Hyperbole and Honor [Hirem]

[Edith]

Year 514
20th day of Summer
13th Bell

"Where have you been; what have you seen?
Eyes of the river,
Ears of the clay figure
Do tell, what have you seen?"
 
Edith sings as if every word is ground out with a handful of salt and gravel, but she sings it happily; dancing around the Terra Cottage with a set of decorative plates in her hands. Each of Garob’s beautiful creations are set on the shelf with auspicious care, centered perfectly on it's display. 
 
"Were have you been; what have you seen?
Does the wind have teeth,
The mountain feet?
Do tell, what have you seen?"
 
It is rare that Edith should be in such a mood. She hasn't sung since she was a little girl, and definitely not in the last few years. But the afternoons hearty meal, an earlier encounter with a soft, friendly dog and the extravagant praise from the Master for her earlier sculpting endeavors have culminated into a fragile, cheery buzz that sizzles away in her mind. She is happy. And not the kind you can find in the company of another, or the bottom of the glass, but a kind of inward-facing contentment that everything is ok. And it really is. For the first time in a very long time, everything is ok. 
 
"Did the needle wink it's eye,
Did the feather fly?
Did the sound of the birch's bark
cause rain to miss it's mark?" 
 
The bell above the door gives a musical chime. And with a friendly efficiency that Garob would be proud of, Edith spins on the spot, smiling demurely for the customer "Welcome to the Terra Cot-". Her rough voice catches in the back of her throat and deflates on her tongue as she sees just who it is. 

[Hirem]

OOC :

Hey, do you think you could bump the date to the 20th instead? I've got a thread already set for the 18th.

Like a slow descent through the sky, buffeted by the soft embrace of the clouds, Hirem realized that he was falling in love with Riverfall.

It was a peculiar feeling to have, one that he hadn't expressed to himself for almost a full decade. His nomadic lifestyle of the past prevented him from growing too attached to specific places, and a yearning to travel, to wander, had inevitably conquered him whenever he tried to make a home for himself. He just couldn't sit still; always, he had felt that Yahal had been beckoning him to leave the place that made him comfortable and journey into the unknown, or else he was ousted from is home by his own maddening sense of duty. Besides, there wasn't much in Eyktol that he could consider home: Ahnatep was too grossly lavish for his own tastes, Yahebah brought back too many painful memories for him to live there in peace, and both cities considered him a criminal within its walls. There was safety to be found on the open road, but it didn't allow a lot of room for attachment to develop, to people or to places.

But Riverfall was different. Here, Hirem could catch his breath and bask in the glory of the Akalak city, that dared to conquer its hostile surroundings and create peace in this otherwise fractured world. Here, Hirem could rest his head and be assured that water would be filling his parched throat come the evening, that food would be easily found in the markets, and that sleep would be offered to him on his twice-daily made bed. Life was comfortable here, even accounting for the fact that his place of employment was a rowdy tavern that was constantly filled with patrons that would rather stab each other than drink alongside their fellow man. The beauty of the city was enchanting, its noontime music of singing, dancing, fighting, exercising, and working creating a delightful melody that Hirem, adverse to cities as he normally was, found utterly compelling. But, more than anything else, the Benshira admired the spirit of the people - the Rivarians didn't stop to ask questions, but instead made their mark upon the world with the strength of their arm and the sureness of their convictions.

He felt more at home within this city than he had in Eyktol, the land of his birth and the realm of his beloved Yahal. And while his soul would forever belong to the foundation of the desert, his heart could at least delight at the wonders of Riverfall. This city also happened to house the first friends that Hirem had made in over four years: men and women such as Natalia, Edith, Atoll, Alyra... all of them served to embolden his spirits and make him take renewed interest in the practice of living. Just a few days ago, Kavala, the leader of the Cytali, had told him that he would have to learn to settle down in order to establish himself within the organization, that he would have to create a new home before he could become fully devoted to the cause. The idea of settling down within Riverfall... filled him with happiness, for he truthfully could not picture a better home while he learned to control and master his own growing potential. This is a community that I can picture thriving in... while this was never a city I might have imagined myself in, to think of leaving it so soon fills me with despair.

It was the thought of settling down that started to make him consider buying pottery of some kind. After all, that is what normal people do when they intend to make a home, yes?

And so it was that Hirem found himself in front of the Terra Cottage a little after noontime became in RIverfall, his morning shift at the Rat Hole completed. He walked stiffly, still sore from a few bruises he had incurred throughout the day, but he had received nothing that demanded immediate medical attention. Rubbing his exhausted shoulders, the Benshira stared at the storefront intently to make sure that he had understood the map correctly, and that this was indeed the place he had been searching for... and decided that he was being silly, for what kind of shop would put pottery upon the walls of its exterior if not a pottery shop? As he stood outside the Cottage, Hirem could swear that he could hear a voice echoing quietly from within the building, singing a merry song that seemed to complement the sunshine raining down from above. Smiling quietly to himself, Hirem walked forward and entered the shop.

