[Exalted] The Dragon's Spite
- Thread starter EarthScorpion
- Start date
- Mature Fantasy
Right when we're tired and exhausted from our dig we get invited to a dinner with the head bitch, and we don't actually know what's going to be discussed. This shit was planned, and I'm getting real sick of these assholes. I'm not sure if that should be expressed though.
[X] The armour she found in the dig, the garb of a warrior of old ready for battle and able to fight.
[X] The armour she found in the dig, the garb of a warrior of old ready for battle and able to fight.
- Location
- The sixth circle of Hell (second on weekends)
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Okay people, slow your roll, this is a posh dinner with a politician. Fashion means things. Each of these choices is making a statement of our intentions. Not only that, the Demio is a canny, savvy, politically minded ruthless bitch, so these choices aren't telling her that we are whatever statement we're making, only that we want her to think we are, whether truthfully or as a deliberate choice. They all consist of us telling her something about how we are presenting ourselves that may be honest or may be (that is to say; is) a calculated decision based on what we think will best suit our own ends.
[ ] Cahzori garments, the style of a jansi noble, fine and picked out in glorious cloth, who belongs in these ruins.
[ ] The armour she found in the dig, the garb of a warrior of old ready for battle and able to fight.
[ ] Her last set of formal Cheraki clothing, the outfit of a foreigner visiting these lands who does not intend to stay forever.
All of that considered, I'm going to vote for, not necessarily the "safe" option, but what might be called the "superficially honest but deceptive" one; truthful about our intentions to stick around, but feigning an intent to adopt Cahzori customs and play by Cahzori rules that we in no way actually hold.
[X] Cahzori garments, the style of a jansi noble, fine and picked out in glorious cloth, who belongs in these ruins.
[ ] Cahzori garments, the style of a jansi noble, fine and picked out in glorious cloth, who belongs in these ruins.
This says we intend to fit in. It tells the Demio that we want her to think we'll play by the rules, act the same way the rest of the city does, not make any waves, go with the cultural flow, and that we intend to stay here for at minimum a few years and quite possibly forever. This is making the statement that we want to become part of the city. The implicit willingness to obey her authority as Demio like a native Cahzorite will probably incline her to us the most unless she doesn't want another Dragonblooded sorceress in the city, in which case it will be the worst choice as it indicates we plan to stick around. Given our foreign origins (and associated lack of jansi stupidity), clear ambition to wealth and signalled intent to settle here for a significant duration, this is the most long-term threatening choice.
[ ] The armour she found in the dig, the garb of a warrior of old ready for battle and able to fight.
This says we intend to loot the place. It tells the Demio that we're casting ourselves as a pure scavenger lord who wants rare artefacts and buried treasures and is willing to pillage, plunder and use violence to get them. This makes the statement that we care little or not at all about fine dining, etiquette or social niceties, and that we're effectively a blunt object for extracting valuable stuff from Cahzor's corpse. She may consider this a good thing, as it will potentially let her play us against whoever owns the land we're ravaging and then tax the crap out of us on our way back to sell it, but she may equally consider it a gauche and threatening indication that we're entirely profit-focused and may not be beyond using violence to avoid said taxes. As such, it's the most immediately threatening choice.
[ ] Her last set of formal Cheraki clothing, the outfit of a foreigner visiting these lands who does not intend to stay forever.
This says we intend to stay unattached. It tells the Demio that we don't consider ourselves Cahzori and likely never will; that we're still clinging to our birth culture and are deliberately refusing to fit in or assimiliate with the local culture. This makes the statement that we probably aren't going to be here for long; that we're a traveller on a layover that we don't expect to last, and will either move on or go home in a few months to a year or so. From the point of view of someone assessing us as a potential problem, this is reassuring: we'll be gone soon and then we're not her problem anymore. Unfortunately, this is also the most politically threatening choice, carrying the strongest overtones of disregard for the Demio's authority, and makes us appear the most unpredictable as she has no idea what cultural expectations and conceits we've brought from home that we intend to ignore Cahzori laws and customs in favour of. It's the one that says we don't have any investment in Cahzor and thus won't care at all if we leave it a smoking ruin, meaning she'll be more worried about us doing stupid reckless shit that might break the stable status quo of the city and then riding off into the sunset without care for the clean-up.
All of that considered, I'm going to vote for, not necessarily the "safe" option, but what might be called the "superficially honest but deceptive" one; truthful about our intentions to stick around, but feigning an intent to adopt Cahzori customs and play by Cahzori rules that we in no way actually hold.
[X] Cahzori garments, the style of a jansi noble, fine and picked out in glorious cloth, who belongs in these ruins.
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- Location
- France
[X] Cahzori garments, the style of a jansi noble, fine and picked out in glorious cloth, who belongs in these ruins.
[X] The armour she found in the dig, the garb of a warrior of old ready for battle and able to fight.
Go in loud and proud.
Go in loud and proud.
mothematics
How wide is the concept of "you"?
- Location
- the bottom of a coffee cup
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[x] Her last set of formal Cheraki clothing, the outfit of a foreigner visiting these lands who does not intend to stay forever.
Is it the most politically expedient? No, probably not, but... it's one of the last things Rena has of her home, which she is doing her best not to admit she misses, and it's the most honest, because Rena is Cheraki. I think this is the most interesting option from a character standpoint!
Is it the most politically expedient? No, probably not, but... it's one of the last things Rena has of her home, which she is doing her best not to admit she misses, and it's the most honest, because Rena is Cheraki. I think this is the most interesting option from a character standpoint!
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[x] Her last set of formal Cheraki clothing, the outfit of a foreigner visiting these lands who does not intend to stay forever.
[X] Cahzori garments, the style of a jansi noble, fine and picked out in glorious cloth, who belongs in these ruins.
- Location
- Chicago
- Pronouns
- She/They
[x] The armour she found in the dig, the garb of a warrior of old ready for battle and able to fight.
The beautiful lie we are using to sell all of the nobles on us, to give us the power and flexibility we want, is the recovery (and, tantilizingly, possible partial restoration) of old glories. A dragon blooded sorceress is exactly the sort that *could* stumble on and reactivate some ancient wonder, while knowing how to avoid the dangers. Let's double down on the idea that we are successful pulling wealth and power out of dust ruins into her hands.
The beautiful lie we are using to sell all of the nobles on us, to give us the power and flexibility we want, is the recovery (and, tantilizingly, possible partial restoration) of old glories. A dragon blooded sorceress is exactly the sort that *could* stumble on and reactivate some ancient wonder, while knowing how to avoid the dangers. Let's double down on the idea that we are successful pulling wealth and power out of dust ruins into her hands.
Vocalist
Verdant Maiden in Violet
- Location
- By a Cedar Tree
[x] Her last set of formal Cheraki clothing, the outfit of a foreigner visiting these lands who does not intend to stay forever.
Oh boy, this chapter really hammered in that the Jansi (of today) are terrible rulers more interested in looting the land than governing it. Just like the scavengers, like Rena. Yeah, everyone has given up on Cahzor. Have we met anyone who actually likes living here?
Oh boy, this chapter really hammered in that the Jansi (of today) are terrible rulers more interested in looting the land than governing it. Just like the scavengers, like Rena. Yeah, everyone has given up on Cahzor. Have we met anyone who actually likes living here?
