A gift of you. [Closed]

[Ifran]

a gift of you. Guest Moderation Approval Characters: Dazen Gyre, Izdihar Timestamp: 1st Fall, 511 A.V. Sing to me of the man, O Qalaya, the man of twists and turns Driven time and again off course, once he had plundered The divine depths of Laviku's halls. --Ifran of the North Winds Syna chased her lover from the sky as the Southwinder ship came into view of the jewel of Eyktol. Her first arrows launched from the easterly horizon struck the towers, some still gleaming with beaten gold, others crumbling, pregnant palms nodding sleepily in the breezes, heavy with their hard-shelled fruits. It was a warm and welcome sight for Aru re P'aaleq; not so for his human cargo. The four-armed servant of the House of the North Winds in general and Ifran, its son, in particular, glanced at the Svefra with his usual, unflappable calm. The slippery fish of a man had made several attempts to escape the slavers who had caught him, but not so with his new captor. He was regularly trussed with silken ropes, the better to prevent harm to his skin. Eypharian nobility were picky about their slaves, preferring them unblemished as any sacrifice. But once they were farther from the sea, his goal would be out of sight and, eventually, out of mind. Indeed, Ifran had inspected the Svefra-out-of-water much as a Drykas might potential horseflesh for their herds. Dawn was working toward full morning by the time they docked on the stone quays of Ahnatep, and servants of the Noble House collected Aru and his charge, spiriting them up and into the family's palace. All around, they spoke the liquid syllables of Arumenic, Dazen's steward catching up on the latest or so it would seem. Though no tension showed upon him, he felt markedly more relaxed to know that Sadiki still lived, governing the Noble House and advising the Pressorah. Within the North Wind complex, Dazen was bathed and prepared by various slaves. One might have enjoyed the pampering, but this was not the man's element. When he saw Aru again, his keeper had received much the same treatment, though his personal decoration remained austere as any in the Ano Cult. They were quickly and lightly fed, then back on the road, this time in a silken palanquin born by slaves. A person of quality did not walk the streets of Ahnatep in most cases, nor the gifts and highest servants of such people. Dazen had only had a panoramic view of Ahnatep from the sea, snatches of the opulence of Ifran's home, and peeks through the silken panels that shaded their travels around the city. Their destination, the palatial home of the House of the West Winds, was a sprawling plantation on the edge of town, redolent with the scents wafting from its orchards and fields, some of them tickling and intoxicating, others more healthful and wholesome. His measured Arumenic had them seen in through a side door and left to wait in a sumptuous sitting room to await the Lady, while Aru gave him a critical once over with dark eyes. The barefoot slave had golden starfish painted up his muscled legs, disappearing into a heavy kilt of a delicate approximation of fishing net, wrapped and wrapped for a bit of modesty, though it only left a touch of his anatomy to the imagination. From the low-slung waist of the kilt, his body was covered in sand that stuck to him worse than a roll on the beach, the honest sand embellished with glittering mica. Only his honest jaw and open face were left without artifice, his skin scrubbed clean and oiled with unguents to prevent his years of sun and sea spray from desiccating his skin. Blue eyes like that needed no augmentation, the treasures of Laviku. He remained bound, though only a fool would flee now. The Eypharians had ways of punishing runaway slaves that left no permanent damage upon their hides. No doubt someone had informed Dazen of that fact. All the same, he was now bound by fine fishing wire, which could well cut into his skin if he was stupid, but Izdihar was a soft touch, or so Ifran had said. She would beguile her slave into loyalty. He was sure of this. It was known. "You will be obedient," Aru said in careful, correct Common, his words methodical and inexorable, as if he were trying to fit all the nuances of his native tongue into the lesser language.

[Dazen Gyre]

