Many Paths to Many Truths [Kassan]

[Liar]

70 Spring, 512 The old man fell suddenly into the night, stumbled over the steps beyond the open door, and hurtled to his knees on the hard stone street. A door slammed, and the sound scattered like birds through the narrow lane. Another man staggered after him as he recovered quickly to his feet, despite his apparent age. Dressed in the dark flax of a slave, his left arm was wrapped in a crude bandage. The man who had thrown him wore a thin crimson shirt and the hands of a blacksmith. He grabbed him again and shoved his property away from the door to his home, into the far wall. Leaning against the opposite wall, the slave tipped his chin silently toward the stars, his face still. His skin was darker than a Nykan’s; he wore it like soft leather, wrapped around thick threads of once-powerful muscle. His master approached and so his head dropped to bow, but his tone was less than humble as he said, “I must apologize for my insolence—” He seemed to have expected the strike that followed. He braced for it, and hit the ground with practiced care. The standing man saw that he did not rise higher than to sit, staring dutifully at the ground, and was satisfied. Through a slurred and furious tongue, he declared, “See if I let you back in tomorrow... granted you aren’t taken away before then.” And he returned to his home.

[Kassan]

The night was a contemplative one. Kassan walked the empty streets, drinking in the darkness and thinking on the past. He had reason enough here. Uphis had given him a purpose in life. He had picked him up off the streets of Yahebah, from the life of a scrounging urchin, to the life of a noble monk. The world was full of strange changes in circumstance. As he rounded the corner he heard something move. A deep voice, and then the sound of something being hit. A door slammed loudly. When his eyes became accustomed to the sight, the door shut, light blinking out, leaving a figure in the darkness, head tilted to look up at the moon. He blinked, moving closer and noticing the man's dark skin. Was he from Ekytol? He certainly didn't look Nykan. His garb... he was a slave. Kassan bristled. It was a topic that frayed his nerves, touching them and blossoming into pain and agony. He tried to calm himself, so that his voice did not sound too gruff. "It's not safe to sit around on the streets at this time." He would find out a little more about this situation, if only to help break a cycle that sickened him so violently.

[Liar]

The slave turned his head to the new voice, slowly and without alarm. He stared at the monk for a long moment before he moved again, never straying to the sigil on Kassan’s chest. He seemed to consciously refuse the fear it could have invoked, though his success was another matter. He pulled his back to the wall again, complacency twisted over his tired mien. “Isn’t it? I’d forgotten.” His eyes moved from the monk’s face to the sky again. Above the meager streetlights that ripped into the darkness around them, the stars swam bright and bold in that sea of black night. When the old man spoke again, his age cracked through on his stretched throat. “Most everyone in the world sees that sky, night or day. Chances are, you look at one star and there’s someone else looking at it, too. If you can share a star with a stranger, why not a drink, or a city?” He sighed. They were, arguably, the words of a witless man, and he seemed to recognize as much. Still, he did not lower his eyes. One man could see dejection there, where another might see hope. “Suppose this means I’m breaking curfew.”

[Kassan]

This man was drained, something of his soul taken in the process. The dejection was clear; a hopelessness beneath those dark eyes. The way he looked at Kassan and nothing else for a moment was unsettling. He followed the man's gaze skyward, eyes falling on a star in that dark sea of blackness. It was a strange thought... but a true one at that. "But we do not share them, do we?" he said, the tone of his voice making clear it was not a question he was fishing for an answer with, "They are there to look at, through so many different eyes, and so many different perspectives. To share, surely you must own. Can anyone own the stars, I wonder?" And if this man was a slave, what did he own? Kassan remembered his own journey, in that tumbling caravan across the dry sands. He had owned nothing. A name, perhaps, but little more. It was not about the material possessions, not really. It was about owning a path, owning a destiny. Back then, there had been no chance of that. Now he held his glaive, daggers on his belt, knowing they were symbols of Uphis' strength. "I won't argue the technicalities of the code we follow here. But yes, you are in the streets beyond curfew."

[Liar]

The man nodded. “Well you’re welcome to send me back inside, though it may take some persuading with the boss. You’re also welcome to take a seat.” His hand gestured to the hard stone beside him. It was no different than the piece on which he sat, and yet he offered it nonetheless. Any place you can sit is a seat. “You may not own a star, but you may own a scrap of land. You may not own your food, but you may own a man.” He chuckled as if it were a joke. Only then did he look down at Kassan. “But pardon, ser. You, of all people, cannot speak to me of ownership.” There was a twinkle in his eye, something like knowing. But then he went on. “You do not own the clothes you wear, or the bed you sleep in. You don’t even own the great deeds you do. The city lent them to you, and the Celestials. When you die in their service, your things will be shared with the next generation, and you will not be remembered, except as a meager part of some bigger, more terrible system.” He was unafraid of the inevitable punishment, it seemed, ready to suffer for the sake of a few misspoken words. He looked back at the stars, searching for one in particular. “You own nothing but your pride.”