Above him, the bell that rested above the door tinkled merrily. Almost immediately upon setting foot in the Cottage, Hirem was greeted with that same merry, singsong voice that had been enjoying the day, cheerily welcoming him to the shop... before suddenly stopping, catching in its breath as if it had seen a ghost. The Benshira was too slow to realize what had caused the disturbance, his eyes, even as they turned to face the clerk, lingering on the finely made pottery that littered the storefront. When his gaze finally settled on the employee of the cottage, he realized why the poor girl had given a start. He was also startled, ashamedly so, by the sight of her familiar burns, marring the face that might once have been considered pretty. Edith, he thought, wondering stupidly what she was doing inside the pottery shop. Memories of that fateful evening earlier in the season flashed through his mind, a haze of blood and pain and anger obscuring the details of the night.

It was silly to think that, since the fight at the Docks, he had seen Jaye around town much more than Edith. It was silly because it made no sense to him; Jaye was the woman that had so openly defied a desperate plea for help, demonstrating that same arrogance that Hirem had so loathed in the Akalak drunks, whereas Edith had bravely risked her life in order to come to his defense. In almost all respects, he had considered Edith to be a woman of true virtue and valor, and had wanted to find her in the aftermath of the brawl... but had failed and then forgotten to do so. He remembered delivering his first preaching, and seeing those dark eyes staring attentively at him in the crowd - and also remembered watching as Edith summoned up a magic spell in order to free herself from Jaye's grasp. I mistrusted her after that, and only because she was a sorceress of small power. If I am to - he paused, still finding difficulty in processing the idea, - learn magic myself, I cannot be so easily prejudiced against witches. Besides, she was only doing it to protect herself.

Realizing that he was probably being very rude by just staring dumbly at her face, Hirem gave her a respectful bow of the head. "Edith. It is... very, very good to see you." He offered her a wide and happy smile, trying his hardest to look past the distracting scars and stare into her eyes. "I admit, I had trouble expecting you here. You work as a potter, yes?" He glanced at the walls of the establishment, wondering how much of the work was contributed by her. "H-how are you? Did those drunks come back to find you?" Taking a deep breath, he glanced back at the door to check if they were alone, and then looked father into the shop. No need to embarrass the poor girl in front of her boss. Thankfully, she seemed to be alone in the Cottage. Stepping closer to her, he spoke in a low and deep tone. "I... I owe you my thanks, Edith. That night, you threw yourself into the fray to save me, and ended up attacked yourself. That was a... most regrettable event. Without you, I might have been beaten to death. You have my dearest thanks."

[Edith]

"Edith. It is... very, very good to see you."

That bright, fragile bubble of contentment fractures at the sight of the familiar, massive figure darkening the doorway. And, surprising herself, her first impulse is to demand he leave. But why? He was nothing short of heroic last time they met. The man is faithful and brave and kind; one of the very few she admires. Why is every part of her mind screaming at her to avoid him?

"Oh Preacher, your face", she mumbles in lu of greeting, her eyes caressing the angry pink lines of healing scars. "And to think you used to be so pretty", she teases lightly, trying to smile but only producing something that might be a grimace of sympathy.

She notices him staring at her face in that strange way he does. She's seen interest, pity and revulsion of varying degrees when she smiles or the cords of her neck escape her blouse. But nobody has ever looked at her like that. Like they recognize the scars. Who do I remind you of?, she wonders.

And then she realizes just why she doesn't want him here. Because she doesn't want to know who she reminds him of, or where he has been, or what he does. He is a threat to this little corner of normality she has carved out her herself. He carries his bones like they cause him pain, his beautiful dark eyes have seen some terrible things and his scars have some horrible stories to tell. If she wants to claw her way to comfort and normality then she has to avoid the extraordinary. And she can tell this dark, wind-burnt and road-weary man has the innate ability to wash away everything she has worked for with just his words. She remembers how he made her think as he preached the stories of Yahal, how he piqued her interest and planted the seed of curiosity. This fragile, comfortable life will disintegrate if faced with any sort of passion, wonder or uncertainty.

She turns her back on him for a second to put down the remaining plates on the desk behind her. Using this moment of privacy she takes a deep breath and buries this feeling in the furthest corner of her mind. I am a grown woman and this man is a friend she spits internally, berating herself. And thus recovered, when she turns back she smiles at him for the first time. She is happy to see him after all, she's just not happy to taste the thrilling poison he brings with him.

"Oh, yes... I'm an apprentice potter here. And no, the drunks never came back. You, ah- took care of them very well", she says, as a mental image of the red Akalak carrying his arm like a twisted marionette hangs between them like a corpse on a gibbet.

Just then he steps closer and his voice drops into the pitch men use to convey threats and sincerity: "I... I owe you my thanks, Edith. That night, you threw yourself into the fray to save me, and ended up attacked yourself. That was a... most regrettable event. Without you, I might have been beaten to death. You have my dearest thanks."

"What, you mean right before I was knocked on my ass and needed rescuing myself?" she laughs nervously. "You're quite welcome. And thank you for jumping in to protect me, without you, I might have been beaten to death by a Kelvic child in a pixie dress", she says, deploying humour as a defensive tactic against the overwhelming honesty of his thanks. But the gesture feels hollow somehow. Like she's cheapened his words. She takes a deep breath and makes the effort to look him in the eye.

