"The Court of the Panther and the Bard" Log Date: 1/7/00 Log Cast: Khalid, Rabi, Numair, Faanshi, Tahira, Kiavash, Shahar, Gaelius, Niamh, Ranjeet Log Intro: Life at Atesh-Gah can never be said to be dull when the Amir-al is in residence... and indeed, one November afternoon when the Hawk of Heaven holds His court is no exception to this rule. Whispers fly through the ranks of the Varati noble-born of the upheaval that has taken place within Clan Behzad, whispers that say that the Warlord's Nayaka has overthrown him and seized the Clan for himself. Will the Amir-al grant His favor to the one called Numair, the Panther of Behzad, the Dark General? Or will He turn his face from this interloper and uphold the claim of the Warlord who has been ousted? Faanshi knows no more of these things than anyone else within the embassy, and to be sure, she expects no more than anyone else that this particular Court will bring a second startling person into Khalid Atar's holy presence: Gaelius, a bard, the Maharani's own cousin, and an _Empyrean_.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Afternoon Date on Aether: Wednesday, November 2, 3905. Year on Earth: 1505 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waxing Gibbous Season: Fall Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* You ascend the stairs which lead to the sturdy double doors of the Throne Room. Throne Room - Atesh-Gah - Haven This massive rectangular area seem to rise forever; white polished marble catching the light that enters through the spacious windows on either side of the room and reflecting it throughout to dispel all shadow or gloom. The walls themselves are a work of art; the top half being the aforementioned stone, broken at mid-point by a border lovingly carved into an intricate design. Housed within the near foot-wide space is a pattern of interwoven bands of gold. The bottom half of the wall is sky-blue marble shot through with graceful swirls of cloudy white, once again giving way to pale marble for the few inches nearest the floor. Sturdy seats of golden-varnished wood, covered in cushions and upholstery of shimmering royal blue, are placed in orderly fashion at the sides of the room. Those who await the God-King's attention may rest as he attends matters of state. Dwarfing all is the raised dais of solid marble, upon which looms two thrones: one for the God-King and the other for his Queen. A testimony to the art and craft of the Varati people, the thrones practically shimmer in the resplendent light of the chamber; the God-King's is upholstered in royal blue while the Queen's is a vibrant red, both solidly constructed of the same marble that forms the room. A delicate filigree of gold offsets the satiny-hued cloth. Almost like an afterthought, to the right of the dias is a wooden throne, similar in design and upholstered in blue. There are two doorways in the room; the first, at the furthest end of the hall from the throne, leads to the foyer. The second is to the left of the dais. Contents: Gaelius Khalid Tahira Numair Rabi Thalia Offerings Obvious Exits: Entrance Foyer Royal Wing A heavy booming echoes throughout the throne room, doors at the rear of the great hall having been thrown open by a pair of Agni-Haidar; they make way for the God-King, his purposeful strides echoing thick against the marble floors. Face set with steel and obsidian, he is all business, and his body language echoes his face. Squared shoulders meet tightly drawn wings and a posture ready for any mortal to challenge his authority. He bears aloof eyes, but with enough sharp light to cull any inappropriate murmurings. At his side, and not even a step behind, is the Maharani of the Varati, Thalia - her bearing is likewise regal, tall and proud as any Kaliph or Vizier, if not more so. Make no mistake, Khalid demands near-equal respect for the Maharani as is owed him, and she is fully aware of this fact, as well as her own standing in the Varati nation. They move to the thrones, seat themselves, and await the announcement of business. Rabi and her tools are situated in their proper place: behind and to the right of Khalid's seat on the dias. She sits with paper already stretched out on its frame and her pens ready to be dipped into ink and used. She has but one assistant tonight, a young boy with black hair bound back into a braid who sits to her right, his own writing kit set up to mirror that of Rabi. Agni-Haidar frame her, but they are not there for her or her charge -- they stand ready to do their master's will or be a line of lion's courage between Him and His and any danger that might seek to pluck at them. As Khalid and Thalia enter, both Rabi and the boy touch their heads to the stone before them. Kiavash passes through the sturdy doorway from the Living Quarters. Kiavash has arrived. Standing in an almost formal attention, the Black Panther of Behzad Numair, remains alone. No contigent of men-at-arms. No advisors. No tag-alongs. This Warlord-apparent's people toil even now to restore their Clan and their Clan Hall to the glory it once knew. And so he stands alone. Ebon armor meticulous. Crimson cape flowing around him. Raven hair framing a handsome face. And oddly golden eyes fiery and determined. His attention seems focused upon nothing but the space in front of him it seems but if rumours of this man serve, little around him is actually escaping his attention. Dozens of shudra of Clan Khalida are also already on hand, each and every one of them ready to bear fine trays of delicacies and drinkables to the assemblage of those who come to make supplications to the God-King and she who is his Queen. As Khalid Atar and Thalia make their entrances, shudra forms drop in practiced grace to make their obeisances upon the dazzlingly polished floor. Shudra heads bow down to their hands in the ritual signs of devotion. And among their number, a single halfbreed healer named Faanshi, deeply nervous about having