We the people on this site, or we the players in control of Rena specifically? Because from other works it's quite obvious the Deyha enjoy their mercenary lifestyle here, but I don't think Rena's encountered any of them yet.
- Location
- Spain
She did. Right at the start of the quest remember?
The ship she was on was attacked by Deyha and she bewitched one of them.
Correct. You also had the option to hire a pair of deyha sisters as specialists for your mercenary stuff, as face-breakers and strong-women who would have been there to quiet dissent in the ranks and suchlike.
[X] The armour she found in the dig, the garb of a warrior of old ready for battle and able to fight.
We are a sorcerer queen with our own small army and want to send the message that we are not to be trifled with.
Otherwise, our taxes are liable to be THESE HANDS
We are a sorcerer queen with our own small army and want to send the message that we are not to be trifled with.
Otherwise, our taxes are liable to be THESE HANDS
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The armour she found in the dig, the garb of a warrior of old ready for battle and able to fight.
when you get cool loot you show it off that's just how it works
when you get cool loot you show it off that's just how it works
Well, voting has died up and there's a plurality for one option.
So I guess Rena is going in her Cheraki garb.
So I guess Rena is going in her Cheraki garb.
LX. Demio Naima ar-Redar
LX. Demio Naima ar-Redar
Zorpondam is the only place in Cahzor where one can see a natural sunset. From atop the dam, the setting sun paints the western horizon a cruel, bloody red, saturating the sky. Ever since you came to the south, the sunsets have been far more dramatic - they say it is because of the dust and sand in the air - and today, of all days, is quite a vision to behold.
It does not make you feel better as you make your way towards the squat shape of the Demio's fortress atop the dam, through the clamour and stink of Zorpondam. Your escort of Amigere and a few of the soldiers who you hadn't let go yet feel far, far away.
You had plans for this evening. You were going to spend them in bed, or possibly in the baths. Massages from the hotel staff would have been involved. Also your boyfriends. You had plans for them, oh yes you did. And then the rancid bitch-queen of this stinking, reeking outpost of Hell or maybe the lands of the Dead decided "Oh, I'm going to go ruin Rena's evening because I'm raw, unadulterated, unfiltered evil!"
And you're not being histrionic. You're not even exaggerating. The fortress of the Demio would not be a well-favoured building even if it was not a hanging ground for criminals. You remember seeing the bodies wrapped up in linens, left out in the sun. They are still here.
No, you realise as you look more closely. They are not. These ones are fresher. She has condemned more people to die this way. And taken the bodies of the dead down. For an honest burial? No, probably not. Someone who went to that length to give such a cruel, torturous death would not offer an honest funeral, and perhaps the offence given to the spirits of the dead is the primary purpose.
The cruelty is the point. Gods and dragons, this is awful.
You might be in a somewhat better mood if you hadn't let pride and nostalgia get the better of you. It's not something you normally would fall prey to, but right here and now, you were emotionally compromised. You were missing home and needed to dress up smart in a hurry and so your thoughts went to that last nearly formal set of clothing from Cherak you had left. You had not taken them on your expedition for obvious reasons, and when you checked your closet they were here, fresh and smelling of home.
And so dusty they made your eyes water.
But now that you're wearing them, it turns out that Cahzor at sunset is still hotter than a Cheraki Fire during the height of the day. And this isn't even a Cheraki garment made for the season of Fire. Only the cold presence of your blade Tramontane is making it at all tolerable.
If you weren't sweating buckets, you would be in more of a position to appreciate how you look. Cahzori garments often sit low, but your long evergreen-coloured skirt trimmed in russet brown sits well above your waist, barely below your breasts. It means it hangs much more cleanly than the local styles with their exaggerated bottoms and hoops, and the smooth lines of cloth have plenty of room for geometric designs which evoke the northern trees and wildflowers that are your birthright. Rising above the green is the short overshirt that brings the snow of the mountains to mind - but of course no one here would recognise the symbolism, nor the fact that as a Cheraki noble you dress as the land you care for.
…cared for.
Right now you wish there was a little less symbolism and importantly fewer layers too. Because between your petticoats, underskirts, darker green undersleeves, and layers upon layers upon layers within the fabric meant for both modesty and to keep the northern cold out, you are afraid that your pride might get you killed from heatstroke. Whatever the Demio might have planned for you will have to wait if you collapse.
Light-headedly, you wonder if you are actually a genius. If you give yourself heatstroke, you can go back and sleep in the air-pump-cooled hotel. But passing out in her custody is not… is not…
Well, it would be bad for your health.
The fortress walls are before you, laden with their sprouting fruit that blossoms with sickly-sweet lilies and pomegranates to your awakened eyes. The bronzed doors are already swinging open, a petty gesture of power.
"You will be fine there?" Amigere asks, eyes narrowed in concern. "You sure you don't need my help?"
It would be nice to beg him to stay with you. But that would humiliate you in his eyes and the eyes of the watchers that you know must be there, so you instead feign a laugh and pat his cheek. "Oh, my darling, of course I will. I've been in worse places than this. I really do wish that I'd had a few days to rest up, but it is what it is. I haven't broken any of her laws and she has no reason to do anything."
Shit. Unless she got irrationally angry about some petty corruption and bribery of her inspectors - no, no. This is Cahzor. If she killed anyone who paid a bribe there'd be no one alive here.
You are only sweating from the heat. Not from fear.
"It is just-" he begins.
"I will see you later tonight, my darling," you say firmly, meeting his eyes.
A man in a neat, high-collared white overcoat trimmed with dark blue geometric patterns is waiting for you at the gates. His hair is iron grey, his complexion is bloodlessly pale, and his eyes have the sheen of uncooked egg whites. He does not look well.
"Lady Meira as-Sayu," he says, in a croaky whisper. "I am the chatelaine of the Demio, and I welcome you to her estate."
"Thank you, mister…" You pause, waiting for him to fill it in.
"Isa, but I am not a mister," he says, those unhealthy eyes on you. Does he even blink in this hot, dry air - oh, no, there it is. "Just her chatelaine. I know this may be strange to you," his eyes flick over what you are wearing, "but please, follow me in."
You say a brief farewell to your escort, and then you follow the man in. And the doors close behind you.
"Do not worry about the low light. Your eyes will adapt. In time."
The halls are dark, and deep in the dam, and the air is damp. You are almost blind for a moment after coming in out of the brightness. But above all, in this one place in all of Cahzor it is cold. Cold enough that you see your breath come out in little clouds. Cold enough that your stubborn, arrogant, foolish pride in coming in Cheraki dress is the only reason you are not shivering.
The lanterns that deck the halls are shrouded behind paper, painted with scenes of antiquity. This is not a Cahzori style, you muse, but a moment's thought leads you to correct yourself. It is not a style seen in Cahzor as it is now. And the other decorations are all things of Cahzor, taken from the ruins below. The walls are rich with woven tapestries in most un-Immaculate ways, and paintings and weapons of old. There are mosaics that must have been lifted from where they had sat and there are frescos cut from their walls to sit, framed. And everywhere, the glimmer and gleam of the imperishable crystal from down below, positioned in strange places so the glint of a lantern from around the corner catches the eye.