"I'm sorry. You just... surprised me there. That means a lot to me, and you have my thanks as well. You're a good man. And even if you don't think that sermon went very well, remember that you whipped those men into passion just with your words. The wrong passion, mind, but if you learn to control it you could be amazing."

The scrape of a wooden stool across a wooden floor rolls out from the back rooms of the workshop, and the soft sound of beaten leather sandals herald the Eypharian owner of the Terra Cottage. The red-headed man brushes aside the curtain that leads to the back room and is halfway to the desk before he realizes there is someone besides his employee in the room. Of his six arms, two are occupied with his Kelvic cat that he holds over his shoulder, two juggle an expensive gold leaf vase and two are crossed over his abdomen.

Upon noticing the human and the Benshira standing by the shelves, Garob takes in the sight and eyes the space between the two, which is too close for a stranger, yet too far apart to suggest a close friendship. Edith breaks the silence with the necessary social introductions, still somewhat flustered by the disarming honesty she has forced out of herself.

"Oh, Master Garob! This is Hirem-", realizing she doesn't know his last name, she clears her throat and continues, "-purveyor of Yahal and an acquaintance of mine. Hirem, Garob: my master and the best potter this side of the void."

Despite her dark complexion that might have, generations ago, stemmed from the south, Edith never inherited the blood feud that the desert dwellers all receive at birth. She is not even aware of its existence. But she does notice that split second of hesitation before the potter disentangles his folded arms and holds out his right hand to shake.

"Pleasure to meet you, Hirem. Please enjoy your visit", the Ephirian nods politely.

Correctly interpreting the unspoken air of tension in the room, Edith's gloved fingers snake around Hirem's left wrist and gives him a pointed tug.

"Come on Preacher, let me show you my work ok? I need someone to impress."

[Hirem]

"Oh Preacher, your face" Edith coos upon seeing him, making Hirem want to take a sudden step backwards and shield his features from view. The scars aren't that deep, he thought instinctively, his hand reaching up to trace the gashes that trailed across his face like a winding road. His calloused fingers, well used to the feel of bumpy and leathery skin, feel the familiar ridges of the still-healing scars and wonder if they must look startling to others unknown to him. The memory of the night he received the injury was still hazy in his mind, but he at least remembered the intense feeling of pain that had shot through his entire body when the box slammed into his face, the agony caused by the splinters of wood shooting across his cheeks and neck. What if these never heal? He wondered briefly, a foolish thought that nevertheless overwhelmed him with the idea. What if I am to bear these scars forever, as a sign that preaching is not a path meant for me? Giving the thought some contemplation, Hirem eventually came to dismiss it. Yahal is fond of using indirect means, but I doubt he'd ever resort to using drunk Akalaks to carry out his will.

It was strange for his scars to be pointed out by Edith of all people, Edith whose scars were undoubtedly the worst and could only have caused all manner of trouble in her life. What burned her? He wondered for the hundredth time, his gaze getting lost in the ravines of her faded suffering. Was this from an accident as a child? Or are these scars from a more fresh time, scars inflicted by a more terrible mistake? If I am to question my god's will after being struck simply by a box, I can only imagine the crisis of faith that Edith must have endured. Hirem, using his common sense, knew that others would take offence if he stared at their injuries for too long, but he could not help himself - the Benshira had always been fond of gossiping about the burned, diseased, and the maimed. And, strangely enough, the poor woman didn't flinch or try to cover up her face from his gaze, but instead met it boldly head-on... she had no fear about what he saw in her features. Why? he wondered, racking his mind to determine what he had done to establish such trust. Is it because I sought to defend her at the docks? Is she unused to receiving such aid?

"And thank you for jumping in to protect me, without you, I might have been beaten to death by a Kelvic child in a pixie dress" Edith said, snapping Hirem back from his mind into reality. Though it was clear that Edith's nervous response was a reaction to him being so frank in his gratitude, he found that the joking attitude she adopted with him was endearing. Too long I've been without mirth in my life. Nine years wasted without merriment must be repaid with ninety-nine years of laughter. He broke into a quiet smile at the mental image of Jaye, the frustrating horse Kelvic, wearing a tiny little dress and speaking in a comical voice.

But Edith continued to speak after a few moments, slipping into a much more serious and sombre tone. "You're a good man." She offered, and Hirem continued to smile that private smile of his, though now the humour in it had switched to becoming hollow and self-derisive. Poor girl... you would not say that if you knew the full truth of who I am. The compliment was touching, but he could not accept it in good conscience, knowing that one act of kindness amounted to little when compared to his many, many sins. That will not stop me from continually attempting to be a good man... but never will I say that I am a good man. Her other words were similarly emotional: "And even if you don't think that sermon went very well, remember that you whipped those men into passion just with your words. The wrong passion, mind, but if you learn to control it you could be amazing." At this, Hirem wanted to laugh, his eyes twinkling as he stared into Edith's own gaze. Sometimes it is better to fail at inspiration than to conjure up the wrong passions, poor girl... I've caused enough killing because I was attempting to 'control' my preaching. When the reaction to one's preaching was only outrage and violence, the preacher had to consider one of two options; they were either revolutionary, or a false prophet.

False prophet...

It was then that Hirem understood why Edith looked so familiar to him.

