"The Hand of Compassion" Log Date: 2/8/99 Log Cast: Murako, Faanshi, Ulima (NPC emitted by Faanshi), Jihaad Log Intro: The life of Faanshi, shudra of Clan Khalida, has in recent days changed more than she had ever dreamed or hoped it would do. Rescued by the halfbreed Kiera from the abuses of the Warlord Hashim, the young shudra and her old heart-mother Ulima have been adopted into Clan Khalida by order of Khalid Atar himself. And although the God-King has sternly decreed that should either of the women once of Clan Sarazen show signs of acting like candala he will put them to death, the mere fact that she has been delivered from Hashim has brought joy into Faanshi's heart. Reverently grateful for her opportunity to begin exploring a still very strange new world after being confined for most of her life, she has readily gone into the service of Clan Khalida, taking on work befitting a young maiden under Ulima's guidance when Kiera is not present with specific orders as to how Faanshi should serve her. But all at once a new change has entered Faanshi's life, once more prompted by her winged mistress. A Mongrel man has been captured and tortured by the Atarvani -- and given to Kiera as her new slave. Abused as she has been by Hashim, the shudra girl is nevertheless deeply troubled by the sight of a man who has clearly been broken by the magics of the priests of Khalid Atar... and troubled, too, that the Atarvani would choose to do such a thing. Wanting to help this man that Kiera has named Murako, not knowing how to do so or even if she can, Faanshi's sleep the night after the Mongrel's arrival is troubled, and so is her heart when the next morning dawns... ---------- Early morning has come to the Varati encampment, the flickering fires of the night have died into greying embers and slowly the warriors, shudra, and naraki are stirring from their tents to go about their daily activities. The sun rises over the green fields of the Empyre's domain, now conquered by the invading armies, making a brilliantly bright display of the frosty layer of ice which coats the ground. The Mongrel man is awakened by Kiera, her form entering the tent only briefly and announcing that it is time to rise. Murako she calls him. Murako. His eyes flutter open almost instantly, the brightness of the new day filling his senses with shock. By the time he has reacted, his master is gone to her scouting missions, and the man once known as Thomas rises slowly from his earthen bed, a soft sound escapes his lips -- a sound which results from the lethargy which comes with being newly risen. "Murako." He speaks softly, his eyes flitting towards a spot where the fire once burned, "New Moon." He has made the translation almost flawlessly, which is rather surprising, being as he's a Mongrel. Murako. New Moon. Faanshi does not know the word's origin, but she hears Kiera's words to her new slave, and to herself, she murmurs the new name behind her veil. Only now does it begin to sink in with the young shudra girl that her winged imphada, her deliverer, now has a new responsibility... and that this man will change, has already changed, her own new status under Kiera's care. Her thoughts reeling, she casts a glance into the tent at whose flap she huddles, torn between waking Ulima for the dawn prayers and going out to face this new naraki. Duty wins out, but only just. The girl vanishes for a moment within, to rouse her heart-mother... and then steps out into the morning, nervously checking to make sure her veil is secure about her face. He is as if the living dead at this point, his head throbbing as the harsh sun assaults his eyes, causing him to squint to endure it. Shifting around to sit, he curls his legs up before him and places his fingertips to his temples and begins to rub them. Yesterday and the horrors which lie within seem as if a dream, but still he can see the harsh, hidden faces of the Atarvani, and the screams which echoed from deep in his soul still echo inside his mind. Hanging his head for a moment, he then runs his fingers through the curly locks of his hair and lets out a soft sigh. All around him the camp is beginning to come to life, all so alien and filled with voices speaking a foreign language. As Faanshi moves out of the tent, he glances over at the movement of bright colors and notices the familiar, veiled face of the shudra. Yet, certainly she has no time for him, and soon someone will come to place him to work. Most likely the old woman, who they called Ulima. No sign, yet, of that old woman. The veiled girl hesitantly approaches, dipping her sari-covered head under the tarp and lingeirng there at its edge, not yet drawing near to check the long-dead embers of the fire. Memory insists that she keep her head bowed, her gaze down, but still... green eyes peek over the top of her veil, and a soft voice inquires, "Murako...?" "What?" ..The Mongrel answers, his head bowed and arms on his knees. He seems to avert his gaze from you, but perhaps not deliberately. One positive sign, the tone which he used was not the meek one you heard demonstrated last evening. It was a bit more confident, and seems to express the confusion and the pain which he feels at this current time. Once again, he grows silent as he awaits to see if you have instructions, commands, or questions. "Are you... well?" Faanshi's own tone is, by contrast, quite shy; the leaf-hued eyes, worn