The Dream that is Dying (Exalted)

You need to leave. The palace is not safe; you have yet to encounter any further threats within its walls, but you are not such a fool as to imagine they are gone entirely. You can still hear the clash of steel ringing faintly in the background, along with strange roars and the hissing of what sounds vaguely like an oversized serpent. Sabah will not be safe here, no matter how well she hides, and that means you must take her elsewhere. You cannot fail, not at this, not on top of everything else.

With a frown, you consider your options. A relative? Possible, and on any other day an option you would have taken without hesitation, but today… Al'rama was as close to you as any man has ever been, and he hide treachery behind a loyal smile for longer than you dare imagine. Besides, one would not launch an attack like this unless there was something to be gained in the aftermath, and it will be one of your more distant kin who likely takes your place upon the throne. You cannot trust them to have Sabah's best interests in mind, nor can you trust your own judgement on whether they can be held worthy of trust.

The temple, then? A tempting option, but your understanding of the gods and spirits of Taira has always been somewhat… lacking. You know of Farisi, who has watched over your people since you were just another tribe of nomad-warriors and who now represents Taira in the halls of Heaven, but you have never met her, never really spoken with her priests outside of formal ceremony. Will the gods protect your family, or have they withdrawn their blessing and in so doing permitted this attack to occur in the first place? You do not know, and until this is corrected you dare not trust Sabah's safety to the mercy of the divine.

"We've got to leave Taira," you say, as much to yourself as the little girl who even now looks at your with eyes dark with mourning, "Come on, let's get some supplies…"

You cannot spare the time to go down to the kitchens and secure some travel rations, but you knows where your mother kept her jewels, and in a pinch those will do well enough. It fills you with disgust to go pawing through the wreckage of your family apartments in search of valuables, but if you are to take Sabah to safety you must have something to pay your way and a sword will only get you so far. So you make a sack out of robes tied roughly together and fill it with pendants and necklaces and bracers of polished gold, and only when the weight is enough to be worthy of concern do you sling it over your back and return to your sister's side.

You find Sabah standing over your father's corpse, staring down at his broken frame with soft, lifeless eyes.

"Papa…" she murmurs, and you force yourself to look away. You don't want to remember your father this way, broken and bleeding on the ground. Better to fix him in your mind as he was near the end, with sword in hand and family at his back. He would want it that way.

"Come on, Sabah," you say, gentle as the circumstances allow, "we need to go."

The girl's weight is almost nothing once properly positioned on your back, and you make sure to loop a rope of shredded silk around her chest to hold her in place as best you can. Only then, once you are sure she is safely in place, do you return to the window and the city beyond.

The fires have grown since you entered, and now large sections of the palace are engulfed by the hungry blaze. You can hear the alarm bells from beyond the walls, see the panicking motion of the crowds that line the streets, but you have little enough time for either. You need to get to the docks, and that means making your way down to the streets on the far side of the palace grounds.

Sabah makes no noise or sign of interest as you scale your way across the outer wall, utterly silent as you drift from one ledge to another like just another cloud of smoke. It is concerning that she should be so silent, but you cannot afford to spend time fussing over her own. Her safety comes first, and only once you are out of the city will you be free to comfort her in what meager way you can.

Far below, you can see the hurrying forms of guards and citizens alike, all rushing to contain the blaze or seek out those who might have been harmed by it. None of them look up and see you, a fact which confuses you for a moment… but no, it seems that the burning scarlet light that surrounded you during your duel with Al'rama has already begun to fade. You are still outlined by an aura of crimson light, but it has grown dimmer by far, and you suspect most cannot make it out past the clouds of smoke and the glow of flames. A fortunate blessing, and one you will take advantage of, though with the dwindling light comes the first tug of fatigue to hang against your bones.

Well, you will just have to persevere. You cannot rest until Sabah is safe.

One last leap finds you perched atop the outer wall of the palace compound, hidden at least in part behind the crenellated decorations and pots overflowing with flowers. Acting on instinct you raise one hand to your lips and blow a shrill whistle, swiftly lost amid the crackling of the distant flames.

With a happy winnie, the coal-black mare you bound to your service comes trotting around the corner of a nearby building, stopping just below your hidden perch. You blink in surprise, then file the oddity of the coincidence away with all the other questions this day has conspired to raise so far. Another floating jump takes you down to land upon the horse's back, and with a cluck of the tongue your new steed is moving once again.

