Dry Eyes (Self-Mod/Open-- Depending)

[Malia]

Malia immediately realized that her opponent wasn’t very well versed in leading a conversation. Closing her eyes for a few seconds, she silently punished herself for overwhelming him with a flow of foreign words. Although he was more or less able to understand her, he seemed to have trouble responding to so many questions. Perhaps she had been too quick to assume behavior that was familiar to her. Instead she should have approached him with care, not only physically, but also verbally and mentally. The mindset of his people was naturally different – possible that their talks revolved around … well, different topics such as the next water source, trade, how to serve guests from other tribes and so on.

Leaning back to bring distance between them, she gave Eshatoh time to get his thoughts and words in order. Meanwhile she was watching the desert, trying not to pay too much attention to him. The feeling of tension she couldn’t avoid didn’t have to be transferred to him as well …

Then the beautiful sound of the Chaktawe’s flute appeared again, suddenly, while nothing else had changed. Or perhaps something had without Malia noticing. Still avoiding to observe him, she silently listened to the slow, thoughtful melody, wondering what it told her. He was a careful person, someone who thought before he acted. Malia appreciated that fact. She wasn’t afraid of prejudices and misunderstandings when being with him. She was a guest, and guests were treated with respect. In turn, she could give respect back to express how grateful she was and carefully listen to him. He could have chased her away as well, after all!

When the song ended, their eyes eventually met again. So he had decided to tell her … a story, the story of his people and himself. Malia gave a fleeting smile. No, a warning could by no means stop her curiosity!

After shifting a bit to make herself as comfortable as possible and removing the backpack from her shoulders, she eyed him expectantly. Her black orbs were full of energy. “I would be honored to listen to your story, and gladly take the role of the audience. You don’t have to worry about length either … There is time enough”, she simply exclaimed. And waited for the Chaktawe to begin.

[Eshatoh]

Eshatoh held her gaze with his for a moment longer, searching for the sincerity of her request, and then satisfied, leaned back and rested against the tree. Where to begin was what he thought on now for a few more moments. Should he tell her of his people’s wandering, begun at the Valterrian? No, that was too early. Perhaps when his parents died? No that would be a story painfully incomplete. And then he decided to begin at the obvious part.

“This flute was the first thing I heard as I emerged from my mother’s womb.” He held the instrument up for inspection. “As my mother gave birth, my father played to soothe her. I, of course, remember nothing of that time, but my mother claimed it was the most beautiful melody she had ever heard.” A rare glimmer of a smile flitted across Eshatoh’s face. “My father told me that my mother’s moaning had been too loud for even him to hear what he was playing, much less my mother.”

The smile disappeared off his face as quickly as it had come. “They both often told me of how I acted that next year—the way I would cry for hours and only could be…” He struggled to find the right word for a moment “… soothed… By this same flute and my father’s playing. They told me of how I would sit for hours with him and laugh as he played funny little melodies to me and then sang them in a voice that I can only say was not suited for such things. Despite all that, I still hated the lessons my father insisted on giving me in the playing of the flute.”

“In the end, they were good for me I suppose.” He laughed harshly. “Sometimes I now think that this music is all that stands between me and insanity. But back to my story: In no way did anything that my parents say, do, or teach make me love them any less. We were very tight-knit. Because of this, we separated ourselves in some ways from the rest of the tribe.” As he spoke, his gaze slid wistfully across the camp just in view some distance away. Even now, late at night, noises came from it: The wailing of a baby, the raucous laugh of a group of boys, and the quiet drone of conversation.

“What you see here isn’t typical.” His voice was almost a whisper now, and his eyes locked onto his audience with a frightening intensity. “The most outspoken of my people would be called hopelessly reserved in the outside world. They have abandoned us. Water has abandoned us. Each tribe of Chaktawe has in a way abandoned the others. I would even venture to say that the gods have abandoned us. And so when we encounter kindness and warmth such as the Benshira show, we go crazy—but it is only for a night. Tomorrow morning, we will play the part of the quiet wanderer once more. We will look back on tonight and wonder how this ecstasy and candor could ever have existed. I will look back and wonder why I ever shared my story and the story of this flute with anyone.” A half-smile quirked across his face and then slowly faded away.

