"Even a Shudra Must Expound"

Log Date:
	5/18/00

Log Cast:
	Saleem, Faanshi, Jamil

Log Intro:
	If Faanshi had her way in things, she would be able to live a quiet
life doing good works for the people of Haven -- or better yet, the people
of Avalon, whom she has not forgotten for all that she has not been able to
visit that land again since her original sojourn there so many months ago.
She would have her dog always at her side, and Lyre Talespinner as well;
her magic would come to her as easily as breathing, and she would never,
ever have to worry about failing to save someone from hurt or sickness.
	Nor would she be looked upon with disdain by so many of the people
she encounters each day. She would be able to meet Mongrels in the eye 
without fear deep within that she is somehow doing something wrong -- and 
the pureblood Children of Fire would welcome her as something more than a
pair of hands with which to fetch and carry... even if they did not welcome
her as an equal. Perhaps they would understand her desire to uphold the
surahs, to help men and women of _all_ the races... perhaps they would even
help her.
	But Faanshi does not easily let herself acknowledge these desires,
and at least on this day, what she wants is not what she gets when she
encounters a vaisya artisan whose path she has crossed once before...
	Or is it?

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================*
             Time of day:  Afternoon
          Date on Aether:  Wednesday, June 30, 3906.
           Year on Earth:  1506 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Crescent
                  Season:  Summer
                 Weather:  Clear Skies
             Temperature:  Hot
*==========================================================================*

Saleem stands in the courtyard, staring at the doors to Atesh-Gah proper, 
  where the Agni-Haidar act as bookends at the door, bemused. Reaching down, 
  he picks up a bit of stone and starts shaping it, absently. Nervous habit?

The Agni-Haidar are stoic as always, indeed. A stoneshaper in the courtyard 
  does not distract them from their vigilant watch -- and neither does a slim 
  figure in red and gold and blue hastening on swift soft feet out into the 
  afternoon. At Faanshi's side her dog is loping as always, though at the 
  moment he has a large bone clenched within his teeth. The shudra maiden 
  glances up as she enters the open air, just enough to adjust her eyes to the 
  sunlight -- and to note the figure of the man wandering about just before 
  she stumbles right into his path. Down dips her gaze, and out of her blurts 
  a tiny, apologetic, "Excuse me, Imphadi" -- though she does not actually 
  collide with him, and neither does the dog.

Jamil enters from the carefully tended bushes which conceal the sight of a 
  gurgling fountain.
Jamil has arrived.

Saleem ehs? absently, having never noticed the disaster waiting to happen. Of 
  course, when he does, his brows start to furrow, anger and darkness begin to 
  grow on his face, "Here now, watch were you're going." Then narrows his eyes 
  further as he realizes who the person and the dog are.

Anger in the voice of a man -- such is hardly unfamiliar to this timid shudra 
  girl. Even so, Faanshi can't help but flinch a little at the expressed 
  displeasure. She bows low, backing swiftly off as best she can and causing 
  her poor dog to have to scamper sideways to avoid being tripped over; Kosha 
  lets out a snort of disgust around his bone. And his young mistress murmurs 
  humbly, "I am sorry, Imphadi. My feet are clumsy..."

Saleem grunts, "You need only watch where you step, not flee from me as if I 
  were Khalid himself." Of course, that may be blasephemy, and it's uttered 
  quickly and without thought. Only after does he check around him to see if 
  the Atarvani were listening. He always used to get in trouble for saying 
  things like that, not meant, but simply spoken without thought.

Jamil shuffles into the coartyard, humming softly to himself.

"I--" Maybe there might not be any Atarvani within earshot, but still there is 
  Faanshi, and she is slightly taken aback by the remark. Bemusement and 
  wariness flicker in her green eyes, momentarily viewable as she peeks up at 
  Saleem from over the top of her veil, but then her gaze swiftly dips again. 
  "Yes, Imphadi," she murmurs simply, taking refuge in the safety of the 
  servant girl's creed: when in doubt, simply agree with your betters and hope 
  that they'll let you go on your way. "I shall pay better attention." Behind 
  her, Kosha yurfs again, parks on his haunches, and begins to worry that bone 
  of his thoroughly, pinning it with his big front paws to the cobblestones.

