Of Spirits and Scholars: An Araby Quest

The exercise was simple in practice but layered in rather jargony language. The first thing you required was a place of elemental placidity which was simply a location with an even temperature where the air was neither too dry or humid with a balance between light and darkness. It was subjective, so you went a spare room on the first floor. The floor was solid earth, and you could breathe, so you imagined that was plenty of air. Setting up two lamps and covering the windows to ensure an equal amount of light and shadows. You felt neither cold nor hot, so you figured this was fine. Taking a seat with your feet crossed, you began repeating a mantra.

The exercise required you to enter a state of mental quietude and so Ibn Nalid recommended repeating a nonsense word with no meaning. Something to help aid you on focusing. You repeated the chant and slowly your thoughts began to fade, leaving you in a state of pure sensation. Your skin felt the cool touch of the air and the heat of the light. The hard floor and your soft clothes. Your eyes saw the crates and shelves packed with supplies and tools, the plain earth, all of which was painted a dull orange in the dim light of the lamps. Your mouth tasted the stale stagnant air with a touch of dust as saliva filled it to counteract the dryness. Your ears though heard music.

The steady rhythm of drums, rumbling from below through your bones as the rapid notes of a lute rose and fell, catching your heart with it. A flute haunting you as its poetic timbre bringing you from joy to sorrow, stealing your breath. The fiddle rang out, drowning you in its melodies. There were so much more, but all of it vibrated through your whole body and you could do nothing but weep at the sheer beauty of the song. How had you never heard such a song? Your life seemed so meager compared to the life you could live hearing it.

Forget food and forget water, you just need this music. The world did not matter to the song. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything.
The song was everything. The song was everything. The song was everything.

"You are quite loud," said a woman's voice and the all-consuming song, so loud that it stole your thoughts and dreams transformed into a soft melancholic ballad. Memories of times gone by, wonderful times where the burdens and struggles of the world had not laid on your shoulders. A sense of freedom and lightness you had long since lost, never to regain. The future became present, and the present became past. All of it passing far too quickly, but you could not grasp it because time was like sand and no matter hard you held it, it flowed without hindrance.

"Much better. Now let us make proper introductions. I am Gelin Zaira al-Wajiba," she said. You took a deep breath. Your body was shaking, and it hurt as mucus and tears poured out. You exhaled and took another deep breath. You did this a few times till you could respond without issue.

"I am Nasir ibn Yasmin al-Assadi. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady," you said, wiping your eyes.

"A pleasure to make yours. Tell me, child. What brought you to be so loud without purpose? Seems foolish. To attract the attention of any
wandering ear or without another to hold you from drowning in the music of the spheres,"

"I was practicing an exercise to let me know if I had an ability to use magic, my lady. I did not think it would so overpowering,"

You heard something so deep, so rich. It was the sound of a world at peace. A peace brought by neither the demands of arms or tricks of tongues, but an inevitable, ever-approaching rest.

"So like Men, to jump without thought, without consideration as to what will catch you. Well, let me settle your question. You have a powerful talent. Yet such power would only be to your detriment without proper instruction or at least, some form of security,"

"I do not know what to do, my lady,"

"Luckily, I do, little singer. Available to me as a privilege of my rank are a number of lesser brethren who may act as your instructor if I should so wish it or if you prefer one of your own race, I can request one of Salima's heirs. If this is not amenable to your desires, I can gift you a favor. Wear it and should you go too far into the Song or attract one of the Cacophony, it shall make clear whose protection you lie under. All I would ask for this is a promise of service at a time of my choosing,"

What do you say to the offer?
[] Accept (Only One)

[] Refuse Both
[] Ask further questions (Write-In Topic)
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The Lady left and you dragged yourself out of the room. The morning sun was rising. It had been an hour before noon when you began. Gods, you were exhausted. Thankfully, your meeting with Devorah was at sunset. You lumbered to sleep, but not before asking Ismail to wake you two hours before sunset. You slept the sleep of the dead. There were no dreams, just a moment before sleep captured you and the moment of waking to Ismail's shaking.

You dragged yourself to bathe. Karim, the most skilled with the barber's blade, gave you a fine cut and trim. You tried to offer him money, but he only gave you a weird stare before you just made a promise to help him back. This form of currency was much more familiar to him.

You wore the best of your clothes. A white linen undershirt, a subdued yellow gown with a pale yellow-pink collar. A plaid fabric belt of grey and white wrapped around your waist and a dark brown summer cloak with golden lions embroidered along the sleeves. Ismail wrapped your head with a white keffiyeh and hung a knife off your belt.

"How do I look?" you asked. Rina and Ismail walked around you, looking over for anything to improve or fix. After five minutes of this, the two of them gave each a nod.

"You look acceptable," said Rina.

"Just acceptable?"

"Brother, let's be honest. You would look great back among the family, but here? You look provincial," Ismail said.

"I've seen people wear the exact same thing,"

"No, they're wearing the same type of clothing, not the same thing. Haikki cloaks have more embroidery and no one wears brown unless they need something they can get dirty. Same thing for your gown and your belt. Plus no jewelry or anything shiny,"

You scowl at that, "That's gaudy,"

The two of them sighed.

"You were right. He does have an old man's tastes," Rina said.

"I do not and I do not have time to waste. Thank you for your help, brother and your advice, Rina," you said, walking to the stairs.

"Go get em, Nasir," said Ismail.

"Don't blank when you're talking to her," said Rina.