had to leave the company of her teachers and a certain Mongrel bard of her acquaintance -- not to mention her beloved hound -- attempts to make herself as inconspicious as possible even as she joins her equals in rank in the gestures of deference. The entrance of his grace and the maharani elicits a conditioned response from the young priestess herself. Echoing that of the scribe and child, Tahira too lowers herself to bid equal respect to both -- bright eyes drifting among the many in attendence. Upon the entrance of the King and Queen, Numair reaches behind him to flare his cape as he kneels before the Amir-al with a fluid grace that would rival his namesake, bowing forward to press his forhead to the floor as if the position is perfectly comfortable for him. As he does this, the flared cape falls slowly behind him like a mist of crimson blood. Located amongst the ranks of the various diplomats, Kiavash kneels at the entrance of the Divine Flame and his beautiful Queen-Maharani with hands placed before her. The girl's ever-ready sketchbook is pressed to the side, forgotten, and her darkly-skinned brow touches the floor in utter reverence. A sharp rapport cascades out from the acting Seneschal's staff; Archana is not present, but her replacement, an aging fellow with a wispy grey beard, looks apt enough. "First called to attend the Amir-Al, Hakan Adham-Numair al-Bezhad, Nayaka of Clan Bezhad, Second to Warlord Sakhr!" he shouts, sharp edges of his voice grating the smooth walls and ears alike. This sends a ripple of murmuring through the crowd, though not so loud a murmur to arouse ire. Has Khalid denied Numair the right to be acting Warlord? A wave of Khalid's fingers pulls at Numair, suggesting he step forward, and distinguish himself from the proletariats nearby. "I would have words with you, Nayaka of Bezhad," he deadpans, tone flat and without hint to what he will say. Thalia is like an island of calm within the ripples of tension which flare outwards from the acting Seneschal's words. Her serenity is a counterpoint to the dangerous undertone of Khalid's personality and though no smile graces her face at this time, her mild countenance appears to be gazing benevolently at Numair and the other occupants of the room. Rabi and the boy straighten; Rabi takes up her pen but does not immediately write. Instead, she closes her eyes and sends a ferverent prayer to Khalid's divine Mother, the Lady of Dawn, to guide her hand with grace as she prepares to capture the proceedings on the paper before her. Then she touches the nib to ink and begins her work. Those who are new here and unfamiliar with court may stare: a woman? /Writing/? And serving as Khalid's scribe? She is aware of all that, and of the emotions rippling through speaker and audience alike. Serenely aware: instead of touching her, it flows through her, interpreted by her heart into a flick of the wrist here, extra pressure there, an elegant turning of the pen. Voices are captured in the most subtle variations so that a sensitive reader might divine the sound and passion of the audience years later when reading the documents Rabi is creating. She writes unhurriedly, falling behind. It doesn't matter: she will remember everything perfectly. It's what she does. Rising instantly to the the Amir-al's wave, Numair strides forward to a respectful distance and again flares the crimson cape and kneels before the Amir-al, awaiting the Most High's decree in perfect and respectful silence. His frame remains completely and totally stilled until after a proscribed time he rises once more to return to the formal military rest position, golden eyes forward arms clasped. Again absolute silence and lack of motion sweep over this kshatri leaving behind what could be taken as an extremely detailed statue. Shahar passes through the sturdy doorway from the Living Quarters. Shahar has arrived. Silence stills upon the young priestess as she watches the court commence, the first point called into order. Her bright eyes drift to alight upon the crimson-cloaked Bezhad. Second to that which lost his battle with the demon within? Tahira blinks momentarily in surprise. With proper decorum, she listens in humbled silence to the proceedings. Numair. The Imphada Nayaka, he who will soon be Warlord -- or at least so Faanshi understands it. As the audience begins, the halfbreed girl risks a surreptitious peek over the top of her azure veil and murmurs a prayer to Ushas under her breath that this man, who has struck her as bizarrely kind towards a humble personage such as herself, will receive an equal kindness from the Son of the Dawn. Hands knit together into a ball, and Khalid rests them in his lap, elbows still upon the throne's armrests; he is unhurried, sitting back as he is, and will allow nothing to interfere with his business. "I have heard tales that Clan Bezhad has suffered internal strife, of late, Nayaka Numair. I have even heard tell that Warlord Sakhr has gone missing, and that you stand in his place for the time being. Does truth speak through these rumors, Nayaka?" asks the God-King, tone even but loud enough to fill the entire room. Khalid is, almost certainly, interested in all matters Bezhad, but he certainly seems diffident to Numair and Bezhad at the moment. He lifts his chin somewhat, peering down at the warrior as though to read the title of a book he's just found. Thalia remains silent as Khalid speaks, continuing to survey the room, though her attention quickly catches on Numair. She does not move much, rather simply tilting her head sidelong, just a little, to watch the Nayaka's response. The pair of winged rules are aloof in tone (or lack thereof) but their eyes are certainly among the most alert of all. A cause exists for the tardiness that has brought the Pasha of Haven, the Shakir of Khalida, to this formal function...a cause of some import *must* have delayed her from her arrival, and while she enters with certain