Completed Language Barriers and How To Break Them

[Sal Mander]

Day 16, Spring of 514 A.V.

At the grand old age of five hundred years, the Bharani Library was often a surprise to first timers. In place of dark and dusty interiors filled with ancient tomes of knowledge and almost even more ancient librarians, Lhavit's grand library was anything but a stereotype. The building itself was more fitting a prince perhaps, with fine palace like architecture and decor. If there was a speck of dust to be found, it kept well hidden from the white robed assistants who maintained and upheld the library's immaculate image.

Sal always felt a pang of excitement as he ventured through the grand doors, manned as they were by a pair of Shinya guards on either side. He had been coming here since as long as he could remember, the thousands of books and maps the starting point for so many adventures, journeys and expeditions. As much time as he could spare was invested under the crystal roof of the library, and he recalled how he revered the Seekers and envied their own expeditions to the far reaches of the world in search of knowledge. He wondered if one day his own search would take him beyond the safe reaches of those pages and parchments, instead off into the world to seek his own worthy additions the library would be proud to call their own.

For now he had to remain content with Lhavit where he had promised himself to remain for a while more yet. Recent events would have him move on soon enough. But first, he decided, he would hone and further his skills. So it was the young man had been coming to the library as often as he could lately, in some ways a seeker himself. For some, the daunting prospect of so much knowledge at their fingertips was enough to scare them away. But Sal was in heaven. He always was the bookworm of the family, his eldest brother being the performer while his second brother had chosen the work of the blacksmith. For Sal, there had never been anything that drew him in as much as books. His mind was thirsty for them, tearing words from the pages with keen eyes and digesting them with a gluttonous fervor.

Moving from one row of neatly piled books to the next, Sal had broken his usual habit of knowing beforehand what he was there for. Today he had allowed himself to wander, glancing at titles here and there until something grabbed his attention. He lingered for a moment on Baltar Rowe's Concise Bestiary of Fyrden, wondering if the author had any interesting insights on the low world and its denizens that Sal found so fascinating. Fyrden was a place that he had read about before, though by no means did he have any incline towards becoming a summoner himself.

[Cassandra Southwind]

As the man searched the thick brush of occupied tables, he passed a young woman glaring intently at a book through kohl-stained eyes. Her head rested heavily in her hands, her fingers wrung through a wild mane of dark blonde hair. She smelled of the sea, having washed in it instead of any proper bathhouse, and her rough spun clothes had clearly been worn a number of days straight. She loomed dirtily over the pristine tome and its crisp bindings, opened only to one of the first few pages. A sigh of frustration escaped her just as he passed, though she did not seem to notice him at first.

The book, though its spine was now face down on the table, had been titled Seasonal Stargazing: Spring when she had first pulled it from the shelf. It was the subject of her very first assignment in her very first class on the academy. A classmate had suggested this book might help, so she rolled her eyes ungraciously and ran off to find it.

The problem now was finding that information between the pages of strange, foreign marks in Lhavit's strange, foreign language. Who knew how much reading was involved in learning? Cassandra had begun by opening to page one, as it goes. Then she began to read,

"Throughout the ages--"

But that seemed already like irrelevant exposition, so she skipped down to,

"This text will elucidate--"

And, finding a word she did not recognize in the least, skimmed the page until she found a simpler, smaller looking paragraph. But even though that one proved to contain words too ornamental for her taste, it seemed important. So she read it a few times over.

"Though many cultures have assigned names and stories to various groupings of stars, it is first essential to understand that these celestial bodies are not only very far from Mizahar, but also very far from each other. Constellations serve as a convenient cultural storybook, full of rich history and anthropological nuance, but ultimately they are fallacies of a geocentric perspective. They are valuable tools for a novice stargazer, but should never be considered rules of astronomical law."

By the time the man had crossed before her table, she had attempted to read it at least six times. After the sigh she looked up and rubbed her eyes angrily, shooting a look of contempt at him if only because he was the first person she saw.

