TUTORIAL I: Home, Sweet Home
Realm Year 768; Sixth of Descending Water
Ventus Prefecture
The woman nods at your answers, occasionally dipping her brush of porcelain in the red inkwell to her right; crimson letters reminding you of the scarlet banners in the Imperial City. One form becomes many; a stack of papers growing like white-topped waves on the Inner Sea.
Eventually, the chalk-white woman looks up from her stack of papers; a red and clear Imperial Seal marking your Obligation as unfulfilled. The Obligation is an inherent part of graduating the Heptagram; a centuries-old compromise between the Throne and the seven-spired academy. Any sorcerer of the Heptagram has a single Obligation to the Throne and the Deliberative; the governing bodies of the Realm, which they must fulfill, should they be called upon to serve the Realm. Such matters are between the sorcerer and the Throne, and you know not how often such an Obligation is used, nor do you know what you would do, should the Realm call; likely obey to the best of your abilities.
"Your papers should be in order now, lady V'neef." The woman says in a politely reserved tone, still clearly marked by tiredness; you perk your eyebrow. The woman refers to you in tones usually reserved for mortals addressing you; unsurprising had she been an Outcaste and born outside the Dynasty. But she can't be an Outcaste; she is very clearly working in the Imperial Service right here in front of you. You decide to be curious and press the matter; "Lady V'neef, huh?" You reply irreverently, heedless of her formalistic tone.
"Does the lady V'neef find issue with my tone?" She inquires politely, managing to either be or affect innocence somewhat convincingly enough for you to consider if she really just is that polite.
"No, not at all; I am merely unused to such tones from those who are clearly blessed of the Dragon-Blood." You reply nonchalantly, before adopting a more formal tone and deciding to inquire deeper; "May I humbly inquire into your ladyship's name, perhaps?"
This seems to take her by surprise, although nothing more than a slight movement of her eyebrows and a blink; a bureaucrat, unused to having her name asked for.
"Jades Casata." She responds innocuously; a Cadet House, subservient to the Great Houses.
This explains her comparatively low position as what is effectively a minor functionary of the Imperial Service; a scion of a House that has not seen the rolling plains and hills of the Blessed Isle. Thinking back on your education, the House of Jades is an eastern House ruling the satrapy of the same name; you once read a text on deathly essence and its use in obfuscatory magics by a writer from House Jades.
Regardless, you decide to answer the woman; "Our meeting has been an enjoyment, and I wish to inquire if a later meeting is possible? I plan on taking my residence in the Emerald Stag Hunting Lodge for at least the rest of the week, if not the month, where your ladyship can meet me, should she desire a second meeting."
You wish each other the blessing of the Five Dragons and the Throne, and you excuse yourself; leaving the building. Outside, heavy rain strikes the pavement, falling down in long streams as is customary in the season of Water. When you were younger, your sister Aliset told you that rain was a sign of the Water Dragon Danaa'd weeping over the sins of mankind beneath; now you know that is no longer the case, but you still make the sign of the pentacle with your right hand to signify respect before folding out your umbrella and signalling to the soldiers who are supposed to guard you.
Your escort is three soldiers strong; each a veteran of the legions of House V'neef who had done service in the Imperial Legions before that. They all wear dark green armour with floral decorations to signify their elevated positions and two of them wield long polearms with curved blades at the end. The final one carries a pillow upon which lies an object about as long as your arm, covered by a rain-proofed silken cloth affixed with metallic weights; your firewand secured firmly there for you to wield, should it prove necessary.
Behind you trail four Guardians of the Realm; the civilian police force that patrols the streets of cities on the Blessed Isle; colloquially the guardians. Guardians are incapable of handling crimes committed by Dragon-Blooded like yourself, but can be used as momentary bodyguards when passing through a city; to act on the crimes of Dragon-Blooded requires the far more specialized Imperial Force which is rarely dispatched from the palace these days.
You don't aim for any particular things, and neither the soldiers nor the guardians dare ask you any questions; sure that you hold knowledge of where you want to go. In truth, you are merely looking at the buildings of the city; Bright Obelisk is over six hundred years old and owing its ancestry to the early days of the Realm when the Blessed Isle was still insecure and the Empress was still unifying it. Then, it was the city of one of the Seven Tigers; warlords who wished to rule it together like the old Shogunate before them. The Empress waged war upon them, culminating in calling the wrath of the Dragons from the heavens upon them and destroying them.
The Seven Tigers are gone now, but signs of them still remain in the city; gently curved roofs bedecked with tiles and imagery of dragons in flight, which the monks of the Imperial City had condemned as vulgar for centuries before your birth. Marble pillars and silvered ornaments lining the walls of the buildings of the Old City; the city that was inside the walls and from which the huddled poor outside were excluded from ever entering. Outside the meter-high walls did the poorer districts lie, only entering the Old City itself when they could come on errands or were admitted for some reason; sneaky rogues always finding their own way in.
You did know what way you were walking; the monument that gave the city its name. The obelisk of silver in the midst of the city which had been built to commemorate its inclusion into the Realm hundreds of years ago. It was customary for visitors of Bright Obelisk to traverse the winding maze of streets to pay visit to the silvered idol, if only to gawk at a piece of history only remembered by the idolization given to it by military historians.