He took a deep breath, pausing to gather his thoughts and refocus. On the story. On his story. On the story of the flute.

[Malia]

Malia easily slipped into the role of the listener since it was something she had done for many, many decades. Being all quiet observation and not sharing her interpretation with anyone, she had seen and experienced many things, both delighting and terrifying, and had survived. Perhaps she was the best listener Eshatoh could get.

The flute … It seemed to mean more to him than just an instrument bought from a stranger. In Syliras, one could buy instruments, but most of them were mainstream productions. Nothing spectacular. While his flute didn’t look any different, there was something about the way he played it … with a special weight. And then she heard that his father had played it before. Suddenly pictures started to appear in front of her deep, black eyes, pictures created by words. She was listening, but at the same time she was experiencing as if the story was happening just at that moment.

He showed her his own birth – which in turn had been showed to him by his parents –, followed by his early childhood … his father playing the flute, trying to teach his son the beloved music, but failing … the young family getting closer and closer and at the same time isolated from the rest of the tribe … Her eyes followed when he observed the assembly of tents, heard the noises the two united races produced. So lively … and all of that only an illusion?

No, she couldn’t believe that. As much as Ionu was a trickster, playing with the minds of people as the mood struck him, Malia didn’t believe that believing an illusion could alter reality. What was real, touchable, always existed. The joy, the talkativeness was there without any doubt. How could he not see it? The fact that he would look back at their encounter and see it as too ridiculous to be true made her sad. Her eyes clouded, her expression darkened for a bit.

Still she prevented herself from saying anything. That was his story. He had to tell it without any interruptions to keep it pure and untouched by outer influences. Closing her eyes to regain control over her feelings, she stayed silent and waited for the next words, the next sentences, until it would be over.

[Eshatoh]

The pause didn't last long before Eshatoh started in on his story, again. "Those lessons... Though my father knew I hated them, he continued giving them anyways. I'm glad, now, that he did. For despite my unwillingness to learn, I slowly learned a degree of proficiency at this instrument. I learned on a wooden flute, pretty similar to this bone one, but I don't have that anymore."

"It was pure chance that my father had it when the Eypharians took him. He had noticed a slight sharpness in the F sharp note and was trying to correct it..."

Eshatoh's thoughts began meandering again as he became lost in memory. "That was another thing about my father. Precision and craftsmanship were his hallmark. Each night he assembled our tent with the same careful diligence, and each morning he took it down. Though other's tents frequently swayed and sometimes even collapsed, ours always stood strong-- almost as steady as the man that assembled it. He also carved various figurines of animals and gave them away on special occasions. They were always highly prized, but my father considered this flute his masterpiece."

"Nobody in the tribe had ever even heard of such a thing when my father returned from a sojourn in Ahnatep bright with ideas. There were many things that he tried that summer. Some in my tribe still tell the story of the exploding hut that he constructed. But one idea stuck with him past the summer, when he had long ago given up on his other projects." He was speaking strictly from memories of his father's stories now, and his eyes glistened under the moonlight with moisture that wouldn't fall. As he continued, his voice cracked. "This flute is the result of nearly three years of effort. He showed me some of the failures. I despised the product of three years of my own father's life. Even I was conceived in only a half-hour." It was a weak attempt at humor and fell completely flat, failing to bring a smile even to Eshatoh's face.

The last segment had become a desperately reeling saga with his voice pitching wildly as he poured out memories. Now he let out a small sigh and took a deep breath, fighting to regain control of his emotions. When he spoke again, it was in a flat monotone. "Then I came along- you've already heard that part of the story. Ten years later, he was dead. Killed by the very people that had inspired him in the first place. Killed by the desert that he loved. Abandoned by the god who's creativity he had embraced."