Before he could speak, however, the master of the Terra Cottage entered the front room, interrupting whatever thoughts had been flowing through the Benshira's mind. Hirem sucked in a breath of air when he realized that Edith's boss was an Eypharian, becoming surprised once more at the presence of Eypharians within the city. Again? Was my disastrous meeting with Rosela not enough for these conniving gods? At least this time, the man that watched Hirem as warily as the nomad watched him was not overflowing with the arrogance of position. Instead, he looked refreshingly humble and polite. And, surprisingly enough, Hirem did not feel that same overwhelming urge as he had with Rosela to speak to this man and offer his services to him... perhaps Rosela's influence was awful enough to make Hirem forget his dreams of redemption? "Pleasure to meet you, Hirem. Please enjoy your visit", Garob offered, and the Benshira reached out to shake his hand. "Likewise," he murmured back, bowing his head respectfully. "Av-berkaven, wise master."

Then, suddenly, "Come on Preacher, let me show you my work ok?" Hirem gratefully let himself be pulled away by Edith to examine some more pottery, all the while keeping his gaze averted from both the Eypharian's face and the burned woman's. He refused to look at Garob for fearing of catching the dreaded look on his face, while Edith he looked away from for fear of slipping into the grasp of hated memory. The ruin of her face looks so much like Savra's... Trying to quell the rising sense of disorientation in his stomach, Hirem spoke out. "I heard you singing from within," he began, attempting to sound light. "I can only hope that this work will get me to do the same... though you might not like the result, my voice has grown rusty over the years." Though his words were humorous, his tone was flat. Inside his mind, all he could think of was the dreadful events that had plagued him in the past, and his own desperate attempts to prevent them from overwhelming him. Get a hold of yourself! He kept crying out. Get a hold of yourself!

[Edith]

"I heard you singing from within. I can only hope that this work will get me to do the same... though you might not like the result, my voice has grown rusty over the years."

"I think I have you beat, old man. No matter how much sand you inhaled on your travels", she laughs, lowering and flattening her voice purposefully so she rattles like a rusty gate. "And what work is that? I always assumed you were a traveler, possibly peddling stuff to keep you going" she shrugs. Travellers are a rare breed. A elite few who can walk from one end of the map to the other without getting molested by the local monstrosities on a land designed to chew you up and spit you out. Gods knows what they do.

The man is staring at the lines of pottery and lacquerware on the walls, his eyes bouncing around the room in a transparent attempt to keep his eyes off something else. Between Garob and herself she's not sure which makes him more uncomfortable. His attempt at conversation is weak and flat, and wether it is the hot, dry air or something else, she can see tiny beads of sweat rise from his neck. What is wrong with him?

No, she reminds herself, I do not care. Normality will be preserved.

And thus the moment of truth. Does she call him out on his strange behaviour and either embarrass him or dig up something he'd rather not see the light of day? Or let it go and continue this line of tea time banality while the elephant quietly sit in the corner? Edith is, at her heart, not an honest person. While she has never pursued the deception employed by politicians and snake-oil salesmen, her early life was spent behind a thin mask of desperation and obfuscation none the less; as her mother paraded her in the kind of circles their kind were not meant to touch unless through the gloves of a servant. So how can she promote honesty when she herself would not? Oh ye hypocrite.

Pottery, she decides, is the safe option. Somewhere in her mind a stronger woman calls her a coward. She ignores her.

"So, were you lured in by my melodic talents or were you after something?" she asks as they step through to the next room. Her work is grouped alongside Garob's masterpieces, and she points to some of her better works as they pass. Thanks to Garob's guidance and extensive quality control her novice works are beautiful, though sturdy and utilitarian compared to the masters elaborate pieces. "Perhaps a clay pipe? Handsome jewellery? a candleholder for the light festival? I could make you a custom piece of anything you want at a discount, as well, for my novice standard", she nods. Business mode. Garob would be proud.

[Hirem]

Edith was not worth this, Hirem continually remarked to himself as he struggled to keep his increasingly fractured mind under control. She did nothing incriminating, nothing guilty, to trigger these crippling thoughts. She is only trying to laugh and get comfortable with me, and for her sake as well as mine, I should be able to surmount these damned memories. He had thought that he had grown stronger than this, that the troubles placed upon his mind had been cured by the balm of purpose. What need do I have for fretting about the past? I now have a future to look forward to! By all rights, thoughts of Savra and Hai should be the last thing on his mind, pushed far, far away into the abyss of memory. But they kept crawling back up into the light of day, tormenting him continually, sinking their claws deeper and deeper into his flesh. All he wanted was a chance to sit in a normal store and talk with a normal woman like Edith, and live free of the fears from his past... why was it so difficult for him to achieve?

To relieve his exasperated mind, the Benshira tried to focus on what his friend had to say, in order to exorcise the demons from his head. And, thankfully, her first statement turned out to be appropriately hilarious: "I think I have you beat, old man. No matter how much sand you inhaled on your travels". Surprising himself, breaking free of the prison he was already starting to build around his mind, Hirem's face broke out into a silly and wide grin, a deep chuckle resonating from his open mouth. "Old man?" He repeated playfully, folding his arms and staring down at the dwarfed Edith. "You think that because I am sore and ugly, that makes me old?" He hadn't ever been confronted with a taunt based purely on his age before, and he found the idea too ridiculous to consider seriously. I - I cannot be old, just yet! Edith is surely playing around with me. There's no way I can be considered old. No earthly way. Though the concept of being old didn't truthfully offend him, there was some fear to be had when he considered the fact that he might have wasted nine precious years of his youth chasing a foolish, misguided crusade.