You walk the street; a foreigner on the Blessed Isle you call your home. On your left, you pass a temple; tigers of gold and silver standing guard by the doorway. On your right, a pair of guardians apologize profusely to you as they push back a number of people with their wooden cudgels; you don't spare them a glance. Criss-crossing cobblestone streets pass as you walk by; merchants, guardians, officers, sailors and the air of the Inner Sea.
The streets of Bright Obelisk are a cryptic maze; six hundred years of history building up and weighing down upon the shoulders of the city. The streets of the Old City wind, curve, cross and twist; confusing and convoluting even those who have lived here for years. The city is much like a spider; sitting upon the land, casting far and wide its web of streets and buildings. It is impossible for one such as you, to not find yourself mislead by signs that haven't been replaced for years and walking into some Dragons-forsaken alley in which mugging would be natural, could any muggers find it.
It is in such a moment that you happen to find yourself now; facing down something that looks like a small Immaculate temple in a claustrophobically slim alley, which has likely not seen human habitation for years, if the smells are anything to judge by. The temple is less vulgar than some of the other temples that you have seen in Bright Obelisk; replacing silver-inlaid marble with rough, wooden carvings and red-coloured veils hanging in front of the open doorway.
You decide to enter the temple and bid the soldiers wait outside; rankling their noses at the dirty alley. You have not been in an Immaculate temple for years; if the Heptagram had one, you couldn't find it, and the slim vacations that you received were all spent on studying the problems that your teachers gave you. At this memory, you dream the worst of curses up for Mnemon Hakala; your teacher in spiritual contractual agreements, but you abandon the dream with a moment of consideration on the reason that he would probably just break it and give you some dumb, unsolvable problem to waste your time on.
The inside of the temple is surprisingly familiar to you; the temples of Bright Obelisk still follow the standardized rules for temple construction. Now that you think of that, it makes sense that they do so; the geomancy would have to be completely rethought if they didn't, so there's no reason to reinvent the wheel. The temple is quadratic; a square representing the world, in which a circle is painted on the wooden floor. In the center of the temple stands an altar; wooden and decorated with a silver icon supposed to resemble Pasiap. The icon is a little fat man with wide-hemmed robes and wearing a hat resembling that of a minister of the Imperial Ministries. A part of you cynically notes the chance of some bureaucrat with a suspicious resemblance to the fat man on the altar paying for temple construction.
In the corners are four other altars. Each altar bearing a similar icon, although of different materials; wood and stone. Men and women in the semblances of Immaculate Dragons, wooden bowls bearing offerings for the idols; freshly baked bread for Pasiap in the center, perfumes for Mela in the north, flowers and branches for Sextes Jylis in the east, incense for Hesiesh in the south and pure water for western Danaa'd. The smell of the offerings fill your nostrils with pleasant smells and relieve you of the alley outside, although offer-gifts to the Immaculate Dragons seems terribly heretical to you. You are a sorcerer of course, so you're not quite the best judge of doctrine.
Your ears catch on to a familiar sound; a stylus moving on paper. You look around, trying to listen for the source and noticing a small door in one of the walls, leading into what is likely an adjacent building. You approach the door, doing your best not to disturb the altars with your flowing green clothes. You bring up your hand and lightly rap on the wooden surface five times; the polite greeting that seems only respectful in a temple, even one as strange as this.
A few seconds pass and you raise your arm to rap on the door again before it is suddenly opened and you turn your raised hand into a slight wave. In the doorway stands a man, or boy, more likely; pale skin and mousy blonde hair, reaching his shoulders and framing a pair of wide, dark blue eyes indicating northern descent. The boy wears an oversized monk robe, seemingly doing his absolute best to not look like a monk. Judging from memory, he is doing a very good job at that.
He is about to open his mouth, likely to explain himself, but you act first; "So, is it common for monks here to not shave their hair?" You ask with affected innocence. The boy looks like he attempt to come up with several answers at once before finally settling into a fearful, shameful face when he notices your distinctly very Dragon-Blooded complexion and very Dynastic robes.
"N-no, I came here from Danahamaraka!" He stammers with strong northern cues; flat pronunciations and sing-song accent characteristic of that northern satrapy.
"My, you're far away from home." You note teasingly, trying to peek into the room behind him, which he instantly moves to block despite you being a head taller than him.
"I-I came here to become a m-monk, but I got lost and the monk here took me in and taught me," he answers defensively before adding sadly, "t-then he died a few years ago, and now I just tend his shrine."
Ow, that was actually really sad; you feel bad now.
"So what are you writing in there?" You ask in a less teasing tone, trying to change the subject.
"I-it's the Sixth of Descending Water, which is a t-tribute to the northwestern calendar gods at home, so I t-try to write something nice to honour them." He replies, somewhat less defensively this time, before quickly realizing something and barging past you, entirely heedless of your Dynastic status.
He grabs the incense offered to southern Hesiesh and immediately lights it, beginning something that might pass for an improvised ceremony around the altars; the smell of incense filling the air.
It is a pleasant smell, dragging you back through your memories; a trail of incense to walk through the forest of your mind and find some distant thought you left at the Isle when you sailed for the seven spires of sorcery.
You are reminded of:
[ ] - Running in the fields; speaking to Aliset and the smell of smoke
[ ] - Fighting for your life; biting and scratching and the sight of fire
[ ] - Celebrating your journey; gold in your hands and the sensation of warmth