"You petchers think you're so smart, with your old books and your useless book-rooms." Lacking a word for library, the Fratavan language simply combined two relevant sounding words to describe it. Cassandra reached down to her bag to pull out a roll of paper and a piece of charcoal, persevering with a plan to write down and look up the words she did not know. As she came back up she mumbled to herself, expecting him to be gone again. "I know where you can put your books."

[Sal Mander]

Sal had been performing an accomplished job of keeping to himself in the library, as was the preferred code of conduct by most of its visitors. It was not uncommon for conversations to spark up at tables and along various aisles, but even then they were conducted in hushed tones as though exchanging closely guarded secrets, for fear of invoking the wrath of the prefects. For the most part, the only sounds in that fine and wondrous hall were the shuffling of feet and the occasional clearing of a throat.

So it was that Cassandra's initial outburst caught poor Sal off guard. But it was her unforgiving glare that did more to send the man reeling, on the inside at least. His grasp on Fratava was by no means expert, but poor as he was speaking the seafarer's tongue, he deciphered enough to feel the lash of her cutting remarks. He had just been there at the most inopportune moment, but that did little to sooth the sting.

The svefra woman was foraging in her pack for something, an ideal moment for retreat indeed. But Sal found himself immobile as he watched her, drinking in the details of her ash and kohl covered eyes that attempted to obscure ultramarine orbs. Her hair was cut at the shoulder in a haphazard manner, perhaps by her tongue Sal mused, sharp and cruel as it had shown itself to be. But at once he thought himself unkind as a ripple of guilt passed through him, deciding instead that perhaps the woman was just having a bad day.

By the time he had reached that conclusion along with his quick appraisal of her features, he realized he was still stood at her table. Cassandra had re-emerged from her pack and, seeing him there, offered another choice set of words on the subject of re-homing books. Taking that as his cue, Sal retreated to an adjacent table, sending his book to the wooden surface with a thud. He began leafing through his chosen text for the day, but try as he might, he could not bring the focus required to consume Baltar Rowe's unorthodox and pretentious style. Instead, he found himself distracted by Cassandra's words which he rolled over in his head. Petcher, he repeated again and again, as though in doing so would rustle its definition free. But try as he might, he had to conclude that it was a word he had never heard before.

There was a sense of foreboding as he calmly rose from his chair, approaching the svefra woman as one might approach a poisonous snake. In that instance, he might have gone armed with a long stick and a sack. He might have felt safer with either right now, but he reminded himself that it was not as if she would try to kill him. Probably.

Stepping back to his previous spot before her table, he waited a moment for her eyes to meet his. When he had her attention, Sal's brain had chosen this precise moment to confuse his Fratavan words. What should have been, "What is a petcher?" came tumbling out in his horribly unpracticed accent as, "You are a petcher!" As if unsatisfied that enough damage was done, his brain saw fit to add, "Ma'am."

[Sal Mander]

Cassandra rose, gave Sal a thunderous look, before her hand met his face with a resounding slap. In the quiet of the library it echoed down aisles of shelves and across the wide concourse of tables and chairs. People looked up in surprise, seeing a tall man reeling from the stinging attack, while a shorter lady stormed out of the building in apparent fury. Even the Shinya at the door took a step to one side, not daring to impede her exit. While one cheek was noticeably red from the impact, the other did its best to catch up as embarrassment lit it up with a crimson tone. Aware of the eyes upon him, he slunk back to his own table and pretended to continue reading his book, fuming inside at what had just occurred. Frak me. She hits like an akalak he thought, nursing his sore cheek grumpily.

He became aware of a figure now stood at the table on the opposite side. Raising his gaze, he noted an older man, hunched slightly and sporting whisps of white hair above his ears. On top had long lost any such notion of hair, instead sporting a random collection of blemishes and what seemed like liver spots. His face had as many lines as any of the books in the library, his skin not too unlike the parchment those words sat upon. Those creases moved like waves of the ocean as a wide smile split thin lips, narrow beady eyes of the brightest azure peering down at him. They seemed youthful and out of place on that old face, but loaned a certain friendliness to him. "Women troubles eh?" the man asked, his words crackling out like dried lives underfoot.

