Open Tales of a Distant Sea

[Fabell]

Fall 10, 519 AV "Once upon a time, a blind man watered the grass near his tent beside the sea." The audience murmured to themselves, unaware of the voice speaking upon the corner stage, a glimmer of sound mesmerized to itself. "Oh Devan, the Left, he came down the dess, raking the facies of slandering Ness." Fabell's voice, a soft and low tenored ministration, tip-toed around the beginning of his story with a careless caress, not knowing the reception he might receive, good or ill. A madman or not, he felt his core and now moved to his flute, slipping off the silk cover and suddenly diving headlong into the hyetalled valley, where his dreams often wandered. A place he knew well in which he traveled often in his tent back in the sands before coming to the city of Stars, but now he felt... no, he knew, closer than ever to the scintillating cover of diamonds in the sky, playing this music drew him into the ether surrounding the world, into the soul of his own walkabout. The sound of the instrument, shattered and broken after years of gathering dust in a forgotten corner of a traveling merchant's tent (among the broken bones of dozens of lost musical appendages), moved him into the divine. He felt lifted, soaring among the clouds in the dark of the night, dodging between stars and raging like a shooting star, flung across the heavens in a moment of utterly impassioned madness. The song drew softer then, a headstrong thrumb flooding through a ravine of watered florets, dighting upon the grasslands a pale silver body raxxing from sunset to sunrise, until Leth in repose, slept upon the glades and settled the creatures of the night to peace. He lowered his flute. "The man without sight believed the flower a yunga of delight, feeding the sand's maw his tears." "Oh Devan, now Right, he slept well that night, hearing the waw of the moonlit Midnight." Once again, his fingers fled into the pockets of his own memory. He closed his eyes and played to no one in particular, and the tale opened to him. Each and every time he told it, something changed. Leth's face shifted; Syna's beautiful hair braided a different way, with ribbons crafted from the waves of the sea. Things he forgot now recalled. The audience, shrouded against the walls of The Obsidian Club, they sipped their drinks, whispered curtsies to each other, and wailed in their hearts the temptations they swore to not speak aloud and make alive. Fabell, he felt these, weaving them into the song, although with careful, not wishing to send a lantern to reveal the secrets of lovers caught between a tryst or a lie covered by a smile. One of the Kacee brothers thunderously laughed at a joke in the haze of the room, but the bard's focus centered on the careful breath and the gentle but dancing rhythm his fingers played across the holes of the exquisitely crafted silver flute. His song found resonance in a long valley, flooded with light. Beasts roamed the flowered floor, breathing in fresh spring air. A howl, distant, bemused, and the skylit flowers faded to bones, the beasts collapsed into flood, a robe of crimson upon a solemn and dusty coffin of sandy death. The music, once so contemplative and spry, turned dark, delirious, and decrepit. A short silence came after, the flute lowered, and then a whisper, audible to any listening, inaudible to those immersed elsewhere. "His brother came to him then, carrying a bag of gems. He took the hand of his broken brother, and helped him to his feet." "Oh Devan, the Wronged, take these eyes of mine, see the lands again you lost from time." The music from his lips, now resigned, did not find new purpose. The notes sat there as if buried alive, kept out of reach of Syna's rays. The flutist seemed not to take whatsoever - his fingers, slow, gypped of meaning, plodded along the muddy paths as if the song, beat-by-beat, died a little with every new measure, with every new sound. Fabell knew this story well. He felt it everyday, of the trouble that plagued him, of the trouble that plagued his own tribe, of the trouble that his mother carried around like a disease. His song could not bear it; his heart could not play it. But the music found it and woke it, threading to life like a phoenix rising from the ashes of a burning lover. The flute transformed into an ocarina's playful mystery, and the glades of green with the mysterious man in shroud rose from the dank necroworld of Fabell's fantasy. Tree roots sprung from the dust, branches shot past the clouds, and leaves (like green knives) sharpened and flung themselves in radiance. The ballad of the blind man found a voice again. "He turned his cheek on the man who betrayed him, and cast his jewels into the sea." "Oh Devan of Light, you carry the mighty sound of the land where your father is found." "His hand in yours, the trees, now adorned, your father restored to your sight." The final verse began, a solemn reminder of the man who discovered his sight, lay not in what he could touch, but what he could feel. The traditions of his parents, the traditions of his people flew back to him, like an eagle returning to the nest or a flock of migratory sparrows finding rest among loved ones in the cowls of their ancestors. The music found respite in this, and Fabell followed it, a hunter tracing his prey through the wood, seeking disparate shadows fleeing through the bars of trees. Eventually his song ended, and he lowered the flute. The song, still in him, carried him on cloudlit wings, the freshness of Lhavit's nighttime bustle filtering into his bones.