around their edges, lift up again to steal a glance at the disturbing new addition to Kiera Khalida's personal retinue. Slim golden hands draw to her breast, pressed palm to palm, fingers intertwined. The Mongrel man remains silent for a moment longer, and then you hear from beneath him, the low sound of a deep chuckle. Murako appears almost amused at your statement. This persists just a few seconds, and then he grows silent, his head rising and eyes turning to look over at you, staring straight into your own orbs and locking there for those seconds which you yourself dare to look upon him, "As well as can be expected, Imphada. Thank you for your concern." By the time he's looked upon your visage, you can see that he is grimly serious once again. The morning's lethargy has made his eyes somewhat puffy and he has that continuously weary look about him. The look that comes not from mere fatigue, but that which eminates from someone who has been broken. Murako You find yourself looking at a simple man who calls no pure race his own; a young Mongrel perhaps in his early twenties. Yet, occasionally, there is beauty in something so elementary, no more than lines or curves, ignoring breed or ancestry . His build is strong, study as is a trademark of his kind, arms muscled and shoulders full of the kind of strength that empires are built upon. One might easily describe his 'look' as rugged, features are strong and well defined, as if carved from the very stone of a mountain. But, the hand was that of a Master, for there can be seen no flaw in its design, each line or angle is perfect and flawless, giving him a clasically handsome quality that few could call their own. The kiss of the sun has given his skin the tanned quality of one who often works afield, the whole blending well with the deep, chocolate brown locks which curl around his face and ears. From beneath his brows stare eyes of the darkest brown, possessing an intensity that is perceptible, yet subdued. No jewelry or other adornment mars the simplicity of his form, and were it there, somehow it might seem out of place. His voice is deep, strong and rich, an even cantor that could draw attention, yet it is a gift rarely used. The moment brown eyes meet green, Faanshi's head dips, but not before an astute gaze might note tinges of weariness and anxiety lining the golden skin at each corner of those green orbs. "You do not need to call me imphada," she says, low and shy, but clear nevertheless. "I am only a shudra... and a halfbreed. I work for Imphada Kiera, the same as you, now..." "But we are not the same." Murako looks away from you again, his eyes gazing across the abanonded interior of the tent with a baleful stare. He closes his eyes and exhales once again, "Why did you come to speak to me? Or did the old woman come to tell you to give me work? Ulima?" His voice sounds muffled against his arm, subdued in a strange way. Still the Mongrel remains curled into his position, almost as if he was sheltering himself from something. The man's tone isn't harsh, but beneath his troubled exterior you can sense a bitterness that is his sole remnant of defiance. All he can muster in the wake of the torture. Unseen, Faanshi's eyes turn liquid, and she feels her hands pressing more tightly together, palm to palm. Why _did_ she come to speak with the slave? She's not sure herself. But for all that her face is out of view, her voice is not out of hearing, and her words come out of her guileless, pained for this huddled man before her. "Imphada Kiera said that you were hurt," she whispers. "Hashim beat me, before the Khalid ordered him to put himself to death." The man's gaze still remains turned away from the smaller halfbreed wrapped in the Varati's dress, her face shielded from his eyes, his face shielded from hers. There is a long period of silence before Murako answers, his tone wavering just a bit, "The hurt I've suffered can't be healed with herbs or magic." A plain, simple answer, that holds in it no emotion or focus. Though you cannot see, his own eyes turn liquid, then a single tear runs its way down the corner of his eye and trails a clear path through the grime upon his handsome visage. Yet, his face remains impassive and cold. "Some wounds are too deep." And then he grows silent. A chill wind stirs some dirt inside the tarp, sending the edges flapping wildly in the winds which prevail. Off in the distance, one of the soldiers shouts loudly in Varati. Oh dear. Faanshi pulls in a ragged breath, troubled by the unemotional answer and unable to determine why. Unthinkingly, she wrings her golden hands, and when she manages to speak again, she sounds slightly... ill. "I wish I could help..." comes her whisper. "I... am sorry. I-I will not trouble you any further. Did Imphada Kiera give you duties for the day--?" Your disturbed reaction doesn't appear to phase the Mongrel man, rather he still remains with his face away from you. Slowly, the man's fingers entwine with one another, "No, she did not. I assume that you can help instruct me on what I am supposed to do?" Now /finally/ he tilts his head back towards you, eyes studying the lines of your face, hidden behind the cloth. He can read your reaction, read the troubles which seethe right below the surface at his condition. And in those moments, he utters a few words, which may be of some comfort, "Do not worry for me so. I can see it