• Solo • A new dance

[Pharan]

3rd Ashan, 719

T

he warmth had lured them out in troves. Sailors. Soldiers. Fishermen. Men and woman pursuing business in the narrow cobblestone streets of the lower districts. The hum of a myriad of voices, of half a dozen tongues, filled the air. Meltwater murmured in the gutters, but the sky was still more gray than blue and the chill of Cylus lingered where the sun didn’t touch.

Where it touched, the world harbored the promise of warmer seasons. On a small patio adjunct to the Queen of the Harbor Pharan closed his eyes. The midtrial sun was warm against his skin. A breeze, blowing in from the sea, whispered along his plumage. He thought of his plans for the coming trials. He thought of Nymae, Ryvern, Jaene—all the other people he owned or who laid claim to his loyalty. He drew up a list of tasks that needed his attention, then revisited, adjusted, reconsidered their details. It was an old habit. An attempt to bring order to the chaos of his thoughts. A try to stay ahead, or at least, not behind, the games played around him.

Most trials, it worked.

This afternoon, his mind instead conjured the image of a lake.

Tall, emerald grass rose around him. The scent of the ocean was ripe in the air. The sky was of a blue so deep his memories of it paled in comparison. Insects buzzed over the water, their fervent whir broken only by the song of birds diving down to swallow them midflight. In the distance a small abode stood among gnarled trees, its design obscured by foliage. He studied it, as someone called out behind him. The voice was familiar; the words unintelligible. Although he couldn’t have said way, his heart gave a jolt.

“In all her letters Nymae never mentioned she had a brother.”

Pharan’s eyes flew open. A man had stepped beside him, his rust-red tunic billowing in the wind. Orik’s eyes flashed amused gold at Pharan’s ill-disguised start.

“You are late,” Pharan observed as he straightened.

“Not that late,” the Biqaj replied with an easy smile. Half a head taller than Pharan, he sported the lean, rugged build of a sailor. Tattoos marked his sun-tanned skin and his hair, lank and dark as ebony, fell well past his shoulders.

“Late enough,” Pharan said, his lips pursed. “But maybe with more time at your disposal, at this occasion?”

Orik, unconcerned by the rebuke, did a theatrical bow. Once more, he smiled. “I am yours all day—and longer. Again, I am most sorry for the brief introduction yesterday, but I had other business to attend to.”

“Important business without a doubt.”

“Very important business,” the Orik agreed jovially, ignoring the undercurrent of scorn in Pharan’s voice. “You would still like to see the city?”

When Pharan inclined his head, the Biqaj motioned him to follow. Pharan fell in step beside him, his eyes on the busy street ahead. It was only after a moment he felt the other man’s attention. He looked to the side and found Orik glance at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“You know… she never mentioned you in person, either.”

“No?,” Pharan cast him a sidelong glance as they set out towards the street. “How unfortunate.” A pause. “For you.”

[Pharan]

“U

theridge is the largest district in Yrithal. If you got the feeling its all market stalls and merchants bellowing for attention… well, then you aren’t too far off the truth. Whereas the goods stored in Penkath are eventually sent off to Ethelanum, the merchandise here goes to locals and foreigners visiting the city. Weapons. Clothing. Jewelry… herbs and dyes and exotic food—whatever you are looking for, we got it.”

In passing, Orik motioned at a storefront, the display overwrought with delicate glass bottles in all shapes and sizes. Pharan gave it a glance, then was forced to veered to the side as an Ithecal with a cart pushed up the street behind him. A rotund woman not much taller than a child, cast him a contemptuous look as he elbowed his way past her selection of exotic beasts in stacked, wooden cages. He met her eyes with a cool stare, missed a basket on the ground, stumbled, caught himself and hurried on before he could be stripped of any more of his dignity.

Before him, his guide navigated the thin Ashan crowd with the well-practiced steps of a dancer.

“Keep an eye on your purse,” Orik called over his shoulder as he dodged an ambitious costermonger hawking his goods by the wayside. “—there is always some fool thinking foreigners make an easy mark.”

Pharan scanned the periphery. To his left, someone cried a warning. With a wet flop and the sound of bursting wood the catch of a day sloshed over the street. A woman cursed. A brass landed before Pharan's feet, its eyes round and dead. He studied it, then lifted his gaze only to find a soldier look at him, the reptilian face unreadable.

With forced leisure, Pharan continued to stroll up the path.

“How long have you known my sister?”, he asked as Orik’s lean figure reemerged beside him.

“A couple of arcs.” The Biqaj looked over his shoulder. “First met her in Rhane, then sometime later in Yaralon. I was working a schooner at the time—rarely seen a girl fight with such fury before or after meeting her. She was a beast when you got her on the wrong foot. That temper…”

Pharan offered him a thin smile. “You were a merchant?”

Orik laughed. “I was fifteen—it was my father’s boat. Went to seeds some arcs later and we settled in Ethelanum with the rest of the family. Still into trading though.”

His words caught Pharan’s attention. “So Nymea is selling to your family?”

“No—no, no. We mostly trade in local goods. Foods and plants, household utensils—uh, whatever you need, really.”

Pharan sensed there was more to it but remained quiet.

“The one you are looking for is Cassia. She is from here, has a small shop up in Itherium. Deals in fabrics of all sorts, both local and foreign, but only the good stuff.” Orik rubbed his neck. “We have been selling to her for two or three years now, but lately things have been difficult. I am trying to arrange a meeting with her, then you can talk to her yourself.” He eyed the Avriel.

“Sounds good?”

“Sounds good.”

Orik pushed onward, further up the city’s ever-winding roads.