[Fabell]

Fall 13, 519 AV I write this to make a note of the comings and goings of the days in this wondrous city. So far, I have been here barely two weeks. Recalling the trek up the mountainside, to the magnificent view from Zintia Peak, the splendor of the fountain and the glamorous people who clean the deep pools every cycle. I saw a woman, aged and tanned from the heavy sun, sitting on the edge of the fountain singing a song to herself. I wish I could remember the words, but I do not. I was perhaps scared to sit close to her and listen, and did not want her to stop, so I sat beneath the boughs of a tree and closed my eyes, letting the wind flow across my face, and her song fill my heart. Dear mother, if only you could be here. To see the spires you spoke to me so often about, the fabled glass arches that meld the mountain into the city, to hear the rug merchant Dewas again go on about the district of shops with a hundred different wares seemingly ripped into a mountain of reflections. If only you could be here to hold the glass flutes in the palm of your hand, to lift these divine instruments to your lips, and blow your song into the meadows of the mountains below. Why did you not come? What do you have that clings you to that bitter desert? The promise of your mother's people? The promise you made to Grandmother? It is all vain, mother. I write this knowing I will not send it to you. Seeing me, knowing this place, would both brighten and break your heart. I know you wished I stay nearer to the desert, and this idiotic idea of mine to travel to the known edge of the world - but you will see. They will see. I will come back with stories, mother. More than you could imagine. Fabell set down the quill, now running quite dry. His last few remaining pages hidden in his pack, and his ink bottle ran low. New to the city, he worried not. So far, the Kacee brothers held him fairly, letting him play for several bells during the evening, just enough to practice his art, keep his ability fresh, and spend the daytime hours wandering the topside of the glittering metropolis. The hustle and bustle of people on these peaks marveled him; they moved from building to building, clutching their cloaks from the wind, moving swiftly like the dark brown birds who flittered from cliff to cliff in the Eyktol. They moved with the busyness of a bumblebee hive, their bright colored garments a living rainbow that flowed across the summits of these brazen peaks like the families of beautiful gemstone fish that ranged in the waters off Ahnatep. The bright light burning from his drink brought him back to the club. One of the Kacee brothers, Charlie, quietly walked up to the backtable where Fabell sat and dropped a form onto the table. He didn't say much - Charlie's gaze did the talking. He pulled up a chair, and withdrew a fresh quill from his jacket, dipping into Fabell's pot of ever disappearing ink. "Running dry, are we? We not paying you enough?" Charlie looked at the young man, who averted his gaze and began to read the contract. "This contract witnesses, that Fabell Asan Selban, having newly arrived in Lhavit just on Fall 1 of 519 AV, with the consent of the Cosmos Center at Sartu, Lhavit and the agency of Youchi Dawn-Sakani, and with the consent of Bob and Charlie Kacee, thereupon agree to the term of service for a season for work at The Obsidian Club at Shinyama, Lhavit, as a performer during the periods between Dusk and Midnight Rest, and Midnight and Dawn Rest, for the agreed upon price of --" Fabell twisted in nose in confusion. His Common, while serviceable, could not be described as fleetingly fluent, and he had trouble understanding Charlie's flowing script on the page. His knowledge of Shiber, even for an average Benshira boy his age, was far more advanced than others, but Shiber did not translate well to this Common language. He primarily used Common when his tribe would visit the trading cities and offload the store of instruments they produced into the trading stalls. Furthermore, Charlie seemed highly educated, and wrote in a formal capacity which Fabell, in his backward ways, only tried to understand. But the most striking part of the contract was the amount of money they would pay him for performing his songs, a price that if he could, he would have send back immediately in a chest to his mother. After all, his mother not only supported him alone (as his father, petch him, wherever he was) but also supported his grandmother, his great-grandmother, and some of his aunts, leaving very little to basic necessities that his family survived on. He looked at the number listed next to the price on the contract, and looked up at Charlie. "Is this..." "What's the matter boy?" Charlie looked down to where the Benshira dabbed his finger. "Too much?" Fabell didn't want to presuppose anything. He had heard gossip about The Obsidian Club before agreeing to Youchi's suggestion; in fact, he had taken a whole day to walk across the two gigantic bridges from Sartu to Shinyama, just to study the place where he would be working. Although next to what was called "Springwater Square" (according to the beautiful map he was given at the Cosmos Center) upon entering the building, the thrum of the outside peak all but disappeared, replaced by shadows and the dint of what seemed to him to be flaring drinks that carried a magical light inside, as well as figures crouched over in booths and tables not at all desiring a conversation. Charlie didn't say a word. He just looked down at the young man, shaking his head, and then shrugged. "Look, it's taken awhile to draft it together. We've been a bit busier than usual this season, for what should be obvious reasons." Charlie didn't look at him, but he did seem bothered when he said "obvious". "You can sign it or walk out the door, we can't pay you any less. This is Shinyama, and Bob has been impressed during your probationary period." Fabell, stunned, then nodded. He hadn't expected this, but what could he have expected? Normally far too inquisitive for his own good, he held his tongue and signed the contract. Charlie, as quickly as he appeared at the table, had disappeared into a back room, replaced by smoke and shadow. The Benshira took a deep breath, standing up from his table, dropping the sour concoction down his throat, pulling his cloak from the head of the chair, making his way to the room where he kept his belongings under lock and key. Dusk Rest was nearly over, and his shift would be starting soon. His bones ached from the strange Lhavitian schedule, but by the 4th day of working here in the evenings, he felt more comfortable than he had before. Even the idea of a contract was strange to him. Then performing here for a room full of strangers who preferred to conduct their business in the dark, and leave him be (another surprising turn of events, given how boisterous and involved performances were when he was living in the Eyktol), he felt a page turning in his mind but was unsure of what the words would be on the next page. He glanced around the room, his gaze falling across each and every table as he paced to the back (where the stage was), looking for any familiar (or unfamiliar) face.