"I watched as an Eypharian cut down my father. I don't blame him." Eshatoh shrugged and continued with the monotone voice. "He was just protecting the water. Ultimately, it was the gods who killed him." A note of anger entered his voice. "They were the ones who took away the water. They are the reason my father had to be hunting for water in the first place. They killed him. They did!"

By the end, he was shouting, anger flaring across his face. And then, as suddenly as it appeared, the anger was gone. Instead, Eshatoh felt tears welling in his eyes, blurring his vision, but the tears still didn't fall. In a broken voice he finished off, "So that's the story."

[Malia]

She realized that music had been and still was a very important part of Eshatoh’s life. His father had forced lessons upon him, had shown him how he was obsessed with instrument making and playing and then the flute had offered comfort and peace to his hurt soul. Malia could very much understand that, although perhaps not in the way he would expect. She had lost someone as well. She had experienced loneliness and the resulting depressions, dark times without even a tiny sparkle of light. But her life in Syliras had changed that, slowly, but steadily. She had become a true citizen of the city, or rather she liked calling herself that. It helped … in so many ways.

She listened when he spoke of the precision his father had approached every task with. The tent and the flute, the images were clearly visible in front of her unmoved eyes. How his father had sat there and constructed one piece after another to eventually reach perfection and create exactly what he had envisioned. Yes, Ahnatep was a beautiful city that overwhelmed visitors with exotic and interesting impressions. A few days had been enough for Malia – she enjoyed calm and silence more than crowds and a variety of offered wares. Well, except for books maybe.

Then the atmosphere changed. Eshatoh’s father had been murdered by Eypharians? There was something about that Malia didn’t understand, but she stayed silent to let him finish the story. He had been there. No wonder he seemed so … shattered and confused inside. Her eyes widened when he suddenly yelled, his voice filled with pain and charge. At that moment she felt everything he felt, perhaps a blurred and faint copy, but she nevertheless felt it.

Immediately she closed her eyes and backed away from him, almost as if protecting her mind from his emotions. Something wasn’t right about feeling that way. She shouldn’t have lost herself in his story. There was some degree of objectivity that had to be maintained – and she had failed.

But she recovered quickly, if one could call it that. The story intrigued her too much. “You say, the Eypharians came for the water”, she repeated in a voice that was barely audible. “Was there a drought?”

Then she paused, letting the screamed words echo in her mind. What he thought about the gods might be true – or not. One thing, however, Malia knew for sure. “Everything the gods do for a purpose. Nothing is senseless”, she assured him. Although she was unsure whether it would help someone like Eshatoh, she knew that it had helped her. A little bit was still better than nothing.

After another short pause she added, almost apologetic: “Time will heal the wounds. Tanroa cares for people like you.” And me. But she didn’t say that, not yet. Eyktol seemed so far away from what had happened in the Temple of All Gods in Syliras, but still she felt and witnessed the passing of time everywhere. Tanroa’s laws counted for Eshatoh as well as they counted for her.

[Eshatoh]

Eshatoh was breathing heavily, just barely holding back the flood that wanted to be released. He couldn't cry. It would be shameful for a Chaktawe. Instead, he drank in the silence in the few moments it took for Malia to form a reply. He managed to get his emotions back under control but only just barely.

In the meantime, Malia had drawn away from him with eyes closed almost as if he had offended her. Before he could apologize for whatever offense he had given, though, she had moved forward again and asked, "You say, the Eypharians came for the water. Was there a drought?”

This elicited confusion from Eshatoh and then embarrassment. Evidently he had been unclear somewhere, but then, he really didn't have a right to be drawing this stranger into his problems anyways.
"
Then she began her self-righteous preaching, "Everything the gods do for a purpose. Nothing is senseless." A shadow of a sneer snuck across Eshatoh's face. "Time will heal the wounds. Tanroa cares for people like you."