Bound up anger. If someone had to describe Dazen from meeting him at the point of his capture and his progress along the way to Ahnatep, these would be the simple three words that they would use to describe his attitude and the look in those eternally blue eyes. This Svefra didn't have the skills nor the abilities to properly escape without notice, but he did have sheer determination and nimble fingers to pick his way out of the simple restraints that one of the first set of his captors had used on him. Unfortunately, the young Svefra had no way to know how to properly evade his captors other than ducking down and walking really quietly and slowly; these methods would normally work in an escape plan, to someone who knew what they were doing, but he left far too many clues to his general direction to make any sort of successful escape. It would take Dazen's captors mere minutes to find the lost and confused Svefra, groping for freedom and finding confinement. It was only a matter of time before the young Svefra was restrained by someone who knew what they were doing, but the restraints that were around his arms and legs (and tied in a very odd way, Dazen thought) were softer than regular rope. He had never seen rope like this before in his short time in existence and it was rope that he didn't enjoy; he couldn't budge it one inch from around his wrists, no matter how hard he tried. Along with the new ropes was a new person for Dazen to glare at, though they seemed unfazed by such childish displays of anger. The words that fell from his lips were in a language that Dazen had never heard before, but it was nice to hear - even though not a word of it made sense in his head. In retaliation for his wrongful treatment and imprisonment, he resorted to speaking in his own language to himself. His throat growled and barked out with curse words and profanities that would make his Lia red in the face. A boat trip like no other, across waters that were unfamiliar to him, ended in a place that Dazen thought to be nothing more but an endless beach. There wasn't much time for sightseeing, however, as he was ushered away with the smooth-talking man that was his escort up to a giant house that housed the men and women with more-than-average arms. The slaves that striped him, bathed him, and scrubbed his flesh as if it were a dirty kitchen floor, had the normal amount of arms but they were far from friendly with the Svefra. Years upon years of tanned skin, of hair braided by brothers and sisters, of small pieces of jewellery made by other pods as a gift to the Gyre pod were torn away from him, forcibly. They treated the extraneous accessories of Dazen like garbage and tossed them away. While one slave held him down to remove bracelets, rings and other signs of his past, the other slave would take the discarded things and disappear with them, never to be seen again. His hair was trimmed down to a more acceptable level, his facial hair brought more in line with what was expected of a slave than a freeman. Dazen wasn't stupid and remained relatively still when one of the male slaves brought the razor to his face and expertly removed every sign that Dazen had ever grown more than a day's worth of hair on his cheeks and strong chin. The oils and waters and the loofahs used to clean his skin made Dazen's skin feel striped, bare and raw; he had never been bathed like that in his entire life. If he ever needed to be cleaned he'd hop off a ship and take a dive in the water. There was no need for the fancy smelling liquids or water that had petals of flowers in them to make him appear clean to his family. The slaves weren't done with him after they cleaned him and gave him women's clothes to wear, they decorated him like a child decorates a new found seashell. Almost as if they were mocking him, starfish were painted on the now clean and hairless legs of the young Svefra in golden paint that didn't come off when Dazen scratched at it. In contrast to the tattoo that spiralled around his left arm from the tip of his shoulder down to his elbow, the mark of his Tavan; no matter how hard the slaves scrubbed, that ink was permanent. Thus to enhance the beauty of that art, they decorated it with sand with an unnatural glitter. The dress that he was given to wear felt weird, and felt ... wrong, once more, as the slave that put it on made sure it was firm around his waist and left it as it was. That was that. A woman's dress hugged his waist and barely covered up the parts of his body that the bathing slaves were most delicate with in their preparations for his journey. After a most thorough cleaning, Dazen and his escort were fed some food of the multiple-armed-sand-people - food that Dazen steadfastly refused - and again were once more set in motion. More slaves with dour expressions escorted them somewhere else in this strange city. While they had proximity to water, the air around Dazen smelled ... dry, wrong. He felt that every breath that he took the simple act of exhaling stole water from his lungs, water that belonged in his body and not to the air around him. Dazen and his escort were brought into what appeared to be a casual or receiving room, with the man sitting down comfortably as if belonged with these people. Dazen's blue eyes narrowed as he looked to the man as he switched to heavily accented Common. The tone of which, as per Dazen's impression, was an adult speaking in a condescending tone to a child. The man wanted obedience? Dazen's lips pulled back in a snarl as he spit at the man's face, hoping for this act of disobedience to land on the escort's lips. "Taste like obedience to you?"

[Izdihar]

“What is this?” A fresh water voice inquired from the door way. Arumenic hung heavy in the parlor air, complex intonations knotting together an expression of curiosity, disapproval and dismay like oyster pearls in a necklace. The lustre was the speaker’s alone, the embroidered hem of her silk wrap dress dripping against delightfully bare feet as they stepped onto the thick carpet. “Aru?” She greeted on one side of the syllable and questioned on the other, unconcerned for what opinion might think of her instant recognition of a Northwinds servant. Aging daylight pushed through the windows, catching upon a dozen things to glitter, but glowing best in the noble daughter’s gilded flesh as she held herself still in patient expectation. The day had proved long, already hallmarked by the occasion of a slave purchase that morning. The announcement of a visitor from the journeying Ifran’s house had caught Izdihar off guard. There existed no formal understanding between them, but Ifran was nevertheless the only man of Ahnatep whom, in the subtle feeling out of her suit, Izdihar considered thus far to be worthy of her ambitions. Disappointment had panged when he had departed their ancient city, but no one would have ever known. Her work, after all, had been accelerating in both the ball rooms and the back halls. Now she stood gazing upon what was clearly an Ano creation, glorious and artistic. Stunning, really, but it would be gauche for her to show that aspect of her reaction. Oasis eyes met the anger-clouded sea of Ifran’s queer.. Gift? Messenger? She blinked, still waiting.