[Ennisa]

"speech"
"others"

The glass of the drink appropriately named 'Screaming Lion' sat, gently stewing to itself, on the table in front of a disgruntled Ennisa. It was frankly disgusting, but the young woman was forcing herself to drink it anyway, as she had paid good kina for it in the first place. It was a challenge, albeit a rather basic challenge, that Ennisa wouldn't lose, even if the fiery, peppery taste burnt her tongue something fierce. She brought her gaze up from the vile drink and surveyed the bar.

She was sat in the Obsidian Club. The name was, of course, totally familiar to the Lhavit native, but despite knowing of it, she had never been inside until earlier that afternoon. It was a stunning building. Ennisa already liked it for its decidedly decadent darkness, which she was appreciating from her shaded little nook of a table. She had made herself at home - her backpack was slung down beside the chair leg, and her cloak was draped haphazardly across the back of the chair she slouched on. She rested her elbows on the table, and her chin on her palm, as she peered into the recesses, trying to nosey out whoever might be sitting nearby.

It was a fun game, to sit and watch people. Ennisa did have an ulterior motive in that she was looking for someone to scam, but the sheltered environment of the different tables and the relatively quiet atmosphere at that time of day meant that she was finding it difficult. Besides, she really ought to take it safe, considering it was her first time in the Club. Yes, perhaps she would just sit and relax. Maybe get a different drink later, see what the atmosphere was like, rather than dive straight in to something reckless.

She smiled to herself and nestled back into the chair. As she was bringing the glass to her lips (her nose slightly wrinkled as she did), she watched a man walking towards the back of the room. His was a purposeful walk, which made it seem as if he wasn't a patron, exactly. She mused over his appearance, his tan complexion being the most fascinating to her at that stage. She wondered who he was, and then quite suddenly as he walked past, his gaze turned on her.

Ennisa didn't suppose he was looking at her in particular, she wasn't that big-headed, but the sudden look in her direction was startling. She blinked a couple of times even after he had carried on walking, and wondered what that was about. There was no spark of recognition, so she could only assume he was looking for someone in particular. She wondered who that might be.

Nevertheless, she continued watching him, although his back was towards her as he made his way to the stage. Aha, she thought to herself, a performer! She took another sip through pursed lips, and settled down to enjoy herself. Was he a musician, an actor, a dancer...? All she could do was guess until the man began to perform. She betted he was a dancer. She thought he had a lithe frame, and that would suit dancing, would it not? She absently rummaged in her backpack and withdrew the notebook she had bought recently, the quill and the little pot of ink too, and put these out on the table in front of her. Unscrewing the small cap, she dipped the quill into the ink and quickly jotted down a quick note to herself.