Her other comment also made him laugh: "I always assumed you were a traveler, possibly peddling stuff to keep you going." The Benshira's eyes twinkled as he shook his head, face lit up with mirth. "Me? Peddle? Sorry to say, my friend, but I have not the heart to deceive men and women into buying useless junk." He tried to imagine himself as one of the countless trade merchants he had met over the years, desperate to sell something in the otherwise unprofitable land of Eyktol - he couldn't accomplish this task. It was just too unlike him. Taking a deep breath, Hirem leaned back and rested his weight against the store counter, trying very carefully not to break anything with his clumsy steps. Already, he could feel some of the tension he had felt earlier begin to dissipate, bled away by Edith's biting wit. It's all alright... just a moment of panic, nothing more. I can keep this controlled. I am the master of my own emotions. Taking a moment to let some of the laughter building in his chest deflate, the Benshira turned his attention back to Edith's earlier question, "And what work is that?"

And, to be honest, he wasn't sure which type of work he was referring to. The comment had just flown from his mouth without a second thought, and now he was forced to strain to consider what he had been feeling when he said those words. Certainly I was not speaking of the Rat Hole, for that tavern would never, in a million years, manage to make me laugh and sing. Eventually he realized what subconscious thought had arisen when he had first made the remark, and nodded his head slowly. "The work is... the work of Yahal." He glanced over to Edith, matched his gaze with hers, and then looked away. His eyes traced the row upon row of fine pottery, maneuvering around the curves. "Not necessarily preaching, though I hope to attempt it again in the future. But I am sworn to accomplish his tasks no matter the form they come in or the danger they pose. If he asks me to fight for him, I will fight. If he asks me to preach his word, I will preach his word. And if he asks me to..." he gestured at the nearby pottery, unable to grasp a word that referred to the craft. "As I said, I can only hope that this work gives me the same joy that pottery gives you. And even if it does not, it matters not to me, for my happiness is not as important to me as the work itself."

Then, abruptly, Hirem shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. "So pottery, yes?" Clasping his hands, the Benshira stared around the shop and tried to figure out exactly what he was looking for. "Honestly, I am not sure what to request. I came here looking for an ornamentation, a trinket of some kind... something to say, 'This is my home and I am planning to stay here'. Perhaps an urn?"

[Edith]

”You think that just because I'm sore and ugly, that makes me old?"
 
"Oh, gods no" Edith holds her hands in front of her in surrender. "But those wrinkles make a convincing argument", she teases, eyeing the invisible lines on his face. The fact that Hirem is responding to her lightheartedness makes her perceptibly relax. He seems to be getting more comfortable with her by the chime, and while she still doesn't know why she bothers him, that fact that he can look past that makes her happy.
 
And he's not a peddler, hmm? Well that is one more stereotype to cross of the list as untrue. He seems to find something funny in the question, which embarrasses her with what she sees a her astounding naivety. She has so much to learn.
 
Hirem leans back on a display table, the picture of ease- though she knows that cant be true. She stands in front of him with her arms folded, appreciating the diminished difference in hight. While she's not large by any means, she is taller than the average female, and much taller than the Konti's that take up so much of the population. Being loomed over by another human who happens to be built like a draft horse is not something she is used to.
 
"The work is... the work of Yahal", he explains with a tone she cant quite place; is it devotion? Resignation? Love? His explanation of what it means to do the work of Yahal seems to consist of following this deity into anything, even danger, because of a sworn oath or responsibility. He is willing to give up any hope of happiness for the word of this god. She remembers that night on the dock, where he let himself get beaten to a pulp because he would not resort to the violence to counter them. At the time she thought it was his conviction and his strength of character, and it still is, but she sees something cold behind it. He didn't protect himself because his god wouldn’t want him not to. The thought makes her heart constrict. 
 
"Your happiness is very important", she hisses, perturbed. "Besides, there is a point where devotion come back around to be self-serving. Do you expect something from him that will make it all worth while?" Images of all the stupid things she did for her own family flashes through her mind. All the second hand abuse she suffered to keep her mother going and to keep her paper thin dream from splitting at the seams. "It probably wont happen, Preacher. You're putting your life on hold and in danger to run after an elusive thing that may or may not want you. And he's a god-dammed god, he certainly doesn't need you."
 
There is a loud, ringing silence as Edith realizes what she's just said. The indignation burning behind her eyes flickers out like a candle, and her hands clap over her mouth as a dark shadow of mortification pools in its place.
 
"Oh, no, I didn't mean that, I'm sorry. This is your life, and I'm a stranger, I didn't mean to comment. I'm just a wh-" she coughs on the word like she's choking on it, "-potter, what do I know of gods and devotion?"
 
