Timestamp: 40th Day of Fall, 509 A.V.
Location: Syliras - the Temple of All Gods, Office of the Benshiran representative to the Cultural Council
Thread Status: Self- Mod Training- Stringed Instruments, Oud
The morning sun streamed through the small window high in the wall, filling the small office, and illuminating the pile of parchment scrolls laid out on the worn wooden desk. The yellowed pages were covered in inky Shiber characters. After poring over the ancient writings for more than an hour, Abashai paused to close his eyes, digesting the wisdom he had fed on from the Penitas. After several minutes, he thanked Yahal for the encouragement of the sacred writings, raised his head and opened his eyes.
He carefully rolled up the scrolls that once belonged to his father and returned them to their leather tube. Abashia then laid them on a small shelf he had hung near the desk specifically for them. The benshiran councilman then rearranged the curious collection of items that adorned his desk. A smooth river stone, a hawk's feather, a scrap of a brightly colored silk, the skull of a mink. In fact, the room boasted quite a menagerie of sundry nick nacks from handfuls of shell beads to a mosquito encased in amber. They were all gifts from his kelvic bondmate, and he displayed them proudly. Finally he reached down to his boot and drew out a knife and set it on the table. The weapon's sheath was covered with stamped designs, another gift from Nya, his favorite because she decorated it herself. He always kept it with him, even in the Temple.
Reaching for the ould in the corner, Abashai kicked his feet up on the desk and began to idly pluck the strings. Soon the bells in the fortress rang out, and before the knell of the ninth and final bell had faded, a man appeared at the office door. Abashai removed his feet from the desk and greeted the visitor with a smile. "Falim, Adin. I was not certain musicians saw this hour of the morning!" He taunted. The subject of his joke was a tall, thin man in his mid 20's, wavy dark brown hair cropped just below the ears, he sported a beard like Abashai, but not as neatly trimmed. The young man wore a traditional long tunic, in a sublte blue, and a long tan coat over it. His feet were clad in sandals and he clutched an oud in his hand. "I told you I would be here, and look, not even a chime late." Adin chided.
Adin was one of a handful of Yahebah-born benshiran musicians that had made their way to Syliras. Abashai had found that the Benshira from the sacred city clung less to the rigid family structure than their nomadic kindred, and found it easier to follow the ocassional caravan that traveled beyond Eyktol.
"Please sit down." Abashai waved at a chair next to the desk. The young musician sat and rested his stringed instrument on his lap. "So," Adin grinned, "you want to learn to play well with others."