Saleem nods satisfactorially, convinced that he has, in his manly way set the 
  servant in her place. Ah, to have such dreams. Anyway, so he stands there, 
  wondering what the hell to do now. So, abruptly, "Well, shudra, how are 
  you?" Wait, wait, he's actually starting a conversation with her? Some 
  people must really be bored.

Faanshi had been about to pull a discreet withdrawal, anxious to set out on 
  her next circuit of seeking through Bordertown and the areas between it and 
  Atesh-Gah for any and all who might need the touch of her hands. She has 
  written to the absent Maharani as bidden -- and now, left to her own 
  devices, the halfbreed girl is feeling the need to get out and _heal_, to 
  _aid_, to _work_, anything to distract her and occupy her mind and hands and 
  heart. But to be asked that apparently simple questin, it seems, is to 
  render her thunderstruck. Her slender form stiffens in surprise she cannot 
  mask, and before she can really catch herself she blurts, "You... you wish 
  to know my welfare, Imphadi...?"

Saleem says curtly, "Did I not just so indicate?" You'd never know that this 
  was the same man who just conducted what could have been construed as a 
  flirtatious conversation with the ...wife or consort of a warlord. Perhaps 
  it's something about Faanshi herself, or her caste that Saleem has problems 
  adjusting to. In any case, conversation between the two is ... strange or 
  strained, take your pick.

Ah, but one can hardly limit such a constraint to Saleem's doing alone; to be 
  sure, the thought of striking up a conversation with practically _any_ man 
  of the Varati is enough to well near make the maiden stagger in shock. "Yes, 
  Imphadi," she mumbles then by reflex, before she regains enough composure to 
  resettle her grasp upon the basket to which she clings, and to answer in a 
  slightly steadier voice, "I... am healthy, and blessed with duties to... 
  occupy my hands." There, that wasn't too difficult, was it? She can only 
  hope it is enough of an answer, for Faanshi cannot conceive that a man of 
  the people she serves would actually want to know anything more in-depth. 
  And then, demonstrating that she does in fact possess manners, she appends 
  shyly and earnestly, "I pray that the Amir-al blesses you with health and 
  prosperity...?"

Saleem now nods approvingly, much better. See, with a little encouragement, 
  you can do anything. "Indeed, he has blessed me health and prosperity." If 
  only he could bless my family with sons so I would not have to put out this 
  effort to be married, but as always, another story. "Where do you go to do 
  your duty, with that basket?" Will she fall over from the shock of the 
  interest? Let's watch.

The shudra girl doesn't exactly keel over -- but she does risk a bemused peek 
  over her veil once again, not entirely certain of this sudden interest that 
  the artisan has taken in her. It is as unsettling as the hawk statuette with 
  which he had gifted her, and which she now recalls. Bobbing her head a bit 
  in acknowledgement, she then drops her attention down to the wicker basket 
  she carries; within it might perchance be spotted small cloth packets tied 
  with bits of twine, an equally small loaf of bread, two glass vials. 
  "Bordertown, Imphadi," she goes on in those soft tones of hers.

Saleem scowls, "Why would you want to go to so crude a place, and by 
  yourself?" Oh dear lord, he is worried about her personal safety. Run now, 
  for your life. Yes, well, somehow, he has it in his head he owes her. He's 
  not sure why or how or any details, simply that he does.

If Faanshi had not already gone still with surprise at the mere idea that 
  Saleem has chosen to _speak_ with her, this last question of his would make 
  her freeze in shock anew. Her gaze involuntarily flicks down to Kosha, 
  happily gnawing away on the soup bone he's been given by the mistress of the 
  kitchen servants, and then she peeks back up again a trifle blankly. Not 
  that Faanshi _minds_ being asked such things, oh no -- but _why_? What 
  mysterious will of Ushas might have moved this man to make such inquiries of 
  her? The maiden has to search for words for a moment or two before she 
  finally and hesitantly explains, "I... am a healer, Imphadi. And Bordertown 
  is full of people who need me. I go each day to help them."