Oh dear. Not for the first time, she wonders if morphing can be employed to escape into the floor and vanish. She just questioned the religion of the only man who's purity and devotion she trusts. Oh dear oh dear. She flees to the only neutral topic.
 
"Ah, yes, right- a urn you say?" she rasps, shaking off her last comment like water off a dog. "I can do that. Tell you what, since you are going to make Riverfall your home now, you'll need a housewarming gift. Allow me to make your urn and it'll be my gift to you, ok?"
 
She has no intention of letting the man pay. If he is indeed making his life here, he needs at least one housewarming gift. And it's so rare that she has anything to give, so this thought warms her some. But she cant really afford to pay for one of Garob's pieces, so she endeavors to make one for him herself. She’ll settle payment with the master himself.  
 
"This way", she pulls him off the table by the wrist in much the same way she steered him out of the Ephyrian's presence.
 
At the front room she speaks briefly with Garob explaining her intentions of taking her friend to the back to craft a custom piece. She gets a grudging yes from the master, but he demands to see the finished product before it's in the kiln. To Hirem he says: "Please don’t touch anything. Almost everything back there is either wet or delicate. I trust Edith to take responsibility of you."
 
Edith takes the responsibility with a smile and a nod, and leads the Preacher past the curtain into the back rooms.
 

[Hirem]

Of all the things that Edith might have said in response to his explanation of following Yahal's will, what she actually ended up exclaiming took Hirem by surprise. "Your happiness is very important", she practically growled, making the Benshira's eyes flare open. His whole body, standing straight and tall, shifted so as to better accommodate her outrage, shrinking back against the counter. It would seem comical to any outsider, this large, burly man shriveling underneath the emotional response of a woman much shorter and smaller than he. I knew that she had an inner fire, he thought to himself, remembering the night at the docks and the way she had thrown herself before the trio of drunks, but... those seemed to be especial circumstances. I never imagined that same fire could be unleashed by - by a simple confession! All at once, he was both fearful and intrigued by this woman, who managed to surprise him thoroughly every time they met. When I first saw her, I saw a poor burned girl that was interested in hearing a sermon on Yahal... now I understand that same burned girl to be a fighter, a witch, a potter, and made of sterner stuff than most.

As for the actual nature of her reaction, Hirem didn't know what to think. On the one hand, he was touched that she cared so much for his happiness. On the other.... she seemed to be enraged by what he had said, and he felt that it wasn't just for his sake that she got upset. On a basic level, she was unwilling to understand what he had expressed, or else just fundamentally disagreed with his devotion to Yahal. He sensed that if he had said the same about worshiping another god, no matter their domain, she would have reacted just as strongly. "Besides, there is a point where devotion come back around to be self-serving. Do you expect something from him that will make it all worth while?" Her words served as the most potent accusation his faith had yet received in Riverfall, and he couldn't tell if he appreciated the challenge or not. There was something buried within her, something buried deep, that made every word become tinged with self-loathing, as if his mistake was one that she had already repeated and was determined not to repeat again. He longed to open his mouth and combat her reaction, yet could not find the will himself to speak in the face of her onslaught. Better to remain silent and absorb it all, for fear of missing crucial details.

But he didn't gain much from this approach, for Edith's emotional response dried up before he could blink. In a matter of moments, she went from challenging his beliefs to apologizing profusely for the indignity, the fire in her whisked away by the morning breeze. "It's alright," he murmured to her, his voice soft and his expression reserved. While her face and body had been bursting outwards with an honest truth, that had been seething from the depths of her soul. Hirem kept his features tightly composed into a mask of neutrality. He wasn't offended by what she had said - his faith in Yahal was strong enough to endure such basic questions as those, after all - but more concerned for why Edith had seen fit to express herself in that way. What could possibly have rendered her so jaded when it comes to worship of the gods? What reason has she been given to be offended by their presence? He wondered if she blamed the divinities for her burns, cursed them daily for being unable to save her... he would likely be doing the same, in her position. The words, "I'm just a wh-potter, what do I know of gods and devotion?", saddened him a great deal, for even simple potters could become the strongest of a god's followers.

Following Edith quietly into the back room - again touched that she would go to this extraordinary length to provide him with a suitable gift - Hirem struggled in his mind with what he could possibly say to her. A cowardly part of him wanted to let the matter drop into the ocean and watch it become buried by the tides of time, but he could not be satisfied with himself if he did that; there was an urgency in his soul that demanded he speak, demanded that he try and better understand who Edith was. To busy himself while he worked out his response, the Benshira took special care to find a resting place for himself that would not put any drying pottery at risk of breaking. Eventually he found an unoccupied spot on the wall that looked comfortable enough to lean against. Folding his arms and turning his bright gaze over to Edith, he watched her quietly as she began the necessary preparations to begin working with pottery. His lips were pursed, his brow was furrowed, and he seemed to be deeply lost in thought... though his eyes were constantly alert and trained upon her figure. Eventually, he took a deep breath, and bowed his head. "In the Burning Lands, we have a saying that I have placed much importance on. You know of mirages, yes? They are illusions upon the sands, that trick men into seeing what they wish to see when, in fact, there is nothing but empty sand. Many have lost their lives chasing after mirages... but, at the same time, when you are alone in the desert and out of options, the only way to learn if a mirage is real is to follow it."