Ahead, the pale shapes of the Yrathil’s barbicans rode the hill crest—tall, square, utilitarian. Fortifications first and foremost, they had been built from a soldier’s perspective, with esthetics only a secondary consideration. For all that, they were still a sight to behold. Bleak and forbidding, they towered beside the government buildings of Maldar in solemn vigil. Only the sheer cliffs of the Ivorian mountains rose higher than them, their ragged peaks dark against the sky.

Pharan considered the distance. A steady breeze was blowing in from the sea. He could see it swirl overhead, even as the cheap abodes around him shielded him from its sharp caress. It would have been easy to ride the current all the way up the shallow slope the city had been built on.

Not now—but later, when he was alone.

“If you think of doing what I think you think of doing—don’t.”

Orik had appeared at his side. Pharan considered a sharp retort then remained quiet when the older man lifted his hand. “Look”, the Biqaj said and motioned towards dark shapes barely visible behind high parapets. “Soldiers.”

“They are guarding the upper district?”, Pharan asked, squinting against the sun.

“And the shipyard down in Penkath and some other places. There are areas in the city forbidden to the common folk.” Orik straightened. “And foreigners.” He clapped him on the shoulder before the Avriel could step aside. “Nothing to take personal, though. The Empire is ever wary of strangers and the trouble they may bring.”

[Pharan]

T

he temple had been hard to miss. It was among the most prominent buildings crowning the hill, rising proudly over its less prestigious neighbors, to cast its glance on the city stretching out to its feet. From where he stood, Pharan could only make out the slanted roof and a portion of the eastern colonnade. In its entirety, it had to be enormous.

“The Pantheon of Shields.”

Orik joined him on the narrow terrace overlooking Utheridge, a bowl in each hand. Acquired from a tiny stall down the street, it carried the scent of boiled fish and foreign spices. Gingerly, Pharan took one.

“That’s where she lives?”

“Ethelynda?”, Orik asked, then lifted a shoulder. “That’s what they say at least.”

Pharan picked through the content of his bowl with naked fingers, to fish for the broth’s meaty morsels. “And you have seen her? In the city?”

The other man’s lips twisted with amusement. “I know only very few people who have seen her—and I am not one of them. I have seen some of her mortalborn children in the past. From a distance.” Orik leaned back against the balustrade framing the terrace. “They often have prominent positions in the government—in the Arm Iuris, the Arm Militum… in all the factions, really.”

“The Arm Militum is the name of the local military and the Arm Iuris is…?”

“They govern Yrithal, more or less.” Orik had turned to look over the distant harbor. “Ethalynda is at the head of the Empire, but they run the city—in her name, of course.”

Pharan stepped beside Orik to lean against the balustrade. “But they only govern Yrithal?”

“Nominally Yrithal takes the lead when it comes to politics, but the other cities have their own leaders. In Ethelanum that's the Nel Council, led by the Merchant Prince. It’s essentially a gathering of the more influential trader families.” He looked at Pharan. “And before you ask, my family isn’t one of them.”

“And yet we try to sell to a merchant here in the city?”, Pharan questioned.

The Biqaj clicked his tongue against his teeth. “As I told your sister—repeatedly—Ethelanum is closed to foreigners. All of the island beyond Yrithal is. I am not saying you couldn’t manage with some luck and playing up your status…”, he spread his fingers, “… but let’s say people wouldn’t look kindly upon you if they found out about the details of your visit.”

Repeatedly. Pharan wanted to challenge the assertion but found he couldn't. Ignoring, or worse, simply disregarding, people’s warnings and concerns sounded too much like Nymae. For her, everything was a fight. A battle of wills, if not of brawls. It was her way or the high way. Always.

He looked down, to the ships swaying like toy boats on the sea below.

“Tell me more about this Cassia,” he said finally. “She is living here, in Yrithal?”

Orik nodded. “Her family is from Ethelanum. Weavers and tailors, for the most part, some cordmakers too. She handles her people’s business here in the city.”

“Weavers, who buy fabric?”

“They produce good cotton and canvas, sailcloth for the local shipyards and clothing for the farmers around Ethelanum. Better materials they import. Moukou silk from Desind, exotic hides from the northern reaches, foreign brocades--”

“—in short, everything but silk from Athart.”

Orik cocked his head to the side, then looked away. Pharan caught the flash of color in his eyes.

“Orik? That’s not—”

“—she also buys silk from Athart.” The Biqaj spread his fingers. “Just not yours.”

[Strange]

Thread Review

Pharan

Pharan

Skill Points: +10 (cannot be used for magic)
Magic XP: None.

Renown: None.

Injuries/Overstepping: None.
Wealth Points: None.
Loot: None.

Skill Knowledge:

• Politics: Ivorian Empire: Is ruled by Ethelynda
• Politics: Ivorian Empire: Ethelynda’s mortalborn fill key positions in the government
• Politics: Ivorian Empire: The different cities have their own (rather autonomous) leaders
• Socialize: Getting to know a business contact
• Detection: Notice when someone is avoiding eye-contact
• Investigation: People avoiding eye-contact may have something to hide

Non-Skill Knowledge:

• Orik (Flavor-NPC)
• Orik: Nymea’s contact in the city
• Orik: His family was stranded in the city after their ship went to seeds
• Orik: Is rather knowledgeable about the Empire

Notes: n/a.

Wonderful descriptions of scenery and the hustle-bustle of a city. Detailed immersion that brought to life the tour, and I especially enjoyed Orik as Pharan's guide. It is interesting that Pharan wants to try and act differently from his sister. Looking forward to reading the continuation.

Excellent job and enjoy your rewards!

PM me if you have any questions, issues or concerns.

Total Word Count: 2014 words.

Review Request Link: viewtopic.php?p=117521#p117521
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