The servants are bloodless. It was not just the man who came to invite you here; they are all like this. In this city of scorching sun, they are as pale as the things that squirm underneath an overturned rock. Every word is an affected yawn, a wearisome exertion as if they are too tired; each gesture is languid. The pale maids are mopping and cleaning, veiled and robed with their too-thin hands showing from under their dark sleeves; the pallid guards stand in position. They do not lean against the wall; they do not straighten to attention at the approach of a guest.
Fear, you suspect. How does the demio get the specimens for her sorcerous work you saw in the fighting pits? You do not know, but you suspect that those loyal to her are much more aware of what she can do - and much more resolute to stay in her good books.
This is the third grand house of a jansi you have been in, and it is the most intact - and the most uncanny. It is intact in the manner of a day-dead body, relative to Fahd's sun-mummified corpse and the vulture-picked bloated body of the Kinzara estate. It might not be fair on Fahd to compare him to this, because he clearly is not playing in the same fields of wealth and esteem, but you have no obligation to be fair to him. But your point still stands. This place preserves more of what would once have been fair about Cahzor, but it does it in such an unseemly and uncanny manner that it quite makes your skin crawl.
You are led through to a dining hall, smaller than the one on the Kinzara estate, lit by amberic illumination from above. It must have been part of the original facility. One wall is closed slatted shutters, armoured and fortified, but the other three are bedecked in remnants of stolen Cahzori glory. Only there are no paintings of people nor of gods here, nothing but landscapes of the city below. There are six people seated at the table already - a young child, and five adults.
"Welcome, lady!" The men who calls out is a robed and masked figure. The white jade mask is the face of a graven, serious man with a stylised beard. But you can see his withered, parched hands, and his voice is querulous.
He is not the Demio, but from the quality of his garments and the value of that jade mask he wears, he must be her kin. "Who might I have the honour of addressing?" you ask politely.
"I am the husband of the Demio, Faiz." No family name given, you note. "And I must apologise for my wife's whims. She was just so certain that an exotic stranger," from the tilt of his mask he looks you up and down, "who has come to our city - and just returned from the lower city no less! - would be a quite pleasant guest."
"Well, I am honoured," you pause, considering… yes. You let more Airtongue bleed into your Firetongue. "And I am sorry, but I am not sure how to address you. I do not want to cause offence."
"I am the Demio's Saysaita," he says.
"Then I am honoured, Saysaita Faiz," you say. You are not sure what that symbolises - possibly a bastardisation of the archaic High Realm term for 'First Husband', but you are not sure what duties that entails. Nothing that involves heavy lifting. The man is nearly lost under his robes; he is so dry and dusty you might believe he would snap with just a little nudge.
"Come. Sit. The Demio is… otherwise engaged."
"Does she take pleasure in seeing the sunset?" you ask innocently. There is enough of a pause to tell you that your question hit home. Sunset is a time of mystic potency for many forms of magic, as the Sun's influence leaves the world and the Moon is at his weakest. "It was especially beautiful from atop the dam this evening."
"I have little interest in such things," Faiz says stiffly. "This is my family."
This is the Redar jansi of the Demio, or at least the ones invited to the dinner. Her son, Djamal; an old man, anaemic, shrivelled, even older sounding-than her husband. Her daughter Sania, bloodless features pale and leathery, eyes little dark beads, sitting there like a baby bird watching you as if you are a worm. Her daughter's daughter Mona, little different looking from her mother, gaunt and dark-eyed. Ayad, Mona's husband, and he is old too, his breath rasping in the damp air. The only youth at the table, apart from your radiant self, is the Demio's son Omar, a round-faced, ruddy boy who you can scarcely believe is related to the others.
Such a display of antiquity and infirmity! What does the boy Omar feel, living in this sunless place full of old people!
The starters are served without the Demio, and you decide it would be incautious to ask why. They are not as fine as what the Kinzara served, but they are easily a match for Fahd's meal and better than anything you had on the road. Fish, no less.
"From upriver," old Djamal says. "We get river trade here, on the Little Nam."
Oh. Good. From cleaner water. You have no fondness for finding out how wholesome the fish in the polluted lake behind the dam are.
They have questions for you, of how things are in the city, of what you have seen, and you spin your tales and entertain them. But your mouth is well practised and your mind is still pondering. Still considering, as you tell your stories to this aged crowd.
In the distance you can hear something dripping. Maybe something of the mechanisms of the dam. Maybe some kind of dripping-water cooling system. You saw them in other places on the way south, but water is too dear in Cahzor for them. Not for the Demio, though. And there are other noises; rumbling, mechanisms of old, and other things that are more organic, more animal, but indistinct.
There are phantasmal water lilies blooming here. This is no surprise.This whole place is a place of water. But they are faded; sick; wilted. And maybe that doesn't surprise you either, because the Little Nam to the west is a sick, wilted remnant of what it should have been, so stagnant that it is more mud than liquid.
None of the ar-Redar family here are dragon-children. The boy Omar is young enough that he might be in with a chance, but everyone else is too old. The Demio does not have a strong bloodline, and it would surprise you if any of these people save Omar can expect to live another twenty years. And Omar is just a boy. If the Demio were to die in the next decade, there would be the choice between an old woman, an old man, and a mere child. Does the matter of succession concern the people of Zorpondam?
Perhaps a question for Sadia. No, for Zia. He's more loose-lipped than Sadia, who is too clever and works in the service of the Demio.
And then you feel her, before you even hear the pad of her bare feet. The unseen cold, dark wave washing over you, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up and bearing with it phantasmal water lilies that cling to every surface. This fortress is hers, and it knows her touch. So does this city, this dam.
"Oh, my dear Lady Meira, how wonderful it is to meet you in person for the very first time! I've heard so much about you!"
You turn to see her.
This is the Demio of Cahzor, the ancient crone you have heard whispered fearful mentions of. The recluse who lurks in her fortress. The sorceress who makes men into monsters and sends them out to fight for the amusement of the crowds in the fighting pits to please the poor and warn the wise.
She looks to be younger than you.
Oh, this is almost certainly a lie. From what you understand she has ruled this city atop a dam since Gem's invasion, taking control in the chaos afterwards. She was almost certainly born before you were. But she looks like she is in the first bloom of youth, while you could pass for a mortal woman in her - early, early - thirties. Her lake-blue eyes are bright and clear and sharp; her olive-skinned face as smooth as a millpond; a healthy ruddy glow lingers in her cheeks that stands in contrast to the bloodless paleness of her servants and kin. Her deep blue diaphanous style of gown is archaic, but newly made, a not dusty remnants from the city below. In among all these plundered remnants of antiquity she is fresh and vital and immediate; so much more alive than this tired place.
Only one thing stands out. Her hair, cut puckishly short in a way that plays off her impish smile, is white. And it is not the white of snow or of sea foam, which are common among dragon children. It is the white of the elderly.
"Demio Naima ar-Redar, I am pleased to make your-"
"Oh no, don't rise! I told people to get started without me! I just had a little matter to see to first!"
It is not said in an intimidating way. It was probably not even intended to scare you. And yet you have an excellent imagination. That is usually an advantage. Usually.