in your eyes, what little of them you show me. I am a naraki now, a slave to the Varati people." He pauses, "You know nothing of me or my past. Be not so quick to judge who you give compassion to. Some men deserve the hells they languish in." And with that, he grows silent and blank once again, yet his gaze remains where it is, dark and heavy. The girl in her veil and sari stands there, hands still clenched at her breast, her knuckles turned a paler shade of gold with the tightness of her grasp. Her gaze remains shyly averted, but her eyes are squeezed shut, and only when the new words are spoken does she seem to relax a little. Color begins creeping to the very top of her cheeks, just over the top of her blue veil, as if transferred there out of her hands. "The sixth surah teaches that we should give compassion to all," she says, shy even yet, but without hesitation. But she does not look up. The smallest of smiles touches the corner's of the Mongrel's lips, "We come from different worlds. Not all follow the teachings of your surah, and not all show compassion to others. The world I knew was a place of cruelty, where the strong would rule and the weak were oppressed." His lidded eyes gaze around, then back at you with some slowness, "Not much different than this place. Even beneath the eyes of that which you speak, there are crimes being comitted. It is the nature of men to oppress the weaker, and destroy that which they fear. That which we believe gives us hope that all is not as bad as it would seem, and the tenents guide us to a more rightous path." His eyes slide closed as if once again those visions seized him, "Your compassion is welcome to one who knows little of it. Even though I know not your name, or your face, it gives me hope that all in this place is not as I have imagined it." A soft inhalation of breath; then, exhaled, just as softly, comes the words, "My name is Faanshi." Murako nods slowly, but he does not respond further. Then, suddenly, as if he was stirred from these discussions, the Mongrel moves to rise from his place, "Then, what tasks do you have for me to do, today, Faanshi? I should wait no longer, lest the old woman think I am not working." Much taller than you, he looks downwards to await your commands, his hands ready at his sides. A strong back, and healthy body. Yet, beneath you can sense there is something still deeply troubled. The old woman -- "Ulima!" Faanshi abruptly gasps, her head lifting, her gaze flashing towards the tent from which she had emerged. It suddenly occurs to her that the sun has been climbing steadily higher into the sky... and that Ulima's presence has not made herself felt. "She hasn't come out yet, she should have..." The passage of time has seemed as if unnoticed by the Mongrel man. Already the sun has risen slightly higher and the camp is now in full working mode. The young girl appears to have forgotten about the old woman, who must have sent her on some sort of a task. His eyes move towards that spot where Faanshi looks, "The old woman sent you for something?" He asks curiously as he steps out of the confines of the tarp, the sun settling on his tanned skin and causing him to squint once again, "Come, we can go to her and I shall explain it was my fault for distracting you." Almost immediately he sets off across the dusty trail towards the aforementioned shelter the old Varati resides. It isn't far, indeed, only some yards away from where Kiera's tarp has been set up, in this newest iteration of the camp of Clan Khalida. Faanshi blurts as she darts away, though not swiftly enough that longer legs cannot keep up with her, "We were to greet the dawn, as we do each morning -- she should have come out, and I thought she would have come with me, I woke her, but..." In moments, she's reached the tiny tent. And sitting just within the flap, her head bowed and her veiled face looking a trifle gray beneath the darkness of her skin, is the old wise-woman. "Ulima...!" Murako follows along behind you, his steps are longer, but not faster than yours. As he approaches the tent, he remains silent, his gaze falling somewhat pensively upon the old woman as she sort of just sits there. He arches a thick brow, but remains silent. It is as if the young girl with him fears the worst, her exclamation startling him some. He doesn't jump though. Ulima, nevertheless, looks up when Faanshi draws near. Tiredness is etched in her already lined visage, but her mouth curls into a slight smile as the young shudra kneels anxiously before her. "There you are, my child," the wise-woman whispers in a hoarse version of her usual reedy voice, and then she adds just a touch sternly, "The sun is arisen. We have not said our prayers to Ushas." "I thought you were coming out with me," Faanshi worries. She glances over her shoulder a moment, just long enough to mark the presence of Murako behind her, and then she returns an anxious regard to her heart-mother. "Are you all right? You look--" "You do not look well, Imphada." The words just come out and finish the shudra's thought. Murako leans against the post which holds up the tent, his wide brown eyes peering curiously into the darkened confines. "Is there something I can get you that will help?" For a moment, he looks towards Faanshi, then back towards the old woman. "I apologize for intruding, but Imphada Kiera did not give me my morningly duties and .." ..a