Saleem tries to understand this. "Why do you not stay here and help those that 
  need it, rather than wasting it on mongrels who will not appreciate it?" 
  It's obvious he's not spent a lot of time in Bordertown, is it? Or rather 
  around those who are so pathetically grateful for any measure of attention.

Why not, indeed? This is, after all, the very core of her existence and has 
  been for many months now. Several seconds pass before Faanshi is able to 
  reply -- not because of lack of words or conviction, but because of a sharp 
  upswelling of emotion within her, closing off her throat and making her 
  summer-leaf eyes squeeze shut above her veil. When at last she is able to 
  speak, it is in a whisper of her already normally gentle voice. But her gaze 
  lifts even as she murmurs huskily, "If the Children of Fire call upon me, 
  Imphadi, I serve them gladly, but" -- _but I am not worthy to touch them_ -- 
  "I... I am not often... honored by receiving such a duty." And that's all 
  she manages to get out, before she must stop again to try to pull in a 
  breath and tamp down the bleak sense of solitude that threatens her 
  thoughts. She cannot admit to feeling alone.

Saleem ohs. He doesn't think about it. Of course, he wouldn't think it would 
  matter if you were sick or bleeding, what have you, but then there are many 
  things that he does not give thought to. Then again, he does have the idea 
  of being touched by say a fish and barely contains the shudder. He hazards, 
  "So for lack of anything to do?"

Any other young woman, any maiden with a less sensitive temperament and a far 
  shorter temper, might now feel a surge of impatience at such a question -- 
  but then again, that young woman would probably still not express if it she 
  were Varati, born and bred to the ways of a woman's public docility. And if 
  she still felt that impatience, she would most assuredly not be Faanshi. 
  Instead, the halfbreed girl is conscious only of a dull, hollow wondering 
  why the artisan is taking the time to ask her these things -- and whether 
  she will offend him if she answers with the truth. Still... because she _is_ 
  Faanshi... the truth is the only option. Her gaze averted to the ground 
  beneath her sandaled feet, the young healer replies in a tone that for all 
  its softness still manages to relay that each word is wrung up painfully 
  from somewhere within her, "I am a healer, Imphadi... and I must heal. The 
  holy priests of the Most High care for His children... they do not need me, 
  much. So I... go to the ones who do. The holy surahs and my heart say that I 
  must." One more peek is risked above the veil; does he understand? She dares 
  not ask such a thing, for surely it would be presumptuous.

Saleem does, in fact, understand. He thinks. It's like his shaping. He doesn't 
  control it, it controls him. And so, he repeats this idea, as well as, "It 
  simply must be done, because one can -not- -not- do it." He adds, "It is an 
  imperative." You should ask him about art, then again, you are Faanshi and 
  would not be so bold.

Something like relief touches the maiden, then. "Yes," Faanshi breathes, "that 
  is exactly it, Imphadi." Behind her veil, because she is veiled, she smiles 
  a tiny smile to herself. That goes unseen, but not the sungolden hand with 
  which she indicates the dog who with gleeful abandon snaps open the bone 
  which is his current prey and slurps marrow from within. "And I do not go to 
  Bordertown alone. Kosha is my guard."

Saleem glances down at the dog rather dubiously. "He does not seem to be much 
  of a protector. Indeed, more apt to drag you into trouble." His idea of 
  Kosha is just a big fluff dog. Of course, he hasn't seen the canine in 
  action, so his hesitation might be understandable.

Hearing his name uttered, the dog looks up and favors his young mistress with 
  an open-mouthed, tongue-lolling smile. His tail thumps twice behind him. And 
  Faanshi murmurs in something that sounds suspiciously like fondness, though 
  a shudra's reserve and her own apparent natural shyness cloak her as 
  effectively as do her sari and veil, "If someone tries to... threaten me, 
  Kosha knocks them down. And sometimes he will bite them."

Saleem remarks, "Well, he is certainly large enough to knock them down." He 
  shakes his head at the sight of the friendly dog, there's something 
  strangely unnatural about it. He's not sure why, just knows. He lets his 
  eyes drift back up, "And do you heal them of his bite?"