decorum, her usual train of guards left at the door, Shahar's cheeks are flushed from the hurry to arrive. She glides toward the throne, a lioness's grace in every stride, and her head is raised with the dignity that is the right of a Khalida by birth. Toward the throne she paces, surreptitiously as she may, in the direction of the spot to the Amir-al's right, to the rear of His throne. There is her place, there is where she most often stands...there she belongs. But not yet, not while business transpires. Ah, but Rabi is not the only woman writing.. she is just far less conscious of the masculine diplomats that curiously glance at her, brows rising. The newly appointed assistant to the Foreign Minister also stands with quill in hand, coral swathed arms wrapping around a slim black book. While she does not draw her hand across the paper as quickly as the Amir-al's scribe.. but she is equally intent. Occasionally, fawn colored eyes flicker near the feet of the Bezhadi Nyaka or to the bottom steps of the throne's dias, but aside from this Kiavash remains focused on her tiny, concise scrawlings. At the back, there's the rustling of the reverent crowd that have come to view their God-King, the Amir-al, Khalid Atar. Heads turn, some bare of hair, some with the characteristic luxuriant cascades of the Varati people. Dark eyes view what has come into their midst. Wings gloriously white, a decidedly marked contrast to the only other winged being in the Throne Room, the Amir-al himself, appear. An Empyrean! An Empyrean had come to the Grand Court, wings tightly furled behind him, so that he would not bump the four serious Agni-Hadar that flanks his sides. Silver and gold hair trails down behind him, in a braid that sways as he moves further in. He's been stripped of his accustomed gladius, but there's every mark of a warrior on him -- the scars from old battles, the battered but well-cared for cuirass that protects him, the crow's feet around his intense green eyes, his alert and wary pose. However, his lute had not been stripped from his side, marking him as a musician of some sort. Gaelius, Empyrean warrior-bard, has come to the Amir-al's court. Shocked murmurs, sneers, horror in the Varati voices. Squaring his shoulders, the man once known as the Dark General nods, his face an utter mask of impassive thoughts. Replying in a smooth, deep voice that seems to purr forth from his chest like a great cats "Yes, my Amir-al. Such is truth. Strife came upon us. Sakhr is gone. And I, for the time being, lead my Clan." Numair's tone is cultured yet totally emotionless minus a small hint of something akin to sadness at his mention of Sakhr. Rabi continues to write, unhurried, her hand gliding across the paper in measured rows as if to the beat of some soft and gentle internal song. Or prayer, for this is prayer to Faisal's woman, and the most holy prayer of all: she is fixing the voices of the Most High and his wife in time and memory for generations to come. And so Gaelius' entrance fails to break her concentration; she notes silently that he is there, and if and when he enters the courtly proceedings, his own presence and words will be stored in Varati history as well -- for as long as the linen paper survives, at least. Slipping a bit closer to lose herself amid the crowd, the priestess watches carefully. Being in the rear herself, it is hard to mistake the slight rustling amid the gathering as the winged individual arrives. Amethyst depths widen, Tahira managing to bow down slightly as to go passed unnoticed, her attentions once more falling upon the words of his grace and the Bezhad in question. The arrival of an Empyrean in this company can hardly go missed by the shudra ranged all over the room. There is at least one shudra, however, who feels no horror at the arrival of the winged warrior-bard -- though Faanshi does feel a surge of shock, for she recognizes him. What is _he_ doing here? Even as she keeps her appointed place, awaiting orders from the nearest of the senior servants before relaying sustenance to any who might need it, the shudra girl blinks in consternation. But keeps the blinking to herself. "By the accounts I have recieved, Bezhad is happier with Sakhr gone than they were while he was Warlord. I have heard they intend to support you as Warlord, and I cannot say your ascention would displease me. It would serve your clan well to have a sane leader," Khalid intones, his tone forging a statement out of an observation; it's more of a decree than anything else. He glances momentarily to Thalia, who fixes him with a look in return; if any information is exchanged between the two it would need to be telepathic, for they both turn back to Numair at once. "Do you believe you would serve Bezhad well?" Edging toward the front, those recognizing her parting the way for her progress, the others gently nudged, Shahar finds a place at the forefront of the audience of the Neverending Fire, the flame by which she warms her soul. Impassive is she, watching with glittering cat eyes the conversation between Numair and the focal point of her existance, but now and again Shahar's gaze fixes on Thalia and the scribe dilligently detailing this conversation. Again, Numair nods, his raven hair swaying forward slightly with the motion. And after a moment he replies to the decree and the question with the same purring tone "I believe that I would serve my Clan and the will of the Amir-al to the fullest of my ability with as much honor, strength, and courage that a single kshatri can muster." still his tone remains neutral, though extremely perceptive might catch a small hint of pride within it. Finishing a sentance with measured flicks of her wrist, Kiavash nods to herself. Despite the fact that so much of her attention is engrossed in note-taking, the young kshatri is not deaf. Even the barest of whispers ply for her attention, and surely when the Empyrean arrives within the escort of the