"Come, now! Eat! Eat!"
The food is well-done, rich and hearty. The Demio does not eat a bite. Her husband does, and the others at her table - but not her. Neither does she drink. But you cannot see any of the markers that she is one of the Dead, or anything other than a watery dragon-child.
She listens to you. She laughs at your jokes. And her smiles and her beams are seemingly nothing less than genuine. These are the manners of a society lady, someone who should be at home at the great parties of the jansi. Why then is she a recluse?
Naima has questions about your trip south, and from the way she speaks - and the way she contributes - she has seen those places. And when you mention the deyha raid, her brows furrow.
"Those beasts," she says, darkly.
"They were definitely… pungent," you say lightly.
"That is the least of their offences. That fool down in Zorgranzar has invited them in, and their savage ways exceeds even the desert clans."
"I didn't interact with them much, I must admit," you say.
"Lucky you. Sometimes they'll come to try to raid my caravans. Or snatch slaves from my people. Some of the western deyha even go for my boats." She shakes her head. "Just life, I am afraid. I am surprised that you managed to talk them into taking you here."
"We managed to come to terms," you prevaricate.
"What terms?" The words come out like a whip, but then she laughs. "Oh, I tease, I tease! Nothing more! Tricking some deyha savages is no great concern, and only speaks well that you could bring such beasts to the bargaining table."
No, she does not like them one bit - and her family has been entirely silent as you spoke with her. They only re-enter the conversation as it moves into other, safer areas, and you make your way through the lentil dish and the greens to a delightful honey-sweet dessert.
"This is excellent. My compliments to your chef," you observe to the Demio, who has had nothing. "Nothing for you?"
"I am fasting for the moment," she says, smiling back at you. "And coming here is just a test of my willpower."
Fasting for ritual purposes? Likely. You always hate when you have to do that.
The dessert is out of the way, and Namia glances at her family. "You are dismissed," she says to them. "And Meira, might I offer you a drink?"
"I couldn't say no to that."
"Of course not. Little Sadia says you appreciate fine wine."
"Who doesn't?"
"Indeed, indeed."
Her family file out with few words, and you and the Demio decant yourselves out of the dining room. She takes you to a veranda which overlooks the stinking mire that is the Little Nam, the sky to the west of you a deep purple, and the valley walls are sparsely lit with fires. Glancing over, you can just about see the tip of the Kinzara estates up the southern valley wall, the geography pockmarked with open sores from their mining.
"This is excellent wine," you say admiringly. "A Blessed isle vintage, by the taste."
"Yes, indeed. So many travelling dynasts give out bottles when travelling." She does not have a glass for herself.
"Well, let us thank that traveller."
The silence drags out. You really want to down the wine. You can't face this sober. But you have to.
"What an ugly, stinking cesspit," Naima says brightly.
"I wouldn't say that," you lie.
"Well, of course you wouldn't. You're petrified of offending me," she says oh-so-sweetly.
Ah. Out comes the predator. You'd call her a viper, but she doesn't hold herself like a practitioner of your favoured style. "Why would I want to give offence to the ruler of this city?"
"You want to. You just won't let yourself. You're holding yourself like someone who has something to hide, and since I can't read you, that means you're hiding who you are from me. And thinking Cahzor is a stinking cesspit is the sort of thing a newcomer does. Especially," she gestures up and down, "someone who holds to their old style of dress. The styles of Grand Cherak haven't changed too much, but they have changed."
"What is your point?" It is… alarming that she speaks of this as a Grand Cheraki style of dress, because either she is much older than you guessed, or much better informed. Either way, not good for you.
Naima laughs at that. Her hand gestures over the stinking, silt-choked Little Nam, where there are twisted sick trees growing on detritus-mounds, surface is oilslick in the twilight, and flies cling close to the foetid wasteland. "There are no fortunes to be made here. The game is, and has always been rigged. My dear, Cahzor is not Gem. We have no jewels, no gold, no firedust. We are not those Coxati hillfolk, with their sheep and fields and weaving and crops. We can't even keep those wild deyha to heel. We have only our city, this faded remnant of glory. So we fight over the scraps of our ancestors, a mangy pack of curs who the jansi of old would have scorned."
"You are remarkably equanimous about this." Yes. That comment came from the perspective of someone who had known the jansi of old.
"Well, I do control one of the only two major sandports in this desolate place - and access to the Little Nam which is the only riverport." She gives you a charming, open smile. "Parched land means so awfully little without water, and all the treasures in the world are worthless if you can't get a meal."
"In the ruins down there, jade is worth less than a bowl of lentils."
"Well, I wouldn't go so far. But I am the one taxing the people who sell the lentils that get taken down below," she says merrily. "And you have already seen how this game is set up."
"Taxed by the lord of the land I found things in, paying to get it to here - or Zorpondam - and then scalped my the port," you say, a little more sourly than you meant.
She laughs at that. "You have done marvellously! You might even make a small profit, which is exceptional for your first time. And you probably won't lose too much money even if you don't. But the game was rigged from the start. The houses always win."
"Don't you call them 'jansi' here?"
"Yes, but then my joke wouldn't work. Don't be dull!"
You consider this. Then; "But then, my Lady Demio, why are you telling me this?"
"I invited you because we have something in common," Demio ar-Redar says. "Sorceress."
You manage to stop yourself from swallowing. "I saw your handiwork in the fighting-pits."
"Oh, you liked those?" There is almost something coquettish about the way she says that.
"Not a field that I have ever experimented in," you concede, "but to transform a man or woman in that style is quite… radical."
"And practical, too. It brings them to heel nicely," she says blithely. "Though speaking of bringing to heel, I do note that you do not keep any familiars with you."
She doesn't know about Sei. So even her airs have their limits. "I have never found them necessary - or trustworthy. The same might be said about you. I've seen not one demon here in this fortress."
"Demons are vile, repugnant beasts. Sometimes it may be necessary to call one up to ask it questions or have it perform tasks for you, but it is not something to keep close to hand. Not when someone else could steal away its loyalties, or it could tell your secrets to its masters in Hell."
Well, she is a sensible woman. Damn. Foolish foes are much more useful. Though you would not be surprised if she calls upon the Dead for divinations and secrets from the Underworld. "So few seem to understand it."
"Yes, quite so." She spreads her hands, perfect teeth bring and not quite wholesome in how wide her smile is. "Another reason that my eye was drawn to you. I have seen many sorcerers head down into the ruins with their entourages of familiar spirits and bodyguards. Some return. Some do not. And my port officials tell me you carry a lot of paper with you."
"So you think I have found some ancient lore?"
"I think you think you have."
"And you want it?"
"Heavens, no!" She leans against the balconade, looking out over the Little Nam. "Well, no, perhaps that isn't fair. I might, if you found anything worthwhile. But truly, I've stripped most of the things of interest from the lower city already, and," she taps her temple with one finger, "memorised it. Another spell for turning men into beasts; another spell for laying waste to an army? Not of any real interest to me."
"I suppose you have more esoteric interests."
"Precisely! There are very few things that interest me in the sorceries of this Cahzor, and none of the specialists in that field dwelt near Zorpearl."