_____"Let's just say we did not share the same taste in literature," Sal replied, a hint of humor in his tone. The old man chuckled, before dragging back the chair on his side of the table.
_____"You don't mind if I take the weight off my feet for a moment do you?" Though the question was rhetorical, Sal gave a nod in any case. The transition from standing to sitting seemed quite the undertaking, as the man descended in a series of well thought out maneuvers, pausing momentarily between each as if taken a quick break to reassess the situation. Finally, after what seemed like a few minutes, he settled into the chair and, deciding he was comfortable, returned his unique eyes to look upon Sal once more.

[Sal Mander]

"The problem with women," the old man continued, "Is that we men will never understand them." He stared off at a point in the distance, as if recalling there and then a multitude of examples that illustrated his point. Quite the opening statement indeed, though Sal found himself hard pressed to disagree given recent events. But was it true though, that men and women were too dissimilar to ever really understand one another?

His own mind searched back in time for his own examples, trying the old man's theory against them in an attempt to find out his own answer. His mother seemed the obvious place to start, having essentially been the longest serving woman in his life. Whenever he thought of his parents, it always came with a mixture of pride and sadness. The first came from the knowledge he had now looking back, realizing from hindsight and the wisdom that came from age just how lucky he was to have had the parents he did. Their teachings, many of which were foreign and unattractive to him as a child, gained sense and reason the older he got. This is turn led to the second thought of sadness, in that he only wished he had made these realizations earlier in life.

Just one chance to go back in time and simply say, "Thank you."

That they were gone now was a sadness in itself. It served to magnify every single time he took them for granted, yet likewise he held them all the more dear in his thoughts and heart because of that. Deep down, if he really dared to admit it, he knew they knew he was grateful. But could he say that he ever really understood his mother? Growing up, she had just been, well, there. It was never something questioned as to how or why, just that she was. Hungry? Go to mum. Need to tell someone the dog pooped inside the house? Go to mum. Want to show someone the figure you just made out of twigs and sticks? Go to mum.

Her ever presence as a child growing up was as secure and safe as one could be. Father was the authoritarian, missing for large parts of the day with that strange entity called work that pulled him from the family, but mum was the foundation, dependable and strong and unwavering in her leadership when it came to training and marshaling the troops. There were times of course when those very soldiers entertained mutinous thoughts, wanted their leader to be relieved of command with misinformed notions of knowing better. But such rebellions were always short lived, as reason returned to the fold and a hug and your favorite supper always put things right.

The other women in Sal's life came in different guises. They were unique and exciting in their own ways, presenting more of an adventure than the security of a mother's love. A mother loved without question, while new women coveted their love. It had to be earned, some harder than others of course. With age, those women proved even more different, as the perspective of a young teenager began to shift and shape into a young man, bringing with it those first fledgling steps into the prospect of intimacy and beyond that companionship.

Sal had come close on a few occasions to extended companionship, but it always proved that each adventure came with a new set of perils. Sometimes the match was evidently not a good one, while others were harder to admit defeat and let go. He had not taken long to realize that different people wanted different things, and finding two that agreed on the same was not as common as one might have felt. Among his friends and colleagues, he noted that despite the labels of marriage that some of them clung to at face value, behind the scenes the image of happiness had been just that, an image. Some were more brutal in their condemnation of failing relations, ending in some awkward situations where friends felt they had to choose between a splitting couple. Others were able to remain friends despite their parting of ways at the intimate level. Then there were the success stories, where the love between two people was such a force to be reckoned with that it traversed the stormy waters of life with such purpose and resolve that it gave others hope that their time might yet come.

Yet, despite every story of love, loss, hope, victory, defeat, heartbreak, and all the cracks in between, one fact remained true. Men did not understand women. It was a thought echoed and lamented by all of his friends despite their various ventures into the world of the fairer sex. Even those who seemed to have it all figured out, at one time or another had reported that they simply did not understand their wives or girlfriends. It was usually the source of much jovial commentary and theorizing in taverns and inns the world over, a topic where men from different walks of life could come together and find common ground. It was one of those things in life that was just taken for what it was, and would always be as such. It was not as if one day they would commission some grand investigation to once and for all solve the mystery.