Agni-Haidar she looks up. Most interesting. Tawny eyes narrow momentarily, though not in horror or fury. She studies him, curious-- other than the Queen-Maharani, whom she has never before this day seen, this man is the first Empyrean she has /ever/ laid eyes upon. Such are the inconveniences of being newly acquainted to Haven. Green eyes from the newly Empyrean warrior-bard glance left and right, wings rustling almost a bit warily, scanning among the faces, falling upon Tahira. A slight smile on his face, before his gaze finds the Seneschal. No longer so uncertain, the warrior-bard moves with his entourage of Agni-Hadar, to speak softly with the older Varati, surrounded by murmurs from the crowd. The list is consulted, with a nod, grey beard bobbing, and the winged man is written into the roster, fairly high up from the looks of it. Satisfied, the Empyrean finds a safe spot to settle down onto his knees, watching the proceedings. Thalia smiles in a vague way at Numair's words, and Khalid himself nods his agreement; "Then I hereby recognize you, Hakan Adham-Numair al-Bezhad, the new Warlord of Clan Bezhad, in the name of all Varati and in accordance to the wishes of your clan. Let any who take offense to my decision bring their complaint to me later, and we may... discuss... the matter," Khalid exclaims, dull rumble of his voice spreading over the listeners like thunder approaching from the horizon at a rapid pace. Rabi is still writing Khalid's challenge to Numair, but no matter. She'll catch up eventually. The important thing is that the writing is done /well/. She finishes up a page and hands the frame to her assistant, who gives her a replacement, already set up with paper clamped in place. Rabi takes this into her lap and picks up where she left off. The boy carefully holds the finished work, waiting for the ink to dry before he removes the page and replaces it with a fresh sheet of pure paper. A faint shiver lights upon the young priestess' shoulders, her hands slowly moving to grip at her skirts uneasily. Still, Tahira tries hard to remain the perfect picture of reserve and ease as she listens to the Amir-al's decree. Her gaze blatantly ignores that of the foreign winged bard, instead intent upon the newly appointed warlord for the shady clan. Oh, _good_. Relief sweeps through Faanshi, and a private delight. The Imphadi Numair seems a good man -- and it is right, it is just, that a good man should be able to be Warlord of a Clan sorely in need of such fortune. Behind her veil, even as she bows her head along with every other shudra in acknowledgement of the Most High's ringing decree, she smiles. Niamh enters from the foyer, the doors closing silently behind. Niamh has arrived. And with a bow of fluid grace, cape flowing around him, raven hair swaying, and a slight smile playing over dusky lips, Numair answers in a sensual, dark purr after rising, golden eyes looking up to the Amir-al with undisguised honor and loyalty "I thank you, Most High. I will do all within my power to bring my Clan to it's previous glory so that it may honor you." Again with a fluid bow, he shows honor to the Amir-al and the Queen-Maharani before moving back into his former position to stand at the motionless formal rest, a look of pure joy and pride flaring in his golden eyes like twin suns. Although he tries to make his late entrance with as little fuss as possible, Niamh is mostly succesful. He makes it to the doors of the Throne room and is let through by the ones standing guard there. An obesience is given to the God-King and the Maharani before he tries to slip into the crowd. If anyone asks, he'll blame his lateness on Delphi...or something. Khalid nods assent once more, looking to the crowd when Numair receeds. He finds a face among the assembled nobles and commoners alike, upon whom he smiles in a crooked fashion. "My Shakir Shahar, why do you stand with the crowd? Please, ascend to my side..." he murmurs, gesturing that the Khalida second-in-command should return to her usual place. "You are welcome to stand below if you *wish*, however..." A lull in the conversation reveals a shuffling noise, as the acting Seneschal rifles through his stack of papers with a peevish expression. "By request of the Amir-Al, would Foreign Minister Ranjeet al-Khalida step forward, so that the Amir-Al may speak to him?" exclaims the Seneschal in his brisk, very querrelous tone. But... there is no Ranjeet in the crowd. Khalid cranes his neck in an attempt to find the Foreign Minister, but apparently there is none to be found. So instead, he points a finger to Kiavash. "You!" he exclaims, "You are the Foreign Minister's aide, yes?" At mention of Shahar's name, Rabi glances up. Pen is pulled away from paper so that she does not inadvertedly mark up the page as she looks and smiles. And it's a good thing, too, because Khalid's exclamation startles her. Stop dreaming, Rabi -- you have work to do. She bows her head and commits herself once more to her task: now she is writing down Khalid's declaration of Numair as Warlord of Bezhad, and this needs to be written with good strength and grace. At the request for the foreign minister, bright eyes widen as the young priestess swallows the lump in her throat. Uh oh, summoning the minister? Tahira's complexion palens considerably despite her futile attempts to try and keep the mask of resolve. Her gaze sweeps around the room looking for a nice corner to hide within before relenting and holding fast to her tongue and fleeting courage as she listens in silence. Shahar is the Foreign Minister's wife, in point of fact, but she keeps her eyes averted as she pads forward on small, silent feet and kneels, prostrating herself at the feet of the Amir-al and the Maharani with forehead touching the cool obsidian flooring. Then, rising with fluid grace, she proceeds toward the spot she usually takes, and her fingers, inobtrusively, touch Rabi's shoulder as she passes. Thalia