Does she not know that you uncovered something from the Shogunate? No, she will know, sooner or later. Your men will talk. "Then I presume you will be bidding on anything of interest that comes up from the sales of my recovery?"
"Of course. You might have stumbled into something interesting to me, but most people do not. Sell your goods freely, Meira. But pay your taxes! That is all I ask of you. That, and to keep your sticky fingers away from my throne. Zorpondam is a mercantile city! I ask so very little of its people!"
You stare at her so hard it feels your eyes are aching, until the woman herself is nearly blotted out by the water lilies that wreath her form. She is a recluse because she is not exactly interested in Zorpondam. Not precisely. She cares for it, but it is what gives her the money and time for her research. She is exactly where she wants to be.
As stagnant and stale as the blood-tinged lilies that wrap her form, and spill from her fingers down to the Little Nam. And sprout across its surface too. Until you cannot tell where the woman ends and the stagnant lake begins.
She says something, and you blink out of the mindset of a wyldwoods scholar. "I beg your pardon," you say. "Sorry, I am exhausted from my travel - and while I was greatly appreciative of this meal, I am nearly falling asleep on my feet."
"No doubt, no doubt! I won't keep you much longer. Just one more thing?"
Ah. "Are you looking to make a deal? Is there something you need a sorceress for?" you ask, following her line of logic.
"You're not desperate enough for me to trust you," she says, plainly and simply. "If you were to serve me, I would need certain… sureties from you. Ones I doubt you are willing to give at this point. Now," she raises one hand, "you do know little Sadia, and so there are definitely things that a sorceress would be able to do for me. But to join my court, to swear yourself to me - now, now, come on Meira. Do you really think I'd trust someone who shows up dressed as a foreigner, a runaway sorceress who's got the skills to go out into the ruins and come back with something which means she might just break even from her very first adventure?" Her chuckle sounds even amused. "I thought you would respect me more than that."
Well, she has you there. You wouldn't trust you. "Forgive me if I was presumptive."
"Of course, of course," she says lightly. "But… Meira, forgive me if I just ask one little thing…"
"About what?"
"Well, about the dark omens that I have seen in the night's sky." She gestures up at the twilight, where the evening stars twinkle in the deep blue. "Are you an astrologer?"
"I've dabbled, nothing more," you admit. It is what you would say if you were an expert, but it actually is true. You don't like the idea of being caught in the web of fate spun by the gods.
"Well, there are omens. Ill ones. It rained blood on the Little Nam three days ago."
"Nourishment for the plants," you suggest.
"This is no joke! Venus is ascendant is in the Treasure Trove and Saturn is ruling in the Gull, which should mean that ventures are dangerous and hard, but rewards will be found that bring blessings! That is the will of the gods that you have benefited from! But others have not done so well. It is strange, Meria. Strange, that only the fortune of the gods comes to you while across the city there have been calamities and catastrophes outside the norm for this wretched place."
"What are you implying?"
"I am saying that the will of the gods has been cast aside for Cahzor - except for you. Some kind of curse has chosen to spare you. And," her lips twist into something cold you hadn't seen before, "I want to know why. Did you see the omens? Did you meet some spirit along the way? And given you found this treasure in Zorpearl, which has… a history of its own, was something unleashed?"
Hmm. Hmm. Perhaps that luck was something to do with Jarida Dal… but that is a question for later. Because those blue eyes are locked on you and this ancient witch with a young face wants answers.
Zorpondam is the only place in Cahzor where one can see a natural sunset. From atop the dam, the setting sun paints the western horizon a cruel, bloody red, saturating the sky. Ever since you came to the south, the sunsets have been far more dramatic - they say it is because of the dust and sand in the air - and today, of all days, is quite a vision to behold.
It does not make you feel better as you make your way towards the squat shape of the Demio's fortress atop the dam, through the clamour and stink of Zorpondam. Your escort of Amigere and a few of the soldiers who you hadn't let go yet feel far, far away.
You had plans for this evening. You were going to spend them in bed, or possibly in the baths. Massages from the hotel staff would have been involved. Also your boyfriends. You had plans for them, oh yes you did. And then the rancid bitch-queen of this stinking, reeking outpost of Hell or maybe the lands of the Dead decided "Oh, I'm going to go ruin Rena's evening because I'm raw, unadulterated, unfiltered evil!"
And you're not being histrionic. You're not even exaggerating. The fortress of the Demio would not be a well-favoured building even if it was not a hanging ground for criminals. You remember seeing the bodies wrapped up in linens, left out in the sun. They are still here.
No, you realise as you look more closely. They are not. These ones are fresher. She has condemned more people to die this way. And taken the bodies of the dead down. For an honest burial? No, probably not. Someone who went to that length to give such a cruel, torturous death would not offer an honest funeral, and perhaps the offence given to the spirits of the dead is the primary purpose.
The cruelty is the point. Gods and dragons, this is awful.
You might be in a somewhat better mood if you hadn't let pride and nostalgia get the better of you. It's not something you normally would fall prey to, but right here and now, you were emotionally compromised. You were missing home and needed to dress up smart in a hurry and so your thoughts went to that last nearly formal set of clothing from Cherak you had left. You had not taken them on your expedition for obvious reasons, and when you checked your closet they were here, fresh and smelling of home.
And so dusty they made your eyes water.
But now that you're wearing them, it turns out that Cahzor at sunset is still hotter than a Cheraki Fire during the height of the day. And this isn't even a Cheraki garment made for the season of Fire. Only the cold presence of your blade Tramontane is making it at all tolerable.
If you weren't sweating buckets, you would be in more of a position to appreciate how you look. Cahzori garments often sit low, but your long evergreen-coloured skirt trimmed in russet brown sits well above your waist, barely below your breasts. It means it hangs much more cleanly than the local styles with their exaggerated bottoms and hoops, and the smooth lines of cloth have plenty of room for geometric designs which evoke the northern trees and wildflowers that are your birthright. Rising above the green is the short overshirt that brings the snow of the mountains to mind - but of course no one here would recognise the symbolism, nor the fact that as a Cheraki noble you dress as the land you care for.
…cared for.
Right now you wish there was a little less symbolism and importantly fewer layers too. Because between your petticoats, underskirts, darker green undersleeves, and layers upon layers upon layers within the fabric meant for both modesty and to keep the northern cold out, you are afraid that your pride might get you killed from heatstroke. Whatever the Demio might have planned for you will have to wait if you collapse.
Light-headedly, you wonder if you are actually a genius. If you give yourself heatstroke, you can go back and sleep in the air-pump-cooled hotel. But passing out in her custody is not… is not…
Well, it would be bad for your health.
The fortress walls are before you, laden with their sprouting fruit that blossoms with sickly-sweet lilies and pomegranates to your awakened eyes. The bronzed doors are already swinging open, a petty gesture of power.
"You will be fine there?" Amigere asks, eyes narrowed in concern. "You sure you don't need my help?"
It would be nice to beg him to stay with you. But that would humiliate you in his eyes and the eyes of the watchers that you know must be there, so you instead feign a laugh and pat his cheek. "Oh, my darling, of course I will. I've been in worse places than this. I really do wish that I'd had a few days to rest up, but it is what it is. I haven't broken any of her laws and she has no reason to do anything."