Dancing? Something about being graceful, Obsidian Club, the tan man.

The note would mean nothing to a reader, but Ennisa's admittedly scruffy shorthand would be a good reminder for later on in the season. She tapped the remaining ink off the quill and set it down to watch and listen to whatever the olive-skinned performer had to offer the patrons of the Obsidian Club.

[Fabell]

His song began as most songs did. Or rather, as most songs he performed did. "To play correctly, Fabell, you cannot play. You must dream." "Take the instrument in your hand. Find the note, and hold the note in your mind. Do not play the note until you have taken hold of the dream. The dreams of your mother, the dreams of your grandmother, and the dreams of all those who came before you. You know them. They are the shill in which you ensconcse. You cannot play without these dreams. If you play without these dreams, you defile the entire dream, all that was suffered before you. All that was broken and bled before you. Use the hope of your ancestors, and weave that into the hope for your descendents." At the time, the young man's grasp of what his mother told him so many years ago failed gravely. A few years later, after hearing the songs of his mother and his grandmother, and their songs of their mothers and grandmothers, he began to understand more clearly. And then suddenly began to sing their songs, but he knew his songs sang hollow and phrenetic, arrows clanging against a shield, a grazing wind against his atavic ghosts. He lifted the flute and let the air flow across the rims of his lips. Tonight's melody carried no story, no epic poem, no word-filled tragedy. Tonight's melody cared only for the experience of whatever dreams came to him in the moment before he played. A young woman wept, her tears staining an aba rug. In her hand, she carried a small parang, lit by a curling firepit lifting smoke through the roof of the tent. Her sigh, her love, gyved her to the sand. In her other hand, she held a heart, bleeding through her fingers, swirling together with her tears; the image of the young woman in the tent: a babery that no decent person ought to bear witness to. In the distant rising moon, before the slit of the dune's horizon, fell her moira: a white shadow covered in a multitude of peccantry swirling about him like whispering spirits, innocent, filled with puzzlement and tunket, with an almost unsouciant air that transformed his figure into a naive epic soon to be forgotten into myth. She raised the knife, felt the pain, screamed, and immediately dropped the weapon, clattering on a mass of shattered pots. The hand that held the blade, now tinged with her own blood, sang to her, and she knew at once within her lived another. She held her palm to her belly; she knew not from where or how, but she knew her lover left her a new destiny, even as he disappeared into the fenny mist of the dunes. The song then escaped Fabell's lips, and he began. The song at first, nervous, felt the woman as she grew heavier, as her face measured itself against other faces, enmeshed with a towser-like visage (joy-bidden, the shade filtered out to memory until the only thing remaining wended happiness like a nullah through a sun-dappled wood). The music fled to the far reaches of the misty valley, the woman carried on the back of an anciently feathered eagle, the beak like an alcys darting in and out of puffy, dew-drop clouds, and her, an auspex who behaved more like a potted plant, saw her life in lightning flashes, bursting free but static; glimmering then gone. The young bard stood from his stool, the flute still glued to his lips as the sweat trickled down his cheek. The music reached a crescendo, a flurry of notes that scattered like doves in a sudden flight, frightened but winged in holy supinate toward the the roof of Syna's temple. The woman in his melody (transformed now to an oread of the winds) roosted on a nest of thorns, inveterate among weeds. The man below the colossal trunk beckoned to her, raising his voice but not able to sublimate through the cacophany of wings, feathers, and his own priggishness (as much as he wanted so dearly to grip the bark, blister, and bleed his way up the walls toward his lover at the top). So he stood defiantly below the understory of the forest, hands on his hips, eyes raised heavenward, concern in his eyes, and judgement on his cheeks. At this, Fabell lowered the timbre of the music, trilling like the squirrels and rodents that scoured the wet ground in search of bugs, and then man went his way - again - this time into the din and depths of a green underworld; his form shifted to sand; the nymph on her crown of trash shed a dry tear, cradling her newfound chick her in arms, feathers bursting in color, glee, mirth, and need painted into reality. The dream faded from his mind, and the young bard lowered the flute. He took a towel on a spare stool beside him, and wiped the wet from his face. Whether sweat or tears, he felt it all over again. The pain, the love, the memories flooded back to him, and he threw open the room where he kept his monsters, held their hands, led them in, and shut the door. His silence remained outside, welcoming him with open arms. He looked out onto the audience, and this time - he saw. A face, not much older than his, staring right back at him. He darted his eyes around the room, looking from table to table, from cloaked figure to cloaked figure, all busily minding themselves, but in this sea of people one stared back at him, and he shuddered. A young girl with an elegant quill, sheer silver hair hung down her thin frame, with hazy blue eyes. For a moment, Fabell struggled to place her, and then remembered, like a very dim memory, a far-flung dream or a face in a crowd. But the more he stared, the more she seemed to stare back, and he couldn't unlock his eyes. The night, far from being over, held more to come. However, the young man struggled to unearth the next dream, concerned that he might be unseated by even his own heart. He chose the dream of his mother with some reticence, and knew halfway through the performance the mistake he made in choosing it. The emotions stirred in him, while necessary to uncork and transform into song - he grappled too clumsily with his feelings - and nearly broke down from the recollections. To the ordinary ear his music sounded as music, but to the discerning ear the story flowed out from his lips to willing ears. No one here, not even the girl with the misty eyes, would be able to hear it, for they shared no experiences from the music, but Fabell knew that his mother would be disappointed in how he gave himself into the song and lost control of the melody. "There is always the next song," his mother often told him. He knew this to be true. He built another wall around his emotions, using his Beldra skills to fashion a new lock, secured the hold, and prepared for the next song, wherever it might lead.