raises her right hand from its place on the armrest of her throne and uses it to rub her left arm in an absent-minded manner, as if she were suddenly cold. However, her eyes train on Kiavash as Khalid's finger singles out the kshatri woman. Shock lights the tawny eyes of the accused. No trembling, no shaking. No no no. Stepping forward, Kiavash clutches the slim leather-bound book to her chest. "Divine Flame, I am that," she says, tenor voice steeled, eyes cast reverently to the ground. "I'm afraid I do not know your name, Imphada, but can you tell me if matters of state have kept the Foreign Minister away from us?" Khalid inquires, tone sharp but not threatening. After all, if Ranjeet's away on business, nearly any absence can be excused without a second thought. A slight amused smile from the Empyrean known as Gaelius kneeling on the floor of the Amir-al's Throne Room, green eyes watching, and memorizing every detail with the same intentness that the Varati scribe, Rabi turns upon her work. He shall remember this, as well, years from now. The area around him has been cleared by his mere presence, as well as the four Agni-Hadar watching both the warrior-bard, and the crowds warily, and business-like. Shahar's greenish gold regard focus on Gaelius like a great cat eyes its prey from a calculating distance, but certainly she lends her aural attention to Khalid and Kiavash...they are, after all, holding discourse on her husband's whereabouts. Nodding in assent, Kiavash confirms the beliefs of the Son of Dawn. "The Imphadi Minister attends to an Atlantean Ambassador, Most High," the kshatri speaks evenly. "He had asked me to express his deepest regrets, if so delayed in said meeting, and that he will come with all haste to be in attendance for the Amir-al's Court." Unlike Numair, there is no bravado, no flash of teeth and eyes. While she may know how to read and write, the woman knows her place well. Wait a moment...there's an Empyrean in here! Niamh looks to his neighbor to ask what he missed...but everyone's eyes are towards the dais. He'll just have to wait then and see if he can figure it out for himself. It causes Faanshi a small amount of bemusement to hear the Amir-al admit that he does not know something; it would seem to her, after all, that the God-King by rights would know the names and stations of each and every one of his people, or at any rate the pure-blooded ones, hmm? But still, she can't help but feel a measure of sympathy for the woman who currently commands deific attention. A daunting place to be, to be sure. The priestess does not envy the aide, not in the least. In fact she further tries to fade out of sight herself. Nay, Tahira does not wish to command any attention right now, especially not in concerns to the foreign minister. Slowly her amethyst depths focus downward to study the ground with an uncanny interest. Listening is one thing, but to command notice? Nay, she silently beckons the floor to swallow her up with a shroud of invisibility. Look, say the expressions on the faces of many. Another woman with a pen in her hand, practicing a man's art. Women should not be troubled with writing -- just to know a few numbers, to keep tabs on household accounts, yes? What is a traditional understanding for many Varati clashes now with the reality that this rather absurd practice -- women, writing! -- is not only accepted by /God/ but also desired. It's such a small thing, really, but in the hearts of some who are unable to see this example as a lesson to be learned, it may cause a faint ripple of unease. Blessed are those who can learn from it, though, and do. Thalia allows her gaze to loose its hold on Kiavash and sweep over the rest of the room. It stops on Gaelius and the eyes of the Marahani become a bit wider upon sighting the Empyrean. Yet, whereever her eyes may be, Thalia's ears are trained upon the exchange of words between Khalid and Kiavasha. "Well, then, very good. My business with Imphadi Ranjeet will merely be dealt with later," Khalid murmurs, a flippant wave of his hand dismissing thoughts of Shahar's husband as temporally unimportant. "Thank you, Imphada," he notes, looking to the Seneschal. What now, oh shouter-of-names? "Ahh....um.... The Bard Gaelius of the Empyre, Most High," stammers the Seneschal-understudy, perhaps fearing he'll be vaporized for the presence of the Empyrean. "Truly?" inquires Khalid, turning to fix Gaelius in place with his gaze, "Very well, then. Step forward, Empyrean. I will listen to you." Eyes widening in total relief-- but only after she has turned from the view of those near Khald-Atar and the Divine One himself-- Kiavash hastily slips amongst the diplomats of His Court. Lips move silently beneath her veil, a silent prayer to the God that just addressed her. /Her./ Stunned, she presses herself deeper into the throng of bodies, murmuring apologies and thanks for her passage. White wings rustle slightly, spreading, balancing the Empyrean warrior-bard as he rises up from his knees, before they furl behind him tightly. As much as he might try to be unobtrusive in the Amir-al's court, Gaelius cannot be. A few steps forward, out into the empty space between Khalid Atar, and the crowds. A salute is given to the God-King, fist thumping over his heart, then the militant musician bows deeply, taking a brief instant to collect his thoughts, before speaking. So it seems that Gaelius will enter the written version of Varati posterity after all. Rabi's expression is distanced from the goings on around her; she is serene. And yet she smiles slightly at the sight of the Empyrean bard -- whether that smile be one of pleasure or amusement or irony, it's impossible to tell. Her fingers guide her pen as she catches Khalid's intial call to Kiavash out of her memory and fixes it on the page. Impassive, cool as the distant moon for which she is named, Shahar studies Kiavash upon her departure and Gaelius upon his arrival. She is