[Kassan]

Kassan's eyes lingered on the man for a moment, before accepting his offer of a seat. He settled down, half perched, half seated, glaive still held upwards in one hand. The man's next words startled him. He turned, sensing something strange. The slave spoke as if he... as if he knew Kassan. He shook his head wildly, knowing that was impossible. "I am owned too. By Uphis. In fact, I think everyone on Mizahar is owned in some way." When the man went on, his face scrunched. The words were sour and bitter, and Kassan growled, frowning at them. He would be remembered. For this was being. This was not the nothingness of his enslavement. This was not the empty resonance of scrounging on Yahebah's streets. "Close your mouth," Kassan retorted, clearly rattled. He stood up again from the floor, hand clasping around the glaive and moving it in front of him. He did not intend to use it. He had self control. But he did not like the words this man spoke - he did not like the insinuation that all of this amounted to nothingness. "I was willing to overlook the breach of curfew. I'm not a mindless animal like some of the others. And yet you dare to sit there and insult me." He quietened as he came to the end of his tirade. A thought had struck him. The carelessness with which this man spoke could only mean one thing. He was a man that had nothing left. Nothing left to lose.

[Liar]

His head, heavy against the wall behind him, finally turned from the stars to look at the blade before him. “And you will use that against me, who has hurt you with nothing but words. That is what pride is.” A chuckle escaped him, rumbled through the street on a thousand whispering echoes. It tried to be brazen, but instead it revealed his hesitance, and the emptiness in his words. He turned to meet Kassan’s eyes. An observant pause confided the slave’s trust in this stranger, this monk. He did not believe he would be punished, and that assurance softened his tone. “You say you are not like the others, and yet you are just as blind.” He looked south and eastward, toward the invisibly distant Flaxen District. “It is easy to call yourself honorable, when you do not have to look dishonor in the face. Your slave market is full of deceit, disguised as gold. And the ruling monks call it business.” It might have seemed as if he had forgotten his company by then, staring at apparently nothing, but then his words turned where his eyes did not. “It is one thing to have made the choice to submit to a god; it is another to lose your mind to the cruelty of Nykan slavers.” A sigh ensued, inside a twitch of a smile. “But you wouldn’t know, would you?”

[Kassan]

Pride... Was he prideful? Kassan had certainly never viewed himself as such, but the man's words struck a chord nevertheless. He thought deeply, softening his aggressive stance somewhat. The slave market. He knew it existed; of course he did. And he hated it, a passion that burned deeply in his soul -- but what could he do about it? The Mother City had trafficked people for long enough, it was a tradition engrained in everything around him. He wanted to rip that patch from the tapestry of Nyka, but he feared he'd never be able to stitch it back up again. "I have not lost my mind." This time he did not growl. The words met the air with a calm neutrality, and his eyes looked straight ahead, knowing he spoke the truth. When the man sighed, he gave off a glint of that knowing smile again. Too much. Too much knowing. Kassan moved his shoulders about, shifting his balance to one side, clearly uncomfortable. "What is it you think you know? Because the way you speak shows me you are clueless. The things you say. The ideas you profess. If only you knew where I came from -- perhaps that would humble you."

[Liar]

“Forgive me; there is pride in us all,” the man replied stiffly. “I know nothing. That is what they taught me there. I know nothing but service. I know nothing but obedience. They made me say it so many times, but I told myself it was worth it. She called me... she called me Manure, because of the color of my skin.” He laughed again, then swallowed as he remembered briefly where he was. “No, sir. You are not the one who has lost his mind.” He looked up at Kassan with sad, half-mad eyes. His mouth hung as if he were debating whether to speak, even after so many previous transgressions. A cloud seemed to move over his eyes before long, the idea lost. He looked away, settling his gaze almost longingly on the monk’s glaive. “They said they would come back for me, you know. They said they just had to recoup before they could stage another attack, but I know what happened. The world had already seen my face, the slaves and the slavers. When I lost my mask, my anonymity, I lost my place among them.” The moonlight shone in his eyes, caught on fresh tears. He did not look away from the glaive. “Your past is irrelevant. You have so much to be thankful for, and so much ahead of you.” He was avoiding the question. “Do you know where that thing came from?”

[Kassan]

OOCSorry this is so very late - my exams are finally finished! The man returned his retort with an equally stiff response. Kassan watched him carefully, still prepared to restrain him if the need arose. Yet, deep down, he knew he would not end up fighting this man. There was something this man wanted to say to him -- though it was becoming muddied by his riddled statements. When he spoke of servitude, Kassan blinked heavily. He had not actively served as a slave. His rescue had come during his transportation. He could not think on that since serving Uphis did not compare to serving another man. The slave began to cast his gaze upon Kassan's glaive. The monk's heart began to thunder as he listened to his words. They resonated, evoking memories of his escape. And a mention of a mask... Kassan's head snapped round, staring at the man squarely once again. "It was given to me. A legacy." He swallowed, restraining himself so as not to grab the man. "You know, don't you? You know what happened to me? You speak as if you do, at least. Please. You must tell me." Kassan could not prevent the desperation that creeped into his voice.