What he wanted to say was something along the lines of, "Who says their purpose is best for me," but he withheld. Obviously, these beliefs were very important to this person, and courtesy demanded respect for a guest.

Instead he answered her question, trying to keep the memories it brought up at bay. "You asked if there was a drought. This desert has been a drought since the Valterrian. And, no, the Eypharians weren't the ones coming for water. We were. The Suli, my tribe, are the scourge of the Eypharian's Oases. We're the thieves, and that's why I can't blame them." He left unsaid who he did blame, instead focusing the attention back on his guest.

"So tell me," he said, gesturing grandly at the land around him. "What brings you to this bit of Vayt's torment." His inclusion of a god who's plan was entirely contradictory to the best interests of mortals was entirely purposeful- a bite at Malia's blind faith.

[Malia]

The slight hint of sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed, although Malia wasn’t exactly sure what got him into that mood. Perhaps he wasn’t one of those who turned to the gods for help. Everyone was different, after all, but she really hadn’t meant to augment his pain with statements based on a different opinion. She hoped that he would forget it soon. Humans sometimes were eager to forget, she had learned.

Her facial features stayed perfectly blank, devoid of any emotion or thought. It wasn’t Malia to flinch at an indirect insult or display of dislike. If people didn’t like her, they were free to stop talking to her and leave her alone for their own good. She had experienced as much and worse. She could totally endure it. However, perhaps the Chaktawe rules of hospitality prevented Eshatoh from simply walking away and avoiding her company. They had started a talk showing respect for each other, and they would end it the same way. Malia didn’t have anything against that plan, but if there were more conflicts, she would leave. She disliked conflict and avoided it whenever possible. Of course, if the opponent had been the one to do something wrong, it was only natural to strike back – but that wasn’t the case now.

After choosing not to comment on his explanations – she wouldn't have known what to say anyway –, Malia gladly took up his last question. Apparently the attention shifted to her own story. However, she had to disappoint him. There was no real story that was meant for Eshatoh’s ears. Not for his ears anyway. Her secrets she kept to herself, although he wouldn’t realize when she left certain things out. She was in perfect control of herself – again, and that was how she liked it. It wasn’t clear whether she noticed the hint about ‘blind faith’ or not, but she didn’t comment on that either.

A shrug emanated from her shoulders. “There is no grand reason. I’ve been traveling as long as I can think. Recently I’ve been living in Syliras, the biggest city in the North, but something drew me away from there as well. I will return … but for the time being I enjoy being away from civilization. Eyktol offers something Syliras and the surrounding region never will.”

Yes, that was about it. Thinking about her next words, she created a moment of silence. “I’ve visited Ahnatep for a few days.” She eyed him carefully, wondering whether he minded her mentioning the Eypharians after he had shared his story.

[Eshatoh]

OOCI'm afraid you just might have gotten yourself into a thread with a total flake. Sorry about this post's quality.

Eshatoh was beginning to notice something about his conversation partner. No matter what he said, her emotions showed little or not at all. The largest reaction she had given him was when she had backed away a few inches and shut her eyes, but even then her face had remained basically expressionless. Her answer to his question showed just as little of herself. After how much of himself he had just shown, it was a little strange.

He looked into her eyes and said, "You would probably make a better Chaktawe than me." Nothing more. No explanation. Given the story he had just told her, she would be able to figure out what he meant by herself.

After saying that, he settled back, leaning on his hands. She had mentioned Ahnatep, probably probing for something, though for what Eshatoh had no idea, so he asked her another question. Keeping the other person talking was the best way he knew to keep a conversation from collapsing into silence-- something he didn't mind but that most other people did.

"Ahnatep... So how does it compare to the verdancy of the cities you must be more familiar with?"

[Malia]

OOCNo Problem! Everyone has bad days every now and then. I actually like Esh's last question.