The maiden blinks at this, but she answers with what sounds like a ready 
  sincerity, "Sometimes -- if they are only hungry... or desperate... yes, 
  Imphadi." Memory of a Mongrel youth who'd tried to steal her herbal basket 
  touches her. Kosha had tackled the lad and bitten his forearm, sending young 
  Joseph into a paroxysm of fright; Faanshi had immediately reached out to 
  heal him, and managed to get him to grudgingly admit that he'd been wild for 
  the bread he knew she was carrying. But she offers none of this story, not 
  yet. Saleem is Varati, is he not? She cannot tell whether this man would 
  care about the dozens of starving men, women, and children she has met on
  her forays within Haven's poorest quarter, driven into lawlessness because 
  they have no other option.

Saleem doesn't care, really. Mostly because he's never had a frame of 
  reference or a need to understand. A privilege of being a well off enough 
  vaisya clan, even if the lot of them are girls. Another abrupt question, "Do 
  you not believe that to be dangerous?"

"Yes, Imphadi," murmurs the maiden, "I do."

Saleem prompts, "And yet you do it anyway?"

It is times like this in which Faanshi comes as closest as she dares to 
  wishing she had the courage to look men in the eye -- or perhaps, rather, 
  that she lived in a world where the very real possibility did not exist that 
  she could be beaten simply by daring to lift her gaze to the world around 
  her. Several of her friends out in that very dangerous quarter of the city 
  under discussion have in fact striven more than once to teach her the 
  courage to do that very act, and from them, she has learned that to be able 
  to look someone in the eye is to be strong and sure in one's place in the 
  world. She cannot help now but think of Thomas Murako. And Lyre Talespinner. 
  And Milane, and FallingStar, and Nine-Fingered Rab, and Craft. Men and women 
  of the Mongrel race -- and, for that matter, of other races as well -- who 
  have shown her more than they realize that she need not fear looking up if 
  she believes in something truly enough.
And so she does lift her head, her gaze venturing shyly skyward in apparent 
  oblivion to the slightly otherworldly cast it lends her stance -- though
  she compromises between her inner convictions and what this man expects
  of her by avoiding looking at him directly as she answers gravely, "Yes, 
  Imphadi, I do."

Saleem regards this with some curiosity. He, of course, could be mad, punish 
  her for her forwardness, then answer to the Queen, getting that far he backs 
  up. Not a way to press his case with her husband, the Amir-al. Anyway, what 
  choice does he have but to look amused, for he notices the avoidance of his 
  eye directly, "Well, then, I should not keep you any longer from your self 
  determined 'duties'." He stands aside and indicates the gate. "I am certain 
  that the mongrel and the poor await your presence with breathless 
  anticipation, either for help or your food."

A less innocent lass than Faanshi might wonder if those words hold sarcasm. 
  This, however, _is_ Faanshi, and so she merely attributes that loftily 
  amiable dismissal as simply a dismissal -- though she acknowledges in her 
  heart of hearts a little tremor of disquiet. She will never actually admit 
  to any such thing, not to anyone, but even to a maiden devoted to the holy 
  surahs, the simple joy of faces expressing pleasure at her presence and 
  voices uplifted to her in friendship is a powerful force. In Atesh-Gah, she 
  is lucky to receive amiable disdain. In Bordertown, for all its dangers, she 
  can at least find some glimmers of acceptance.
But none of this does she voice, either. Faanshi merely nestles her basket in 
  the crook of her slender arm and clasps her hands at her breast, bowing her 
  head over them. "Yes, Imphadi," is her acceptance of his dismissal, soft and 
  shy and sweet. "May the Amir-al bless you." And with that, she glances 
  sideways to whistle out three soft notes from somewhere behind her veil, 
  bringing the dog to his feet in a surge of furred muscle. One scrap of bone 
  is dropped, and this Faanshi retrieves so that it might not sully the 
  courtyard. The other remains in Kosha's teeth. "Namaste', Imphadi!"
With that, dog at her side and bone and basket in hand, Faanshi steps off on 
  the mission she has appointed herself. Soon, she is gone.

[End log.]