[Ifran]

If the slave expected anger from the Eypharian, he would be disappointed. Members of the Ano Cult had ice water in their veins that didn't boil even for the hottest desert days and most offensive gestures. Instead he turned at the sound of a familiar voice as a flower to the sun and bowed low, if not as gracefully as his master, then at least with an equal precision. "Forgive me, Radiant One," he greeted, the fluent Arumenic mere music to Dazen. A quick swipe of a handkerchief removed all signs of the Svefra's defiance from his face, and once the handkerchief was gone, all was perfect again. "I come from the City of Illusions with two words from my master: Another pet." The word for pet and the word for pearl were similar, and so inflected and modulated per Ifran's careful dictation that the message she might receive was that familiar image of a string of pearls, the man before here merely another in a rosary, a subtle bead of living gemstone upon which she might meditate in an expected litany of gifts of increasing value and complexity. "His people name him Dazen," he said in his own words, indicating she might name him as she please, indeed, dispose of him as she please, whether to adorn her home, take to bed, or loan out to some Southwinder whose ship needed assured safety at sea. "He retains the wildness of the sea about him, but should be broken or cossetted at your pleasure. My master also bade me inquire as to the health and growth of your previous pet."

[Dazen Gyre]

What was even more irritating to Dazen was the lack of response to his defiance. There was nothing that he could tangible fight back with if no one responded to his anger. Instead he was ignored like a child as he stood there like an accessory in the room, a living statue. The conversation between the woman and the man happened in that funny language of the mutli-armed people of the sand and Dazen knew nothing of what they said, even when they mentioned him by his name and looked over in his direction. Dazen's eyes were lost to the window of the room as he looked out to the sky beyond the balcony. There was no hint of water from this vantage point and with that lack of a comforting image, Dazen's mind recalled the salty smell of the sea at his feet and running over his hands. Now he was covered in sparkling sand and painted like some decoration. Perhaps that was his new destination, to stand around this house and just look nice? With his eyes lost in the window, he didn't immediately notice the silence in the room as the two pairs of eyes were looking in his direction. Did they address a question to him or were they simple gazing at him and the intricate paintings on his legs? He glanced over his shoulder to catch the fleeing gaze of the others in the room that were, maybe, looking over to him. "What?" He said gruffly as he was about to fold his arms over his chest but stopped short once he realized the sandpaper-like decorations that adorned his body.

[Izdihar]

Realization lit Izdihar’s face, catching on the artistry of its components like light glinting off reflective waters. She glowed at Aru as she spilled from perfect waiting pose into action, moving deeper into the room to dust a kiss to the servant’s cheek. “Kwasitz is doing spectacularly,” she told him. “Tell me, how is Alvadas treating our Ifran?” The question hung in the air as she stepped away, circling around the slave like a playful wind. She rocked to a halt in front of Dazen, face turned up and her smile illuminate. When she circled, she inspected, a discerning eyes weighing every aspect of this latest addition by the Northwinds to her treasury. “Hullo, Dazen,” she greeted in heavily accented Common. Water color eyes met his, holding that endless, burning blue with delight. “I am Izdihar of the Westwinds. You look glorious, but you must be uncomfortable. Aru, honestly, free his hands.”

[Ifran]

He murmured an idiom that amounted to I am not worthy at the bare brush of her lips against his cheek, bowing at the honor. He was the mere son of a slave despite his rank within the Cult, and if there was a bit of a resemblance between him and certain members of the House of the North Winds, well, it was often said that pets and men began to look one akin to the other. He hesitated at her order, but only for a moment. He did not balk. Instead a knife came out with a slithering hiss and, with an expert tug, Dazen's bonds fell away, the silken cords caught up rather than allowed to drop to the floor. There were no words of warning now. If the Svefra slave moved to harm Izdihar, there would be no question; Aru would plunge the knife in over and over and over again until the slave's blood gushed out in a mortal tide. It would ruin the carpets, but it would reflect most poorly upon him for not keeping the slave in line and upon Ifran, who could not find good help to see to his chattel. "If the sand cat thrives, so too must the Svefra," he said, his own Common a strange fusion of gutter talk and ivory tower academic. "Slave, meet your new mistress, Izdihar of the House of the West Winds. Your life depends upon her good favor. You would do well to cultivate it; I've my knives, but a woman cuts deeper and leaves the soul to bleed."