expected to be attentive, to offer council at a moment's notice, in this instances, and she has no desire to let her focus flitter away when the Amir-al requires it. As speech between Khalid and Kiavash is concluded, Thalia's gaze swings back to Gaelius. She is the silent partner, but there appears to be great weight behind the vague front that the Queen portrays, as if she is silently assessing the manner and the attitude by which the participants stand and speak. Niamh continues to watch the court, but he finds his attention drawn to the Empyrean...and the Maharani. With a brief grimace he pushes thoughts out of his mind and seeks to pay attention only to the present. But his mind keeps on trying to pull him in other directions. Gaelius is significantly different from the _other_ bard of Faanshi's acquaintance -- who she's had to leave to be here in the first place. Remembering him, the shudra girl glances restlessly towards the exits, as though she might happen to espy the bard in question wandering through the room, or as if she might be able to somehow see clear out into the streets of Haven to rest her gaze upon him. Although the signs of her attention wandering are subtle indeed, still the senior servant watching over the shudra in her part of the hall somehow notices her woolgathering -- and with a sharp, subtle smack upon the girl's silk-clad shoulder, brings the halfbreed's attention quite firmly back to the here and now. When the Empyrean bard speaks, it is with a soft baritone voice, evocative of the music that surely inhabits every fiber of his being. Words are masterfully delivered with a lyrical quality that rolls over his thoughts and ideas for everyone to hear. "My sincere thanks, Amir-al, for granting me this privilege." polite, and warm, and even with awe and reverence. But, Khalid Atar is not his God, so he is not worshipful at all. "I am a Bard, a singer, musician and teller of tales." a nod of his head towards the Amir-al, his inflection rolling over his title, emphasis evident. "I always strive to put truth in every word that I sing, and tell, because music has a special power over people." and certainly, from this man, more than most! "I have become fascinated by your people, Khalid Atar, and your loyal servants." a sweeping hand over the assemblage. "Such is not found in the Empyre, even with my travels among the mongrels, and halfbreeds. Khalid Atar, I would dearly love to sing of you, and your people." softly, as Gaelius bows his head, getting to his question, "So, I would humbly petition for the Amir-al's favor, that he grant an audience to this Empyrean bard, so that he might learn more of you and your people." Pushing aside all thoughts of the moment, Kiavash focuses on hastily making up for her-- interruption in note-taking. How exciting! This is ever so much more interesting than the years at her father's side, acting as Rabi does for the Amir-al. The barest of smiles lights over the veiled lips, fingers moving in a lightning rhythm over her paper. Breaking from her writing for a moment, she scratches a brief sketch of the Empyrean warrior-bard next to the colomn of shortened scrawls that detail his mannerisms and approach to the Divine Son. There is a dead silence from the Amir-Al, not even his wings or fingers moving as he listens to the Empyrean. He merely breathes and considers, one brow arched in what appears to be amused contemplation. "I see," he states at length, letting those words die into silence as well. After a moment more, he leans forward with his eyes boring smoking holes through Gaelius' own. "May I ask what scriptures you have read of us? There are quite a few in the Scriptorium, you know, and at the moment, am I entirely unsure what your request has to do with *me*. After all, I doubt very highly that you would request an audience with the Empyror if you wished to write a song about Citivas Dei. Or will you be composing praises in my name?" At Khalid's side, Shahar is silent, letting the music that is her God-King's voice roll over her, immersing her in bliss. But the Empyrean...he is a mystery, and toward him she must look for answers. Answers? Oh yes, one must have answers. Consumed with her drawing of the Empyrean, Kiavash begins the fine detailing of each wing, from pinions to flights. At this distance, she cannot see the soft lines at his eyes, but the color of his braid and the nature of his carriage suggests that he is an older man. Tawny eyes flicker from paper to bard, mental notes being made with each stroke of the quill. Only now do Thalia's eyes move away from the people gathered in the throne room and to the man who sits beside her. She gazes at Khalid's fine, dark features and a smile of amusement quirks at the corners of her lips before she leans close and whispers a few words to the God-King. Wings stiffen, feathers ruffling in utter shock at the gaze that bores into his soul. But the warrior-bard known as Gaelius does not tremble at Khalid Atar's gaze, however frozen he is. A deep breath, as he attempts to regain his composure, seemingly successful at it. He's stared death in the eyes many times before. Then, that lyrical baritone comes softly, rolling his words out, "I confess, Amir-al, with deep regret that I have not read any of your scriptures." a pause, green gaze meeting the God-King's eyes, "Because I cannot read or write. Every word that I hear, every thing that I see, every impression that I get, every song that I sing, is forever in here." a finger reaching up to tap his temple. A bow of that silver and gold head, as Gaelius collects his thoughts and breath momentarily. Then, he speaks once again, his head rising up. "You are correct, Amir-al, in that I would not request an audience with the Empyror, to speak about Citivas Dei." a warm smile, respectful. "Such information can be found from more common sources. However, if I wanted to find out his impressions, thoughts, and feelings, I would have