Because, deep down, despite the frustrations that all men shared, perhaps the simple and comforting truth was that they were never meant to understand women at all. Was it not, after all, that mysteries solved tended to fade in their appeal once their magic had been dispelled?

Sal's train of thought must have taken him off in a daydream for a while, for as he came to, the old man had been mid-sentence about some woman from his long past. "Wise she is, beyond any stretch of the imagination. Older than that other lot, though she doesn't contest with them bunch anymore." Sal of course had little idea what the man was talking about, but he nodded and listened politely as the fellow went on.

"A woman of such beauty, she could bring you a stunning sunrise one day, or those serene orange sunsets the next where they seem laced with silver and gold. But she gave it all up. One day, when that fellow came and ruined everything. She gave it all up to save her own mother's life. Can you believe that? Parent should never have to bury their own children. I think of that when I think what she gave up. Not the same as burying her, but still, to see your daughter diminished in such a way."

He stopped to reflect for a moment, allowing Sal a moment of his own to catch up. What did the old man mean? A daughter who had given up something to save her mother? A beautiful woman who commanded the skies in some way. And who was the fellow he spoke of, who came and ruined everything? It had a certain familiarity about it, though Sal could not put his finger on it.

"Now we know her former greatness in small pieces. You can find them and cultivate them you know, forging that memory of greatness into something new and real. Something you can hold in your hand. It's all over the city too, but then of course you'd have to be blind not to see it."

Hang on a second, Sal thought, his mind ticking boxes of his current theory. Is he talking about Zintila? Going over the evidence in his head, it did seem a watertight suggestion. Zintila, who had saved her mother from the wounds afflicted by Ivak. Ivak! That same god who had marked him only days earlier. Zintila who once heralded in the day and night skies. The same Zintila who lived now in Lhavit, her skyglass fashioned into the buildings and roofs of the city, that took on its remarkable second nature come nighttime, whose own skin glittered with a hundred stars and hair black as the darkest night sky whose own stars had been blotted out.

"Well, that should do it for now. Man can't stop for too long, or he might stay stopped for good," he chuckled, as he began the process of rising from his chair and readying himself for departure. Sal sat there still going over the facts in his head. He might well have just asked the man if indeed he had been talking about Zintila all along. But there was that mystery again. What if he did ask and the man said no? The mystery would fade as the curtain was pulled back. No. He much rather preferred to think that he was right, for no other reason than the fact that it was pleasing to him to think about the Alvina and how she watched over the city. Watched over it like a mother. Dependable, loving and always present.

As the man set off from the table, he stopped momentarily, turning back to Sal with those piercing blue eyes. "By the way, your fratava needs some work. You called that woman a petcher." His face cracked open with the widest of grins, accompanied with a chuckle as he set off once more. Having heard 'petcher' spoken in the common tongue, it jolted his mind to realize exactly what he had said, and just then his face reddened as though Cassandra had only just delivered her menacing slap.

I am the petcher, he admitted defeated, though it was not too long before he was able to smile to himself about it after all.

[Brandon Blackwing]

Sal Mander

XP Award

• Socialization +1
• Rhetoric +1
• Deduction +1
• Observation +2

Lore Award

• Language: 'petcher' in Fratava means 'petcher' in Common
• Language: Accidentally turning a question into an insult
• Parent <-> Daughter story: Semele and Zintila?
• Women: Mysterious creatures men aren't supposed to understand

Notes
Heh, an amusing read, though it was a pity Cass bailed on you so soon. I'd have loved to see her reaction, though the situation probably would have ended in the same way In terms of skills, there wasn't much to award, but I can say this at least: nice work Sal!

Cassandra, your grade has been withheld due to inactivity.

Please edit or delete your grade request in the request thread.
If you have any questions, concerns or comments regarding your grade, please send me a pm.

credit goes to Adelaide Sitai