Shit. Unless she got irrationally angry about some petty corruption and bribery of her inspectors - no, no. This is Cahzor. If she killed anyone who paid a bribe there'd be no one alive here.
You are only sweating from the heat. Not from fear.
"It is just-" he begins.
"I will see you later tonight, my darling," you say firmly, meeting his eyes.
A man in a neat, high-collared white overcoat trimmed with dark blue geometric patterns is waiting for you at the gates. His hair is iron grey, his complexion is bloodlessly pale, and his eyes have the sheen of uncooked egg whites. He does not look well.
"Lady Meira as-Sayu," he says, in a croaky whisper. "I am the chatelaine of the Demio, and I welcome you to her estate."
"Thank you, mister…" You pause, waiting for him to fill it in.
"Isa, but I am not a mister," he says, those unhealthy eyes on you. Does he even blink in this hot, dry air - oh, no, there it is. "Just her chatelaine. I know this may be strange to you," his eyes flick over what you are wearing, "but please, follow me in."
You say a brief farewell to your escort, and then you follow the man in. And the doors close behind you.
"Do not worry about the low light. Your eyes will adapt. In time."
The halls are dark, and deep in the dam, and the air is damp. You are almost blind for a moment after coming in out of the brightness. But above all, in this one place in all of Cahzor it is cold. Cold enough that you see your breath come out in little clouds. Cold enough that your stubborn, arrogant, foolish pride in coming in Cheraki dress is the only reason you are not shivering.
The lanterns that deck the halls are shrouded behind paper, painted with scenes of antiquity. This is not a Cahzori style, you muse, but a moment's thought leads you to correct yourself. It is not a style seen in Cahzor as it is now. And the other decorations are all things of Cahzor, taken from the ruins below. The walls are rich with woven tapestries in most un-Immaculate ways, and paintings and weapons of old. There are mosaics that must have been lifted from where they had sat and there are frescos cut from their walls to sit, framed. And everywhere, the glimmer and gleam of the imperishable crystal from down below, positioned in strange places so the glint of a lantern from around the corner catches the eye.
The servants are bloodless. It was not just the man who came to invite you here; they are all like this. In this city of scorching sun, they are as pale as the things that squirm underneath an overturned rock. Every word is an affected yawn, a wearisome exertion as if they are too tired; each gesture is languid. The pale maids are mopping and cleaning, veiled and robed with their too-thin hands showing from under their dark sleeves; the pallid guards stand in position. They do not lean against the wall; they do not straighten to attention at the approach of a guest.
Fear, you suspect. How does the demio get the specimens for her sorcerous work you saw in the fighting pits? You do not know, but you suspect that those loyal to her are much more aware of what she can do - and much more resolute to stay in her good books.
This is the third grand house of a jansi you have been in, and it is the most intact - and the most uncanny. It is intact in the manner of a day-dead body, relative to Fahd's sun-mummified corpse and the vulture-picked bloated body of the Kinzara estate. It might not be fair on Fahd to compare him to this, because he clearly is not playing in the same fields of wealth and esteem, but you have no obligation to be fair to him. But your point still stands. This place preserves more of what would once have been fair about Cahzor, but it does it in such an unseemly and uncanny manner that it quite makes your skin crawl.
You are led through to a dining hall, smaller than the one on the Kinzara estate, lit by amberic illumination from above. It must have been part of the original facility. One wall is closed slatted shutters, armoured and fortified, but the other three are bedecked in remnants of stolen Cahzori glory. Only there are no paintings of people nor of gods here, nothing but landscapes of the city below. There are six people seated at the table already - a young child, and five adults.
"Welcome, lady!" The men who calls out is a robed and masked figure. The white jade mask is the face of a graven, serious man with a stylised beard. But you can see his withered, parched hands, and his voice is querulous.
He is not the Demio, but from the quality of his garments and the value of that jade mask he wears, he must be her kin. "Who might I have the honour of addressing?" you ask politely.
"I am the husband of the Demio, Faiz." No family name given, you note. "And I must apologise for my wife's whims. She was just so certain that an exotic stranger," from the tilt of his mask he looks you up and down, "who has come to our city - and just returned from the lower city no less! - would be a quite pleasant guest."
"Well, I am honoured," you pause, considering… yes. You let more Airtongue bleed into your Firetongue. "And I am sorry, but I am not sure how to address you. I do not want to cause offence."
"I am the Demio's Saysaita," he says.
"Then I am honoured, Saysaita Faiz," you say. You are not sure what that symbolises - possibly a bastardisation of the archaic High Realm term for 'First Husband', but you are not sure what duties that entails. Nothing that involves heavy lifting. The man is nearly lost under his robes; he is so dry and dusty you might believe he would snap with just a little nudge.
"Come. Sit. The Demio is… otherwise engaged."
"Does she take pleasure in seeing the sunset?" you ask innocently. There is enough of a pause to tell you that your question hit home. Sunset is a time of mystic potency for many forms of magic, as the Sun's influence leaves the world and the Moon is at his weakest. "It was especially beautiful from atop the dam this evening."
"I have little interest in such things," Faiz says stiffly. "This is my family."
This is the Redar jansi of the Demio, or at least the ones invited to the dinner. Her son, Djamal; an old man, anaemic, shrivelled, even older sounding-than her husband. Her daughter Sania, bloodless features pale and leathery, eyes little dark beads, sitting there like a baby bird watching you as if you are a worm. Her daughter's daughter Mona, little different looking from her mother, gaunt and dark-eyed. Ayad, Mona's husband, and he is old too, his breath rasping in the damp air. The only youth at the table, apart from your radiant self, is the Demio's son Omar, a round-faced, ruddy boy who you can scarcely believe is related to the others.
Such a display of antiquity and infirmity! What does the boy Omar feel, living in this sunless place full of old people!
The starters are served without the Demio, and you decide it would be incautious to ask why. They are not as fine as what the Kinzara served, but they are easily a match for Fahd's meal and better than anything you had on the road. Fish, no less.
"From upriver," old Djamal says. "We get river trade here, on the Little Nam."
Oh. Good. From cleaner water. You have no fondness for finding out how wholesome the fish in the polluted lake behind the dam are.
They have questions for you, of how things are in the city, of what you have seen, and you spin your tales and entertain them. But your mouth is well practised and your mind is still pondering. Still considering, as you tell your stories to this aged crowd.
In the distance you can hear something dripping. Maybe something of the mechanisms of the dam. Maybe some kind of dripping-water cooling system. You saw them in other places on the way south, but water is too dear in Cahzor for them. Not for the Demio, though. And there are other noises; rumbling, mechanisms of old, and other things that are more organic, more animal, but indistinct.
There are phantasmal water lilies blooming here. This is no surprise.This whole place is a place of water. But they are faded; sick; wilted. And maybe that doesn't surprise you either, because the Little Nam to the west is a sick, wilted remnant of what it should have been, so stagnant that it is more mud than liquid.
None of the ar-Redar family here are dragon-children. The boy Omar is young enough that he might be in with a chance, but everyone else is too old. The Demio does not have a strong bloodline, and it would surprise you if any of these people save Omar can expect to live another twenty years. And Omar is just a boy. If the Demio were to die in the next decade, there would be the choice between an old woman, an old man, and a mere child. Does the matter of succession concern the people of Zorpondam?