to ask him. Because what others think that the Empyror's impressions, thoughts, and feelings might be, might actually be false. I strive for the truth in my songs, and tales." a bow of his head again. "I cannot promise that my songs would be that of praise in your name, Amir-al. But, I can promise that they are as truthful as I can tell them. Second-hand information, and writings might not always hold the complete truth." a glance up. "I would wish to learn about you, direct from the source, so that I might sing of you, and your people." Niamh's attention moves from the Empyrean to the contingent of Atarvani...yet go back to the bard as he makes known his desires. He is terribly curious as to what His Holiness will respond to that. Ranjeet passes through the sturdy doorway from the Living Quarters. Ranjeet has arrived. Rabi catches up now to the point at which Gaelius first began to speak and takes a moment or two to run his words through her mind. She turns the pen's nib to a more slender angle but increases the pressure: slender but purposeful. She draws out the ends of each letter with tiny finials, subtle decoration to set them aside as something unusual. A bard that can't *read*? The crowd, or at least the assembled nobles, seem a little surprised at Gaelius' admission; the commoners seem to accept it as par for the course. "Perhaps it would be in your best interests to learn to read," Khalid answers, though he doesn't seem to be implying Gaelius should learn to do so in a week. Settling back into his throne, Khalid sniffs and lifts his chin. "I suggest that you return to Atesh-Gah one week from today, and favor the Maharani and I with a song or some composition. I would like to see your skill before an audience is granted; if you prove as talented as rumor has it, then I will grant you a private audience - *providing* the information you seek is not commonly available." Now _this_, thinks Faanshi to herself, is a startling request on Gaelius' part. He's moved from a desire to write a song about Kiera to singing of the Khalid himself -- and even though the halfbreed girl can hardly blame him, for why should he _not_ sing of the Amir-al, still her attention starts wandering again. The Empyrean is very fine in appearance, very noble-seeming, but still... there's that other bard in her thoughts. Would _he_ be so bold? She could almost see Lyre declaiming these words in the presence of the God-king, and the vision is so tempting that for the second time that night, her daydreaming earns her a smack on the shoulder from the senior servant who now keeps a rather sharper eye upon her. Slipping into the Throne Room quietly, Ranjeet slowly, but purposefully makes his way over toward his assistant, Kiavash. There is no skulking or cowering, but he does move with quiet grace and dignity so as not to interupt the proceedings with his tardy presence. A slight frown has weighted down the Foreign Minister's brow, and he studies the gathered assembly closely, making careful note of the proceedings about him as he tries to garner what is going on and how much he has missed already. The smile on Thalia's face grows a tad broader as Khalid requests the Bard to prove his worth, but even as the smile grows, the blue-grey eyes appear profusely interested in the bold, and perhaps even rash, Empyrean. At the Amir-al's side, behind his elbow as is her place in court, with Rabi close to her feet, Shahar attends the decision proffered to this Empyrean bard before notice is made of the newly arrived Ranjeet. A slender ebony brow elevates itself inquisitively toward her husband's late arrival before she looks again at Gaelius. The Foreign Ministers aide glances up again, amazement scrawled across the visible part of her face-- which is little enough. The bard will not sing of the Amir-al? Why is he not yet stricken where he stands? These thoughts are pulled from Kiavash at Ranjeet's arrival; she dips the edge of her sketchbook, showing him the hasty sketch of the brave warrior-bard that she has made. Tiny words accompany the drawing, neatly written notes about the proceedings thus far. Amineh passes through the sturdy doorway from the Living Quarters. Amineh has arrived. There is almost a sense of relief that creeps into the warrior-bard's posture, a slight relaxing of his wings, feathers no longer so ruffles. A nod from Gaelius, his fist slamming over his heart once again. Little does anyone in the room know that it was there, that a Varati arrow had struck him through, right there, so many years ago. A deep bow, his white wings spreading to allow him to balance, to Khalid Atar, and his Queen Wife. Green eyes are aglow, even as he responds softly, "Even so little a thing, to be allowed to sing to you, Amir-al, and your Queen, is one of the greatest honors ever given me in my life." a quick smile, "It is not every day that I am allowed to sing before a God." rising up, in a parade rest stance, much like the Agni-Hadar guarding him, waiting to be dismissed. Archana passes through the sturdy doorway from the Living Quarters. Archana has arrived. Leaning close to his assistant, Ranjeet whispers something softly into her ear as he studies the notes and drawings that she shows him. His gaze lifts for a moment to study the bard, his brow creasing at the Empyrean's delight. His gaze flickers briefly to Khalid Atar and then back to the bard, before shifting to rest upon his wife, the Pasha, his lips curling in a smile for her and her alone. Niamh seems rather confused at what he just heard...of course, when one comes into the middle of Court, it happens. He does move back a step as he notices the Nabi's arrival...should he try to speak with her tonight, or wait and write her from the Citadel? He wonders, briefly, if she is still angry with him. One of the tall side doors leading to the Royal Wing opens a small amount, and two figures slip through as unobtrusively as possible -- the Seneschal leading