pause, as if he thinks he might be speaking out of place, "..perhaps before you go to prayer you could give me something to do while you were gone?" The large man shifts his weight, and now it becomes clear that while these clothes he wears are loose-fitting, his body strains against some aspects of them, for he is a large and well defined individual. Softly, he clears his throat and begins to study the ground rather intently. Black eyes in their nest of wrinkles are only slightly less bright of gaze than usual, and Ulima slowly turns her attention from Faanshi to Murako and back again. "Young ones," she pronounces after a moment, raspily but not unkindly, "there is nothing wrong with me except winter in my aged bones. I could, however, use a tea. And a fire." "I'll get your herbs," Faanshi immediately offers, slipping around her into the tent as swiftly as she can. She emerges a moment later with a string of small pouches held together on a braided cord, along with Ulima's teapot. "Yes, Imphada." The Mongrel man strides outside the tent without hesitation towards the pit beneath the tarp which is supposed to hold a burning fire. Clearly, Murako isn't the kind of slave who prepares tea. His strong arms and back are designed for work which weaker ones cannot take. There was some wood left before the pit from last evening's blaze, and he gathers this up, chosing some of the smaller, drier pieces to set in the center. Searching around, he also finds several small, pre-wrapped bundles of straw which are designed for igniting the wood. Setting this up in a vaguely pyramidal shape, he nods approvingly. A moment or so later, he is clicking two pieces of shiny rock together at a rapid pace. The sparks begin to fly and catch the bundles on fire. Faanshi scurries after Murako, setting down the bags of herbs and the teapot near the fire, and then scurries swiftly back across the yards between tarp and tent to give Ulima her arm and help the old woman to rise to her feet. Ulima smiles a bit more warmly and firmly at her, murmuring, "Do not worry, my child, it is age, nothing more..." But still, Faanshi's eyes are strained and fretful as she helps her heart-mother over to the tarp. "All right," she says hesitantly, but willing for now to take the Ushashti woman's word for it. She settles Ulima down by the fire that the naraki is building, and then scurries off yet again, teapot in hand, in search of water. As Faanshi goes, the old woman in the white robe considers the naraki, and says reflectively, "You ask for tasks, young one... Faanshi will not be much able to help you, I am afraid. I..." A weak little chuckle escapes her. "My own needs are simple and frugal. There will be little that I will require a strong back and hands to accomplish; my own duties, for the time being, involve looking after the maiden." She nods after Faanshi; as she does, a bit more life begins to creep into her aged countenance, anticipation for the warmth of the fire. The Mongrel continues to tend to the fire, and though he isn't the most skilled at pyrotechnics as his Varati masters, he succeedes in making the little pyre burn and catch some of the dry wood aflame. The old woman speaks to him from behind, and he listens. By the time he's leaned back, he speaks softly, "I will do what is asked of me, Imphada. If not your work, then another's. That is my duty." Another small piece of wood is placed on the fire and it begins to burn as well. Soon, a small little blaze is going inside those stones. He nods approvingly at the result, his eyes glazing over a bit as he stares within those depths. For a second, he seems to drift off into a moment much like he experienced last evening -- remembering the flames. Ulima studies the young man kneeling by the fire, and after a few moments, the old woman gains a bit more color to her sunken cheeks as the warmth begins to reach her. She does not thank him for the task, but her voice is kinder of tone as she observes, "There is a Nabi named Jhonan and a Janizar of the Agni-Haidar named Abdullah who have been of aid to me and my heart-daughter since we were taken into this Clan. They seem to be just men, and could perhaps find you appropriate work." Shortly thereafter, Faanshi comes hastening back to the tarp and the now-lively fire, carrying Ulima's teapot in both her hands so as not to spill any of the precious small ration of water she has been granted. The moment she sees the fire and Ulima's slightly straighter frame, she breathes in relief, "Thank you, Murako..." And she kneels on the opposite side of the campfire, moving at once to set up the little pot so that the water may be cleansed by the heat of the fire and made fit to drink. The crunch of hardpacked snow beneath a heavy stride breaks the near silence of the frigid morning and heralds the approach of a towering black clad figure - an Agni-Haidar. A white mist of hot breath escapes the voluminous recesses of the cowl. Murako's eyes are torn from the fire at the mention of the Agni-Haidar. The Mongrel man's focus becomes the older Varati, and he nods, "I will go to them, then, Imphada. Certainly men of war and the priests of the Amir-Al would have the need for my services. However, I should ask Imphada Kiera before I undertake such a task. Perhaps as a show of good will for assisting you and your heart-daughter, she can offer my services as a payment?" The re-entrance of Faanshi