Perhaps a question for Sadia. No, for Zia. He's more loose-lipped than Sadia, who is too clever and works in the service of the Demio.
And then you feel her, before you even hear the pad of her bare feet. The unseen cold, dark wave washing over you, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up and bearing with it phantasmal water lilies that cling to every surface. This fortress is hers, and it knows her touch. So does this city, this dam.
"Oh, my dear Lady Meira, how wonderful it is to meet you in person for the very first time! I've heard so much about you!"
You turn to see her.
This is the Demio of Cahzor, the ancient crone you have heard whispered fearful mentions of. The recluse who lurks in her fortress. The sorceress who makes men into monsters and sends them out to fight for the amusement of the crowds in the fighting pits to please the poor and warn the wise.
She looks to be younger than you.
Oh, this is almost certainly a lie. From what you understand she has ruled this city atop a dam since Gem's invasion, taking control in the chaos afterwards. She was almost certainly born before you were. But she looks like she is in the first bloom of youth, while you could pass for a mortal woman in her - early, early - thirties. Her lake-blue eyes are bright and clear and sharp; her olive-skinned face as smooth as a millpond; a healthy ruddy glow lingers in her cheeks that stands in contrast to the bloodless paleness of her servants and kin. Her deep blue diaphanous style of gown is archaic, but newly made, a not dusty remnants from the city below. In among all these plundered remnants of antiquity she is fresh and vital and immediate; so much more alive than this tired place.
Only one thing stands out. Her hair, cut puckishly short in a way that plays off her impish smile, is white. And it is not the white of snow or of sea foam, which are common among dragon children. It is the white of the elderly.
"Demio Naima ar-Redar, I am pleased to make your-"
"Oh no, don't rise! I told people to get started without me! I just had a little matter to see to first!"
It is not said in an intimidating way. It was probably not even intended to scare you. And yet you have an excellent imagination. That is usually an advantage. Usually.
"Come, now! Eat! Eat!"
The food is well-done, rich and hearty. The Demio does not eat a bite. Her husband does, and the others at her table - but not her. Neither does she drink. But you cannot see any of the markers that she is one of the Dead, or anything other than a watery dragon-child.
She listens to you. She laughs at your jokes. And her smiles and her beams are seemingly nothing less than genuine. These are the manners of a society lady, someone who should be at home at the great parties of the jansi. Why then is she a recluse?
Naima has questions about your trip south, and from the way she speaks - and the way she contributes - she has seen those places. And when you mention the deyha raid, her brows furrow.
"Those beasts," she says, darkly.
"They were definitely… pungent," you say lightly.
"That is the least of their offences. That fool down in Zorgranzar has invited them in, and their savage ways exceeds even the desert clans."
"I didn't interact with them much, I must admit," you say.
"Lucky you. Sometimes they'll come to try to raid my caravans. Or snatch slaves from my people. Some of the western deyha even go for my boats." She shakes her head. "Just life, I am afraid. I am surprised that you managed to talk them into taking you here."
"We managed to come to terms," you prevaricate.
"What terms?" The words come out like a whip, but then she laughs. "Oh, I tease, I tease! Nothing more! Tricking some deyha savages is no great concern, and only speaks well that you could bring such beasts to the bargaining table."
No, she does not like them one bit - and her family has been entirely silent as you spoke with her. They only re-enter the conversation as it moves into other, safer areas, and you make your way through the lentil dish and the greens to a delightful honey-sweet dessert.
"This is excellent. My compliments to your chef," you observe to the Demio, who has had nothing. "Nothing for you?"
"I am fasting for the moment," she says, smiling back at you. "And coming here is just a test of my willpower."
Fasting for ritual purposes? Likely. You always hate when you have to do that.
The dessert is out of the way, and Namia glances at her family. "You are dismissed," she says to them. "And Meira, might I offer you a drink?"
"I couldn't say no to that."
"Of course not. Little Sadia says you appreciate fine wine."
"Who doesn't?"
"Indeed, indeed."
Her family file out with few words, and you and the Demio decant yourselves out of the dining room. She takes you to a veranda which overlooks the stinking mire that is the Little Nam, the sky to the west of you a deep purple, and the valley walls are sparsely lit with fires. Glancing over, you can just about see the tip of the Kinzara estates up the southern valley wall, the geography pockmarked with open sores from their mining.
"This is excellent wine," you say admiringly. "A Blessed isle vintage, by the taste."
"Yes, indeed. So many travelling dynasts give out bottles when travelling." She does not have a glass for herself.
"Well, let us thank that traveller."
The silence drags out. You really want to down the wine. You can't face this sober. But you have to.
"What an ugly, stinking cesspit," Naima says brightly.
"I wouldn't say that," you lie.
"Well, of course you wouldn't. You're petrified of offending me," she says oh-so-sweetly.
Ah. Out comes the predator. You'd call her a viper, but she doesn't hold herself like a practitioner of your favoured style. "Why would I want to give offence to the ruler of this city?"
"You want to. You just won't let yourself. You're holding yourself like someone who has something to hide, and since I can't read you, that means you're hiding who you are from me. And thinking Cahzor is a stinking cesspit is the sort of thing a newcomer does. Especially," she gestures up and down, "someone who holds to their old style of dress. The styles of Grand Cherak haven't changed too much, but they have changed."
"What is your point?" It is… alarming that she speaks of this as a Grand Cheraki style of dress, because either she is much older than you guessed, or much better informed. Either way, not good for you.
Naima laughs at that. Her hand gestures over the stinking, silt-choked Little Nam, where there are twisted sick trees growing on detritus-mounds, surface is oilslick in the twilight, and flies cling close to the foetid wasteland. "There are no fortunes to be made here. The game is, and has always been rigged. My dear, Cahzor is not Gem. We have no jewels, no gold, no firedust. We are not those Coxati hillfolk, with their sheep and fields and weaving and crops. We can't even keep those wild deyha to heel. We have only our city, this faded remnant of glory. So we fight over the scraps of our ancestors, a mangy pack of curs who the jansi of old would have scorned."
"You are remarkably equanimous about this." Yes. That comment came from the perspective of someone who had known the jansi of old.
"Well, I do control one of the only two major sandports in this desolate place - and access to the Little Nam which is the only riverport." She gives you a charming, open smile. "Parched land means so awfully little without water, and all the treasures in the world are worthless if you can't get a meal."
"In the ruins down there, jade is worth less than a bowl of lentils."
"Well, I wouldn't go so far. But I am the one taxing the people who sell the lentils that get taken down below," she says merrily. "And you have already seen how this game is set up."
"Taxed by the lord of the land I found things in, paying to get it to here - or Zorpondam - and then scalped my the port," you say, a little more sourly than you meant.
She laughs at that. "You have done marvellously! You might even make a small profit, which is exceptional for your first time. And you probably won't lose too much money even if you don't. But the game was rigged from the start. The houses always win."
"Don't you call them 'jansi' here?"
"Yes, but then my joke wouldn't work. Don't be dull!"
You consider this. Then; "But then, my Lady Demio, why are you telling me this?"