Malia tilted her head thoughtfully, trying to figure out what he meant. Considering everything she knew about the Chaktawe people they usually were quiet, bordering to ignorance, only meeting up with the noisy and hearty Benshira loosened their isolation for a while. So he wanted to say that she was too quiet, too reserved? It didn’t sound like an offense, although something made her believe it was. However, Malia herself didn’t think of her ignorance as a bad thing – rather it protected her like a shell, gave her the opportunity to see things from a different angle. She was undead which made a difference from being alive – why care to bother with things the living concerned them with? It was of no use.

After a short pause she replied: “Do you realize that I take this as a compliment? I’ve always disliked crowds, loud noises and too many words, that is all.” Perhaps she wanted to be unnecessarily strong. That thought crossed her mind, but she didn’t regard it as really important. Deserts were dangerous, so it was natural. Not that she mistrusted her opponent though.

When he asked his question she was a bit puzzled. Wasn’t it the first time that he actively did something for keeping the conversation alive? Oh, another proof of his un-Chaktawe-ness maybe, but Malia didn’t care. She felt comfortable talking about her traveling experiences.

Her gaze wandered up to the sky where cold, cold Leth was sitting in the middle of the stars. Comparing Ahnatep to Syliras …? “I’ve lived in Syliras before. You can’t really call that city verdant, although there certainly is a difference to Ahnatep. Syliras is, as you may know, founded by the Syliran Knights and a few survivors of the Valterrian. Their mission was to build a bastion, a place of peace and safety, so it was natural to shape the new city with stone and steel. It simply is a giant castle everyone lives in.” She eyed him briefly before raising her pitch-black orbs to the stars again. “In comparison to that Ahnatep is … exotic, luxurious. I’ve never seen so much extraordinary forms of beauty and craftsmanship.” Well, maybe she had, but the memories were still blurred. Better not to mention them, especially in front of a stranger.

She focused on Eshatoh to see his reaction when continuing. “Still I dislike big cities. In the end everything is façade, a glittering shell to beautify what lies within. And considering the amount of beauty in Ahnatep, there seems to be much to conceal.” At that point she paused. Would he understand her view or find arguments against it? Malia was always in for a good conversation … no matter what opinion she represented.

[Eshatoh]

Malia had said, “Do you realize that I take this as a compliment? I’ve always disliked crowds, loud noises and too many words, that is all.” Every word of it only confirmed his opinion of her. Whereas Eshatoh viewed the taciturnity as a negative --despite the fact that to a large extent he represented it himself-- this Nuit exalted that very characteristic. He lived in a culture full of the thing and she came from a land probably filled with the exact opposite. He found it all slightly amusing, though he didn't hazard a grin.

Instead he had asked his question, and listened in respectful silence as she answered. Her last statement rang of truth to Eshatoh more than anything she had yet said. "In the end everything is facade, a glittering shell to beautify what lies within. And considering the amount of beauty in Ahnatep, there seems to be much to conceal.”

He let the words sift through his mind a moment, looking for something he could say. Malia had just inadvertently spoken one of the fundamental truths of his life. Anything he could say seemed insignificant, lacking potency by comparison.

Finally though he remembered a song that his tribe sang.

"The front of this world is a lie
Untruth covering sin
Look through it all to the bones
Look to the hurt through the din"

He chanted it in a voice barely above a whisper, staring at the sand he sat on the whole time. In the moments after the stanza ended, he scooped a handful of sand from the ground and let it run through his fingers. As he watched the sand trickle down, a look of revulsion flashed across his face, and then was gone-- replaced by a glare.


His words were still gentle, though firm. "That was the opening verse to a poem about one of our men who fell in love with a foreign woman. It turns out the woman was a snake in disguise, and only wanted to eat the man; its all complete fiction, of course." He let the silence hang a moment and then switched gears once again. "What you say about cities, it's true, but don't ever romanticize solitude. This desert is every bit as beautiful as your cities." He looked up again.