

Well, it appears as if that sad tale didn't do much to lighten the spirits, as 
  Thomas had suggested. The Mongrel remains there in his place on the log, 
  nibbling at the food in the bowl, but after a few moments, he sets it aside. 
  Perhaps he's not overly hungry either. Though Milane has taken a place far 
  from the fire, he can hear the rich tones of her voice mingling with that of 
  the Sylvan's. He can feel the hesitation in Faanshi's gaze, the fear that 
  she sees behind the man that truly lies beneath. It is /this/ which strikes 
  him more than each of these tunes, and after a moment, he sets his whetstone 
  aside, rising. It is he who breaks the lack of words, eyes drifting towards 
  StormBearer, heavy with emotion that storms beneath the surface of his 
  breast, "I am sorry for the loss of your people. It is my hope that we can 
  honor their lives and give them the peace they deserve." And with that, he 
  turns from the firepit, making his way out towards the edges of darkness 
  which encompass the camp now as the sun disappears.

Unlike the Mongrel Leader, it doesn't look like the sylvan is going anywhere. 
  He cannot.. He will not.. He must not.... The words of Thomas enter him, but 
  there is no response, for it seems as if a very presence of gloom has 
  entered the camp. A very darkness which consumes joy and happiness. And so 
  the Sylvan sits, waiting...

After her prayer is finished, Milane feels the salt of her tears drying 
  against her face from the heat of her fire. She rises to her full height, 
  gripping her shawl around her in shame, and turns to exit the fire without 
  taking evening meal. Before she does this, however, Milane walks to Faanshi 
  with two steaming bowls of food. She whispers in a trembling voice. "Please, 
  eat, Faanshi. You are a growing young girl who will is to be a beautiful 
  woman. Eat, for me?" She points to the loyal pet beside her. "And this is 
  for the little one. . ." Her voice can only be heard by the other woman. 
  Milane is guarding her words now.
She exits, and goes to make herself scarce for the night. Alone.

Faanshi's puppy has been happily soaking up the warmth of the fire all this 
  time, and occasionally vigorously scratching himself in between following 
  his silken-garbed mistress around. Only a small creature like a puppy can 
  really excel at that 'you're going to feed me now, right? You're going to 
  feed me, now? How about now? Now?' hopeful expression, and when someone 
  finally seems to actually be wanting to feed him (joy!), Kosha veritably 
  bounces in delight before planting his face muzzle-down in the food and 
  licking up every scrap in the bowl. Faanshi is rather more circumspect about 
  accepting a share of the dinner, but she nods earnestly, lifting her gaze to 
  Milane as she has done for no one tonight, green eyes reflecting an anxious 
  concern. "I will eat," she promises, "in the tent... thank you...!" And thus 
  she rises, holding the bowl cautiously close. A little curtsey is dropped to 
  StormBearer, too, and with that Faanshi creeps off to the tent that has been 
  put up for her to share with the Hand.

[End log.]