Zamash is a coastal city, built by alien hands in a forgotten age along the coast of the great Alisian Sea. Half a dozen other cities can be found across those salty waters, from subjugated Perswha to Dead Khamor, and even absent other concerns the trade between such great settlements would be enough to form the backbone of Taira's internal economy, but it is not to these lands that your mind inevitably turns. No, you think of the Alisian River, which leads from the sea of identical name all the way up to the hybrid town of Temera, and from there the Grey River itself. It is along that waterway that the bulk of all trade for the south-east of Creation flows, and the ships that ply its length can take you to virtually anywhere you might ever dream of going.

If ever there is a place where Sabah can live safely, the Grey River can take you there. All you need to do is reach it, and for that reason you set your course for the docks.

You draw some attention, of course; a veiled rider on a beautiful horse, limmed in ruby starlight, could hardly fail to draw the eye of anyone curious or less than entirely blind. This does not please you, but your fumbling thoughts and attempts to secure some manner of concealment from the power Mars has granted meet with little success. You can feel it, somehow, sense the existence of the possibility in the same way you know the location of your own leg, but without more extensive practice you cannot simply claim it for your own.

Even without such supernatural concealment, however, you make it to the docks without being stopped or questioned. Everyone who looks like they might be about to take issue with your presence meets your gaze and promptly decides that someone else can handle such things, a fact which brings you some small helping of grim amusement.

You will not think of the dead at your back. You must not.

The docks of Zamash are built of stone and wood in equal measure, with great platforms of rock laid down by unknown hands serving as the foundation for the later works of mortal man. Bridges decorated with sun-burst signs span the water are even lengths, while spindly cranes lift cargo from ragged piles and place it on the decks of a wide assortment of junks and barges, all waiting their turn at the docks. You choose one that seems almost entirely loaded yet large enough to bear passengers, and with a relieved sigh spur your horse into motion, aiming to catch it before the captain can depart and force you to look elsewhere for potential escape.

This, of course, is when your luck runs out.

It begins with subtlety, a stench of fur and blood all but lost beneath the general sensory clamor of the docks. A low, scraping footstep echoes against the wooden floor, masked from your ears by the shouting of dockworkers and the grunting of laborers working to shift the cargo. It is only when Sabah curls into a tight ball on your back and gives a wordless sob that you realize the impending threat, and even that comes within a hair's breadth of being too late.

The demon lands ten feet in front of you.

In form it resembles a massive, red-furred ape, not unlike the beasts of the southern jungles, half again as tall as a man and almost thrice as broad. Great horns of curling bone sprout from its temples, while great claws of sharpened obsidian draw sparks from the stone beneath its paws. Its eyes burn a virulent green, and the stench of blood and death that surrounds its stocky form is an almost physical thing. Your horse screams, rearing back on two legs, and before you can bring her under control the spirit is upon you.

Arms as thick as tree trunks wrap around your horse's neck in a cruel parody of a hug, and with a frantic yell you twist your legs back under you and throw yourself into a backwards leap. Sabah screams as your jump carries the two of you clear, and with a horrible crack your horse dies of a broken neck. Her corpse is airborne a moment later, flung casually through the air by a strength no mortal being could possess, and before you can even process the motion it slams headlong into the wall of a nearby building and bursts like overripe fruit.

The demon laughs, it's voice a rumbling chuckle that fills the air, and as the people scream and begin to flee it shifts its attention back to you.

No. To the child on your back.

You breath in. You breath out. You lift Sabah from your back, and place her down behind the nearest of the packing crates. It is a poor kind of refuge, but right now it is all you have.

Then you turn back to the demon, and surrender to the memories tugging at your mind. Your hands come up, moving in familiar patterns you never learned, and you settle into your stance.

The demon pauses, perhaps recognizing what you are. Then it shrugs its shoulders and roars.

Article:

As one of the Sidereal Exalted, Farah possesses an unparalleled instinct for and familiarity with the martial arts. Untrained and new to their power, they still find the techniques and abilities of one such art coming readily to mind. Which one is it?

[ ] Golden Janissary Style. Heroes have always stood against the darkness, and the monsters born within have learned to fear their burning touch. The graceful, almost dance-like motions of this spear-fighting style are as much meditative exercise as they are combat techniques.

[ ] Violet Bier of Sorrow Style. There is always an ending, and all things die. Demons are not exception. This style was first taught to the Sidereals by Saturn herself, and contains within its merciless katas the secret arts of the inevitable end. Even the lightest scratch from a master of this style can bring agonizing death.

[ ] Water Dragon Style. Designed in emulation of Immaculate Daana'd, this style focuses on embodying water in all its forms. Practitioners flow like the tide, absorb blows like the ocean, and crush their foes with the full force of a tsunami.