"I follow Yahal because I have to... it is what I am. Understand that Yahal does not demand my lifestyle of his followers - the Benshira have been praying to him for hundreds of years, and my people have managed to thrive and remain content. My decision to act and preach this way is my choice. I do not imagine that my god will give me something as a reward for my faith, for faith is what he expects of me. And I do not think that he needs my help; you are right, he is far too great to depend upon the likes of me." Keeping his arms tucked over top of each other, Hirem leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes drifting from Edith to stare lazily away, as if into the distant desert horizon. "But worship in Yahal does provide me with its own reward: strength. I know that my path is correct, because I believe that it is correct, that Yahal himself has guided me to where I need to be. When I close my eyes and imagine the road that my god has sculpted for me, I know that there is no way I can fail him, so long as I keep to faith and continue practicing that most important art of hope. Of course, there is room for doubt and for fear... I can think, after all, and any man or woman that can think has cause to fear." He shook his head slowly, every word stirring from the depths of his being. He was speaking as honestly and as meaningfully as he could with Edith, knowing that she would again be listening in rapt attention. "But when I believe in my faith, that fear is not so hard to overcome. It becomes easier to chase after mirages, and more likely that I will stumble upon the oasis that will save my life."

[Edith]

Edith breezes into the back room like a woman on a mission. The hardwood floors click under the heels of her soft shoes and kick up the perpetual layer of powder on the floor. Every flat surface in the large room is supporting half-finished works either covered with damp towels to keep them moist or glistening with layer upon layer of tinted glazes. Simple wooden handled tools are kept clean and orderly, rolled in their leather pouches to keep them sharp.
 
She picks up one of these leather bundles as she sidesteps around a high bench, and places the tools on a long scrubbed table beside a round pottery wheel. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the massive Benshira making himself comfortable against the wall. He looks rather heavily out of place, like the proverbial bull in the china shop. And here she thought Garob looked awkward with all those dangerous elbows waving around. Lips twitching in a suppressed smile she opens a heavy chest of clay, peeling aside the moist linen and cutting out a pound piece with a wire used for this purpose.
 
Slamming the reddish clay on the table she proceeds to knead out the air and soften the material. Hirem has been suspiciously quiet since they've entered. He stands there with his arms folded and forehead furrowed, deep in thought and watching her buzz around the room with uncomfortable intensity. He's forgiven her for her outspoken insult of his lifestyle, but she cant help but think that behind those tightly closed lips he's brewing a devastating counterargument. Probably something that's going to drill holes in her head like that story he told the first time they met. She wishes he would stop staring.
 
Taking off her gloves, she tucks them into the pocket of her apron and rolls up her sleeves. Her hands are narrow and young, but the undersides are thick with scar tissue which makes their movement stiff like an old woman. The nails are kept painfully short but it's easy to tell that they all grow in slightly different directions thanks to the melted fingertips. Pencil thin, strangely symmetrical horizontal scars move up her forearm and disappears into her sleeves.
 
Thus prepared she throws herself into the abuse of the clay. Usually this means using the strength of your upper arms and wrists to make it submit much the same way you knead dough. For a woman though, to get into the position to do so you have to suffer the most uncomfortable cleavage so as to get your elbows underneath you. Unfortunately for Edith, however, her breasts are pretty much welded to her bones and wont move for anything less than a butchers knife. To compensate she has to stand on her toes with her torso at a 45 degree angle to attack the clay by bracing herself with the heels of her hands. 
 
And it's as she is kneading his future urn in this unique way that the Preacher divulges what is on his mind. Edith doesn't interrupt, but listens carefully as she works. He speaks again with that low voice that radiates sincerity, and his words are measured and neutral. He truly believes in everything he's saying.

She doesn’t want to open this conversation with him, and yet she really does. It’s a strange feeling when you don’t know what you want. She feels lost in her own mind. But petch it, he opened this vat of honesty and she will follow him through.
 
"But why? Why did you have to give yourself to Yahal that way? Wouldn't life have been so much easier if you’d lived in faith with your people and didn't have to trust in mirages at all? I don’t want to make assumptions, but you could have had a wife and kids by now; a house among your friends and family. And maybe you wouldn't get that horrible haunted look every time you see my face", she says with a starkness you only get from doctors and guardsmen. "Maybe happy would have been enough for you."
 
The clay in getting soft in her hands, and she can apply pressure easily with her arms bent at a normal position. She chews over his words in a way she had originally promised herself she wouldn't. She can see the merit in it, and she can see the gaping holes. But it's making her think, and thats exactly what she was afraid of.
 
She uses the wire to cut the clay and check for more bubbles. But the slice is clean and firm, and the clay is ready to be shaped. She rolls the flattened mound into a ball as she speaks.   
 
"You know I dabble with magic, right?" she says tentatively, for the one time he witnessed it she used Reimancy to punch a hole through someones ankle. "You see, thats a play with trust too. I am messing with the fundamentals of my body and there is so much that can go wrong. But I love it. There is so much you can do if you can harness control over it. This one time, though, I got cocky with my experimentation, and what started as a nosebleed and a headache turned into a two-day fever that pushed me right to the edge. But I did that, you see? I was wrong and my body punished me for it. I don’t have to trust anybody but myself. I don’t know if I can leave my fate in the hands of someone else to be toyed with. That is a different kind of trust. Though i guess that's what faith is, eh? Trusting he wont.