[Dazen Gyre]

The freedom from those foreign bonds brought a small smile to Dazen's beautified face. The small gesture was enough to elicit the flash of his white teeth from behind that small grin as he looked to the woman in front of him for a moment as he listened to the words of warning. Dazen gently massaged each wrist with the other hand, the defined muscles snaking up his arms bulging and slithering under the tanned flesh. His eyes settled on the woman and the words that flowed from her lips were not the delicate and almost sing-song words that were spoken in her own native tongue. Compared to that unknown language Common sounded so ... common. His eyes darted over his shoulder for a moment to look at the man - the escort, the guide - and the words of warning that repeated in his mind again. Would this be an appropriate time to turn on his charm, to try and woo this woman into liking Dazen with the hope that she'd see the torture it was for him to remain so far away from the water? His tongue gently pressed between his lips as he turned his attention fully back to the woman in front of him as the corners of his lips tugged up in a sly little grin. Dazen looked down to the way he was decorated, the little details that were painted and sprayed on him to rub in anyone's face that looked over to him that screamed 'Svefra, this one!' A casual flick of his deep blue eyes went back to the form of the woman in front of him and the three arms on either side of her body. To Dazen she looked alien, weird, and completely out of place. How could a woman with that many arms be as efficient and purposeful as a female Svefra that worked with 1/3 as many hands? But in order to impress this woman, this ... mistress ... Dazen kept those internal thoughts to himself and didn't let one of them slip past his mind as his face conveyed nothing but admiration, if a little embarrassment. "In comparison to you, Izdihar," His pronunciation of her name perfect, "I am nothing but a mere puddle of mud compared to the glory, depth and utter delicacy of the seas that is the beauty standing before me." And perfectly on cue, there was a slight and barely noticeable reddening of his cheeks.

[Izdihar]

“You must think me miraculous,” she remarked drolly, what with him being a Svefra comparing her to his beloved seas. Humor lurked like a gossamer veil over her face, transparent and decorative, more of a tease than a mask. She did not believe it for a second. Her lack of faith was no reflection upon Dazen’s ability to dissemble. Izdihar of the Westwinds had little reason to trust the intentions of man. Further, she had witnessed this slave spitting in the face of precious Aru, cagey and smoldering within his bonds. The fact that he chose to compliment her with a tongue that might have been worthy of an Eypharian salon displayed intelligence, not cowardice or humility. That was pleasing. Izdihar had no use for stupid slaves. There were enough of those already. And he was pretty, wasn’t he? Desire was coupled with equal parts defiance and intellect to know well enough when to bow. There were many and more noble and Gilded ladies of Ahnatep who, finding themselves physically attracted to a creature such as Dazen who was so plainly in their power, would not hesitate to take him to bed. Izdihar was not such a lady. Rather she considered it beneath her, even unworthy of her lineage, to make bedfellows out of those who did not wish it themselves. This could be kindness, a glimpse past the paint. It could also just be arrogance. Like anything else with Dirames’ daughter, it was nigh impossible to ascertain as fact. Time alone would tell. “Aru, please convey to Ifran my delight over his thoughtfulness. The kiss, of course, was for him,” and dimples winked for the Northwinds man.

[Ifran]

Aru was too composed to groan at Dazen's attempt at a glib compliment, and as Izdihar accepted it with all good grace, he could but do the same. If Dazen switched tactics to deal with the flower of the Westwinds, he had no doubt that the diminutive beauty was well capable of seeing through him and dealing with him. Aru's warning had been in earnest and as much for Dazen's future survival as maintaining face for his master. "It shall be so conveyed," he said in Common as she had set the tone and the language. "His water is yours." And a Svefra likely had more water within him than a common man. But Aru stepped back, the better to allow Izdihar to peruse the gift and get to know him if that was her wish. Elsewise he supposed Dazen would be relegated to exotic tender of the swimming pools, looking nice in his netting while Izdihar lounged on a chaise longue with something cool and intoxicating to drink. At least, that was how he imagined most of the ladies of her Noble House. This one, he suspected, was different. It was only logical, and therefore it was known. Her possible concupiscence set aside for the moment, Aru watched.