"I invited you because we have something in common," Demio ar-Redar says. "Sorceress."
You manage to stop yourself from swallowing. "I saw your handiwork in the fighting-pits."
"Oh, you liked those?" There is almost something coquettish about the way she says that.
"Not a field that I have ever experimented in," you concede, "but to transform a man or woman in that style is quite… radical."
"And practical, too. It brings them to heel nicely," she says blithely. "Though speaking of bringing to heel, I do note that you do not keep any familiars with you."
She doesn't know about Sei. So even her airs have their limits. "I have never found them necessary - or trustworthy. The same might be said about you. I've seen not one demon here in this fortress."
"Demons are vile, repugnant beasts. Sometimes it may be necessary to call one up to ask it questions or have it perform tasks for you, but it is not something to keep close to hand. Not when someone else could steal away its loyalties, or it could tell your secrets to its masters in Hell."
Well, she is a sensible woman. Damn. Foolish foes are much more useful. Though you would not be surprised if she calls upon the Dead for divinations and secrets from the Underworld. "So few seem to understand it."
"Yes, quite so." She spreads her hands, perfect teeth bring and not quite wholesome in how wide her smile is. "Another reason that my eye was drawn to you. I have seen many sorcerers head down into the ruins with their entourages of familiar spirits and bodyguards. Some return. Some do not. And my port officials tell me you carry a lot of paper with you."
"So you think I have found some ancient lore?"
"I think you think you have."
"And you want it?"
"Heavens, no!" She leans against the balconade, looking out over the Little Nam. "Well, no, perhaps that isn't fair. I might, if you found anything worthwhile. But truly, I've stripped most of the things of interest from the lower city already, and," she taps her temple with one finger, "memorised it. Another spell for turning men into beasts; another spell for laying waste to an army? Not of any real interest to me."
"I suppose you have more esoteric interests."
"Precisely! There are very few things that interest me in the sorceries of this Cahzor, and none of the specialists in that field dwelt near Zorpearl."
Does she not know that you uncovered something from the Shogunate? No, she will know, sooner or later. Your men will talk. "Then I presume you will be bidding on anything of interest that comes up from the sales of my recovery?"
"Of course. You might have stumbled into something interesting to me, but most people do not. Sell your goods freely, Meira. But pay your taxes! That is all I ask of you. That, and to keep your sticky fingers away from my throne. Zorpondam is a mercantile city! I ask so very little of its people!"
You stare at her so hard it feels your eyes are aching, until the woman herself is nearly blotted out by the water lilies that wreath her form. She is a recluse because she is not exactly interested in Zorpondam. Not precisely. She cares for it, but it is what gives her the money and time for her research. She is exactly where she wants to be.
As stagnant and stale as the blood-tinged lilies that wrap her form, and spill from her fingers down to the Little Nam. And sprout across its surface too. Until you cannot tell where the woman ends and the stagnant lake begins.
She says something, and you blink out of the mindset of a wyldwoods scholar. "I beg your pardon," you say. "Sorry, I am exhausted from my travel - and while I was greatly appreciative of this meal, I am nearly falling asleep on my feet."
"No doubt, no doubt! I won't keep you much longer. Just one more thing?"
Ah. "Are you looking to make a deal? Is there something you need a sorceress for?" you ask, following her line of logic.
"You're not desperate enough for me to trust you," she says, plainly and simply. "If you were to serve me, I would need certain… sureties from you. Ones I doubt you are willing to give at this point. Now," she raises one hand, "you do know little Sadia, and so there are definitely things that a sorceress would be able to do for me. But to join my court, to swear yourself to me - now, now, come on Meira. Do you really think I'd trust someone who shows up dressed as a foreigner, a runaway sorceress who's got the skills to go out into the ruins and come back with something which means she might just break even from her very first adventure?" Her chuckle sounds even amused. "I thought you would respect me more than that."
Well, she has you there. You wouldn't trust you. "Forgive me if I was presumptive."
"Of course, of course," she says lightly. "But… Meira, forgive me if I just ask one little thing…"
"About what?"
"Well, about the dark omens that I have seen in the night's sky." She gestures up at the twilight, where the evening stars twinkle in the deep blue. "Are you an astrologer?"
"I've dabbled, nothing more," you admit. It is what you would say if you were an expert, but it actually is true. You don't like the idea of being caught in the web of fate spun by the gods.
"Well, there are omens. Ill ones. It rained blood on the Little Nam three days ago."
"Nourishment for the plants," you suggest.
"This is no joke! Venus is ascendant is in the Treasure Trove and Saturn is ruling in the Gull, which should mean that ventures are dangerous and hard, but rewards will be found that bring blessings! That is the will of the gods that you have benefited from! But others have not done so well. It is strange, Meria. Strange, that only the fortune of the gods comes to you while across the city there have been calamities and catastrophes outside the norm for this wretched place."
"What are you implying?"
"I am saying that the will of the gods has been cast aside for Cahzor - except for you. Some kind of curse has chosen to spare you. And," her lips twist into something cold you hadn't seen before, "I want to know why. Did you see the omens? Did you meet some spirit along the way? And given you found this treasure in Zorpearl, which has… a history of its own, was something unleashed?"
Hmm. Hmm. Perhaps that luck was something to do with Jarida Dal… but that is a question for later. Because those blue eyes are locked on you and this ancient witch with a young face wants answers.
Article: What Does Rena Tell Her?
[ ] Feign Ignorance. It is best that a woman like this knows as little as possible about what Rena was up to. She met no powerful spirits and didn't see any omens - oh, unless she meant the wyldstorm that nearly caught her on the way back? That wasn't a blessing, even though she managed to turn it to her advantage.
[ ] Blame the University Dig. When in doubt, deflect. When in Zorpearl, the fools from Zoruni were digging around the ancient temple of the forsaken Elemi jansi. Rena, of course, went nowhere near that place because she is not that much of a fool (and also they were there first), but who knows what they could have unleashed?
[ ] The Truth (Mostly). Maybe she can dispatch this ancient, powerful sorceress after Zed. Yes, Rena encountered a demon lord in the ruins, trapped in an old binding. She heroically escaped and left him trapped, but the wards were very weak. Dark omens might indicate he is now, finally free.
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You make writing complex characters look so easy. Wow, that was a ride. She's very uncomfortable to be around…
I don't know why I keep being surprised at how powerful Jarida Dal is, given what she is.
Watch me make a mistake. But at least it'll be on brand. Wait, I take it back - this'll definitely work out. Confident voter mentality.
[X] Feign Ignorance. It is best that a woman like this knows as little as possible about what Rena was up to. She met no powerful spirits and didn't see any omens - oh, unless she meant the wyldstorm that nearly caught her on the way back? That wasn't a blessing, even though she managed to turn it to her advantage.
I don't know why I keep being surprised at how powerful Jarida Dal is, given what she is.
Watch me make a mistake. But at least it'll be on brand. Wait, I take it back - this'll definitely work out. Confident voter mentality.
[X] Feign Ignorance. It is best that a woman like this knows as little as possible about what Rena was up to. She met no powerful spirits and didn't see any omens - oh, unless she meant the wyldstorm that nearly caught her on the way back? That wasn't a blessing, even though she managed to turn it to her advantage.