That must take a lot of strength, Hirem.”

[Hirem]

As Hirem spoke of his faith and Yahal, he watched Edith work, and just as she was becoming captivated by the words that he had to offer her, so too was he fascinated by her skill with pottery. He had always borne a strange sort of curiosity when it came to the art of making things; he had little skill at actually attempting to craft something himself, and so didn't want to pick up a trade. But he loved watching others work. It provided him a keen glimpse into their inner personality, for he believed that people's defenses, the walls that prevented the bare truth of their souls from being discovered by others, were at their most lax when they were focused on their work. He had learned this at an early age, when he sat at his mother's side and watched her take shards of wood and carve them into charming figurines. Her face, usually composed into a stately and benevolent smile, changed whenever she worked, reflected the emotions that were suppressed within her heart. Around the Tent, she had to be Jaliya the hard-worker, who never balked at danger or relented under pressure. But when she sat down and started to carve those figurines, her expression darkened with the storms, turned melancholy with the tragedies, and became joyful whenever her eyes flickered over to her son.

So it was that Hirem was not watching Edith sculpt an urn for him... he was watching Edith, staring intently at her hands and feet, his gaze boring into her face. He observed the emotions that were playing there, and tried to discern what he could of this lively woman's personality from the outside. She's listening to me, but she doesn't want to, he realized, taking a deep breath and shuffling his feet. Something in her seems... hesitant to confide in me. Her guard is tightly kept, for I imagine that she has little else to her name. She speaks, yet doesn't speak... she listens to what I say and contests it in her mind alone. Yet she is not dishonest; her words are sharp and cut to the heart of the matter. For all her pretensions to humility and being a simple potter, Edith is a mystery. What he enjoyed far more than analyzing her character, however, was watching her overcome the difficulties that her scarred condition imposed upon her. Though he knew little about pottery, he knew enough to understand that she was changing her technique to compensate for her rigid and inflexible limbs. It was one thing in his mind to deal with the stares, the embarrassment, the humiliation that must be felt daily by such an injury... it was another thing entirely to try and prosper despite being threatened by it. Admiration blossomed in his heart for the strong, determined Edith.

"You know I dabble with magic, right?" She then said, souring what high opinion he had of developed for her. Yes, he knew that she dabbled with magic... knew and disapproved. His first reaction was to shake his head and call her a fool, especially for using the discipline of magic she admit to using. It is not just stone that she seeks to summon and bend to her will - not even her body is safe from magic's treacherous allure. I have heard of this shapeshifting magic before, where the attributes of man are transformed into something more monstrous, more otherworldly. Those that whisper of it, say that this magic is very difficult to perfect and insanely risky to perform. To think that Edith can admit to loving the danger... it is a foolishness I did not expect of her. But he forced himself to rethink his immediate negative opinion, knowing that it stemmed from the prejudice of the Benshira and not from his own experience with magic. He had to look at the sorcerous arts from a more enlightened perspective, had to examine them with a more receptive mind. According to Kavala, if he wanted to join the Cytali and once more devote his life to the cause, he would have to start learning or becoming more understanding of magical disciplines. Taking a low breath, Hirem closed his eyes and tried to think about Edith's decision to dabble in magic from the woman's perspective... and found a surprising amount of reason behind her choice. There must be something empowering, to be able to change one's body when it has been permanently scarred by flame. And she is permitted the ability to defend herself, when she would otherwise be useless with a weapon or her own two fists.

Deciding to ignore talk of magic for now, Hirem focused instead upon her last statement, and smiled quietly to himself. "It takes some strength to believe, you are right... it takes strength to believe, when everything else in your life is trying to take away your hopes. But in many ways, Yahal gives me so much more strength than I have to offer him." Closing his eyes, he bowed before Edith and considered how much of his past he should share with her. "I have led a complicated life. You wonder why I am not still among my people, why I do not have a family to my name, and you believe that it was because I gave myself to Yahal. You are wrong; I sought Yahal, but down a road that was utterly horrific to him. I believed myself to be his champion, when in fact I was only slandering everything that he strives for. And, for my sins, I estranged myself from my god, my people, and myself. Only then did I, as you say, give myself to Yahal. I might have been able to live happily among the Benshira, for I was later forgiven for my crimes... but I did not forgive myself, and I did not believe that I was entirely redeemed in Yahal's eyes. I left Eyktol seeking penance, and even now that is all I am searching for."

"When you believe that everything you've done has been in vain or, worse, accomplished some harm, it is impossible to trust yourself. Having faith in Yahal - having faith in general - is the only reason I am still alive today." He looked to Edith next, his look soft and sympathetic. "You say that you don't have to trust anybody, and you are right... you don't have to believe in anyone or anything, if you so choose. All I ask is that you imagine what your life might be like if you decided to give over a part of yourself. What you might accomplish, knowing that one such as Yahal is guiding your path. What you might be released from, if you had a friend that you trusted with your secrets. And what you might become, if you felt supported by something greater than yourself."