the way, the Nabi a step behind. Once they are within, the door is closed behind them. While Archana pauses to pay silent respect to the Amir-al, the Nabi performs her obeisance as well, a deep bow with gnarled hands clasped over her badge of office to keep it silenced. Once both are done, they move to a spot against the wall, near the front of the Throne Room. Thalia's body shifts so that she is no longer leaning toward Khalid, instead her eyes flick over to Shahar, then her body slides to a full frontal position and her eyes once again return to rest upon the assembly. As the bard's respectful tones end, Kiavash glances up at Ranjeet. The sudden 'thud' against Gaelius' chest causes her to start. Tawny eyes narrow as she slides a glance in the direction of the Empyrean, but diminuative as she is amongst the tall men of her race, Kiavash's tiny displeasure is hidden-- and then quickly wiped from her face. Again she looks to the Foreign Minister, noting the smile on his face with a wry one of her own. How odd that he does not stand with his wife, the Pasha. Something to inquire about later. For now she turns her attention to the pages of her book, softly whispering the answer to Ranjeet's questioning. Ah, how she dislikes coming in late to anything, even when it cannot be avoided. Archana studies the group gathered in the throne room, in a silent attempt to discern the business of each and every one of them. Taking her place beside her honoured Nabi, the woman merely waits and watches, dull brown eyes assimilating it all. "Well, today is your lucky day, then," Khalid comments, sardonic humor creeping over his lips to take up satisfied residence. A gesture of his hand indicates dismissal, and he looks to the newly arrived Archana, and favors her with a nod of his head. "I will expect you hence, Dominus Gaelius," Khalid says, attention gathering on the newly arrived Foreign Minister. "Minister Ranjeet!" he calls, "I did not know you had business, or I would have asked to speak with you later. As it stands, I will speak to you after court." Shahar is ignorant of the blessing of Thalia's glance, else she would have acknowledged attention from the Maharani with a bow of gratitude. She has a purpose and duty to listen to Khalid and those in His court whom He addresses, and thus she focusses on that rather than on the delicate Empyrean beside him. Stepping aside from his assistant, Ranjeet bows, deeply and respectfully, to the God King of the Varati people. "My humble apologies, but I had a most pressing meeting and believe I have most valuable news to share with you as a byproduct of this." There is no question that he will not wait behind once everyone else has left. Rising up, he awaits any further orders or commands. Another nod from the warrior-bard, as Gaelius backs up from the clear space between the Amir-al, to kneel once more among the four Agni-Hadar guards that assume position at his flanks. Wings fold up behind him once again, tightly, green eyes watching now, and remembering this Grand Court for the years to come. A pleased smile that can't help but crawl across his pleased face. Inkblack eyes throw back tiny, glittery reflections of the room's torches as the Nabi's gaze moves from person to person. Niamh is considered -- if he is on the opposite side of the Throne Room from her -- though no obvious reaction is given. Shahar is appraised as well, eyes moving from the Pasha to Ranjeet. Her gaze holds there a second, then focusses on Kiavash, remaining there a goodly while. When Ranjeet speaks, the Nabi inclines slightly towards Archana and murmurs something to her. The words are a web, a tapestry of sentience and meaning. With words, Gods name things and make them real. With words, mortals praise Them which gave them souls and minds. It is a gift to be able to fix them in writing and Rabi is grateful to the core of her soul that she was given this gift and the opportunity to use it in Khalid's service. She glances up at Gaelius as she continues to work and catches sight of Ranjeet and Amineh. "Do not worry; if your absence was due to business, it is acceptable. I commend you for your dedication," Khalid answers, a wave of his hand indicating Ranjeet should withdraw if he so desires or stay if that is his wish. The God-King inhales a deep breath, and looks to Archana - the proper Seneschal, in expectation of the next matter of business. (OOC: If any of the rest of you have business, tell me or Archana, and she'll tell me, cuz I really have to vamoose. And thank you all for showing up!) To receive a nod from the Amir-Al is truly an honour and one that Archana did not expect. Startled, she immediately dips into a low bow. If she is quick enough, he saw her acknowledgement. If not, it was his due anyway. As the Nabi whispers, Archana's eyes widen perceptibly. Noble personages and humble ones alike focus their attentions upon the doings by the God-King's throne... and Faanshi, chastened by having to be called to task _twice_ by the khansamah's underling, blushes vividly behind her veil and locks herself into a posture of attentive reverence, awaiting the signal that she might begun circulating through the gathering with refreshments. With an effort, she banishes thoughhts of a certain roguish Mongrel bard to the back of her mind and heart and focuses her attention fiercely upon the situation at hand... if, indeed, anything done by this gentle shudra can ever be called fierce. Rabi carefully sets her pen aside and touches her head to the stone before her, as does her assistant, in farewell to her deity and liege. And then, carefully, she takes up the task and continues writing. She still has the rest of the courtly scene to write, as well as whatever else might transpire from this point forward. Stepping back with a silent bow, Ranjeet returns to Kiavash's side, offering her an amused glance before facing forward, awaiting the dismissal of the rest of the court. [End log.]