The place she suggested was a wine-house near the House of Strategy, the great castle-university where the nobles and upcoming officers learned the art and science of war. As such it was far nicer than any of the wine-houses in the Old City. All the furniture was well-made and very expensive. The light did not come from any flame, but the steady white glow of two crystal-tipped wands on opposite sides of the room. It was filled with a variety of young men and women. All in their white school uniforms, heads shorn of hair, and each one far too energetic and loud.
You sighed, looking around for anyone wearing a kaftan, but you did not see the traditional outfit of the fakirs. Maybe you were early. You went to the bar, carefully avoiding the many people gesticulating wildly as they told something to their friends. Gods, this was too crowded.

"What can I get you, sir?" the man behind the bar asked.

"Have you seen anyone in a kaftan?" you asked. The man gave you a steady look before nodding to the left. You turned and saw the only figures not in white. Two men and one woman, seated in the corner. None of them wore kaftans, but there was a wide gap between them and the other patrons. That was...actually frightening. What did these three have that could scare off the glory-hungry and what did they have to do with your interview?

You look back to the man, but he had already moved to another person. You took a deep breath, gathered your courage, and approached them very slowly and obviously. None of them seemed to notice you. No head turned to you. They remained in the conversation even when you got to the table.

"Uh--"

"Brother al-Assadi, we have been waiting for you," said the woman. How did she know your name?

"You should not be surprised we know who you are, Brother. After all, not many draw the direct ire of the House of Haikk," said the man sitting to your left, pulling up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of a hand with an eye in the palm circled by a very simple motto. The same motto of a former cleric. The belief embodied in these words saw him build an organization to provide aid to the poor and impoverished, funded first by the willing charity of the wealthy and then by their forced charity. It grew beyond that to be a power onto itself before splitting into two groups far different from their original purpose. Former pilgrimage guards into the most feared warrior-cult in the Civilized Lands. The distributors of aid into the largest criminal organization in every city in Araby. A gang with too much money and resources for the Eyes to challenge, cementing their dominion of the Old City stretching to the Docks. They ruled the night and shadows as the sultan and his court ruled the day.

"Honored Brothers and Sister, have I done something to anger the Council of the Guardians or violated any of the tenets?" you said in a steady voice. The Generous were not without reason or sense, but they were vicious when they sensed fear.

"Brother, you have nothing to worry about the Council," she said, "We are simply here to meet you. Sister Devorah had some business to deal with outside,"

"Please follow us," said the man on your left. You followed them out to an alleyway where one woman knelt over a... oh it was a corpse. Wonderful. A man stood near her in a green gambeson under a mail shirt, a bloody sword in hand. One you guessed was Devorah. She was rather striking in her orange-red kaftan and turban. The man was not so much striking as surprising. A northerner, his green eyes staring at you with open suspicion.

"Devorah, de scrube iz ere," said the apparent Bretonnian.

"Master al-Assadi, may I introduce you to Fatah ibn Idris al-Sabah, member of our illustrious sultan's court and second cousin of Nasir al-Hajib ibn Hassan al-Sabah," Devorah said, her eyes focused on the corpse. Oh...that was not good. Not good at all. Nasir was the doorkeeper of the sultan's court. He was the man who controlled access to the sultan. His support saw people rise to incredible wealth. His opposition saw legacies destroyed.

"Did he like his cousin, my lady?" you asked, your mind blank on what to say besides the immediate worry of being connected to a noble's murder.

"No, but there is a difference between not liking your cousin and being okay with someone murdering him," she said, "Clare!"

You looked to the Bretonnian, but the answer came from behind you.

"What is it, warita?" said a voice like storm-winds and you turned to see a very fluffy cat with lightning blue fur. The cat's eyes were a solid white. All of this making it very obvious what they were, but why did a god of Araby have a Bretonnian name.

"Take the body home. Tell Adalin to keep an eye out for any possible intruders and raise the full house guard. Afterwards, check with the Constant, see if they noticed anything abnormal," she said, rising to her feet. The cat walked past you and bit the back of the dead noble's coat, dragging him away with no issue. Much like a mother moving her obstinate kitten. You wondered if she was going to drag him all the way, but she vanished. You double-blinked, looking around, but found no evidence of the jinn or the corpse.

"Apologies, Master al-Assadi. I aimed to greet you inside, but I had been searching for Fatah for two days. Tragically, a sudden infatuation with steel led to less-than-ideal results, but tragedy does not forgo propriety. I am Devorah ha-Madbir bant Eliyahu, licensed magician," she said, extending her hand out. She was a ratcatcher. No, you must have misunderstood that word, because no magician would admit to such a disgraceful profession. You shook her hand as she continued the introductions.

"My ever-suspicious companion is Jan ibn Mark al-Lanjii, a former squire and my brother-in-law. Don't worry. He is all stare and no bite, mostly," she said and you greeted him, though all he did was stare at you. She gestured to the three behind you, "The trio are close and Generous friends. They are ibn Ihsan, ibn Iman, and bint Saraf,"

"My lady, I would ask for your forgiveness, but what is going on?" you asked, your worry pushing you into the full depths of civility. This was the second time you were becoming involved in secret plots. What God had you pissed off?

"Oh, no. A fair question. However, sharing this information will involve you into what can only be called a war. A war very few can know about. If you wish to serve in my employ, you will also serve in this war. I promise the best of my protection and remuneration, but I cannot guarantee your safety and there is a possibility of death. If you refuse, I understand and I only ask you forget what you have witnessed here, but even this may not keep you safe," she said.

How do you answer?
[] Yes, join Devorah's retinue and enter this secret war.

[] No, refuse. You would find another employer.

Apologizes for the wait, but work interfered. If you have any questions, please let me know. There will be a twenty-four hour moratorium. Voting will be closed on the 21st.