is noticed by him with a quick turning of his gaze. He answers swiftly upon her thanking him, "It is my duty." He bows his head once and turns to place another larger piece of wood upon the fire. Meanwhile in the pit, the blaze continues to crackle and burn, dispelling the cold caress of the winter and melting the chilled bones of all those who draw near. Beneath the tarp where Kiera Khalida usually huddles, whenever she is in from her assigned scouting, are the three individuals who have been taken into her service, easily spotted by the approaching Lion of Fire: the wise-woman Ulima, the shudra Faanshi... and the naraki Murako. Faanshi keeps her gaze shyly down on the teapot as she watches it, waiting for the right moment to add the herbs she's brought out with her. Ulima lifts her gaze to take in the big warrior coming closer, while saying to the young man who's built the fire, "That would be for Imphada Kiera to decide, but it would be a good gesture to both the Nabi and the Janizar. Faanshi and I have already served them, but there is only so much we women can do for the priests and the warriors." The powerful Agni-Haidar draws closer to the crakling fire. Once within its warm embrace, he rubs his hands over the hungry licking flames. His hidden eyes drift from the fire to intently scrutize Faanshi, Ulima and Murako for several long uncomfortable moments before returning back to the fire. Faanshi starts as Jihaad draws near, and hastily scoots aside to make room for him, while doing her best to keep watch on the teapot. Once she's safely repositioned, she begins to add the herbs to the heating water, pinches of mint and cinnamon, doled out a few fingerfuls at a time. "Imphadi," she murmurs shyly in Jihaad's direction, not looking up. Rather less shy, but just as respectful, Ulima says placidly to Jihaad, "Good morning, imphadi. There will be tea, when Faanshi is done making it. You are welcome to the first cup if you wish it." Murako nods briefly and clears his throat. He does not speak anymore, rather concentrating his efforts on building the fire to the best of his ability. The approach of the Agni-Haidar is noticed with a slight upturning of his eyes, but *only* that. He quickly looks back towards his work and places another log on the conflaguration. Content to merely tend to his task, the naraki seeks to not attract undue attention. Jihaad nods to both Faanshi and Ulima. His booming barotone voice rumbles forth like distant thunder, "Tea would be most welcomed in this infernal place" Faanshi keeps adding herbs, enough to give the tea some strength, certain that an Agni-Haidar would not look kindly upon receiving tea that tasted little better than water. Apparently just as anxious as Murako to avoid drawing attention to herself, she does not speak, nor does she risk glancing at the young slave on the other side of the fire. Ulima shifts herself where she sits, to better address the giant warrior, to whom she says politely, "We who serve the Imphada Kiera are in need of work to occupy our hands until our lady returns from her own duties. Perhaps you know of work which can occupy this naraki's strength, or tasks for the hands and eyes of us two women?" A gnarled finger gestures lightly at the shyly kneeling, veiled girl. Jihaad thinks on the woman's question then shakes his head, "I know of no work for any of you" After the fire has been completed, the naraki busies himself with cleaning up the remnants of the creation process. He neatly stacks the wood that remains aside, along with the flint rocks, and the bundles of grass. Looking upwards to the old woman and Faanshi, he asks quietly, "I will go attempt to gather us some more wood, with your leave?" A pause, his eyes flicking towards the Agni-Haidar warrior, "If you have further need of my services, Imphada, I shall return in a moment or so." And with that, he rises from the ground, dusting his silwar off and waiting for Ulima to give him her assent. The Ushashti woman inclines her head serenely to Murako, and then to Jihaad says complacently, "We will make do, then, but if you hear of any in the camp who require service, we would appreciate news of it." Faanshi, in the meantime, puts in softly, "The tea is almost ready... please excuse me, I must fetch a cup..." She flits to her feet, nervousness lending her speed and grace, and darts away to the tiny tent several yards off where she sleeps with the old priestess. As soon as permission is given, the naraki moves off from beneath the tarp and out into the cold. His feet are still bare from the evening, yet he does seem to endure the chill upon them. Moving behind the tent, he soon vanishes from sight as he goes about his task of procuring more wood for the fire. Faanshi returns first, running as swiftly as she can on her sandalled and rag-wrapped feet, bringing a cup for the warrior and pouring the now-steeped and fragrant tea out into it, and finally holding it up for Jihaad's benefit. "We have a few more pieces of honey left, imphadi," she says, her voice very low and shy, her eyes still pointed downward. "If you want one..." Ulima, attention diverted away from her, takes a moment to close her eyes and pull in a very quiet breath, the look of one trying to rally her strength when no one is looking. Jihaad takes the offered cup, "Thank you. Yes, honey would be good" [Continued in the prose piece "The Hand of Friendship"...]