[Ennisa]

"speech"
"others"

Ennisa was pleased to be wrong about her preconceptions when the man withdrew a flute and began to play. She focussed her attention on the instrument first and inspected it with her eyes. It was a simple enough thing, she surmised, but louder than one would expect. The melody it produced was strange and beautiful, too. She found it hard to comprehend, for there didn't particularly seem to be any reoccurring theme or chorus. Yet, though it wasn't foot-tapping music, the sometimes pure, sometimes breathy timbre of the flute sent peculiar shivers down her spine in a way she hadn't really experienced before.

What kind of feeling was it? Her back tingled again after one plunge down and swoop up from the music, like a bird riding the thermals. It was a feeling of... anticipation? Pleasure? Adrenaline? It was as if she was a child once more, and experiencing the thrill of doing something risky in front of her friends, where the outcome could be embarrassing or awe-inspiring to a young mind. Or, as if she was waiting for validation that she was in love, and neither she nor the lover knew what the answer would be. And yet, the feeling was like neither of these two examples, not really. All she knew was that the sound of that flute left her feeling unanchored in a way that she knew she would need more of, down the line.

The lone player also drew her fascination. She lost herself in the performance and relished in watching the performer in his element. Ennisa would never have much skill in music, but it was exciting to watch someone who was skilled, the way his fingers tapped down on the holes, the way muscles in his jaw worked as he produced the notes. She marvelled at the deep gusts of breath he was required to take, and the way it seemed so effortless, although it couldn't be.

She was too distracted to write about the experience, though she would certainly put an entry in later. The notebook sat, one page bending upwards, leaving a slanting shadow across the creamy paper. The Obsidian Club was not quiet, but the hubbub had dropped to allow the young man to express himself. Ennisa was relaxed and comfortable on her chair, but her avid gaze never left the stage. When the song finally came to its end, she joined in the soft round of polite applause, but started somewhat when the young man brought his gaze to her table. Their eyes met, which was mildly disconcerting considering she had been staring at him for the past however many chimes since the music had started, but she held his gaze rather than cave to embarrassment. For a fraction of a tick, she was absolutely certain she had seen him before, somewhere, yet the feeling passed leaving her puzzled and confused as he shifted slightly and started to prepare for his next performance.

He began to play again, and she shuffled in her chair. She took a sip of the foul drink she was nursing, then rested her chin on her knuckles and decided to shut her eyes. The waving sound of the flute reverberated off the walls of the Obsidian Club, bounced off the floor and danced across her eardrums, which gave the effect of being surrounded by sound. The lone nature of the instrument and its player was evocative and mysterious, and Ennisa was an accomplished day-dreamer, so she lost herself in her own imagination as she intently listened.

[Ennisa]

"speech"
"others"

She listened for a long time before she finished her drink and roused herself. Nothing had come of the fiery touch of eye contact, which was both relieving and disappointing. She watched the man finish the first set, and his walk back to prepare for something else. He might continue; he might not. Ennisa wouldn't be around to find out. She packed up her belongings and wandered quietly out of the Obsidian Club. Her mind was full of flights of fancy. She daydreamed about nothing much in particular, except the soaring sounds of the flute. She wondered if she could learn. Probably not. Perhaps if she was to find the man again at some point, she could ask for lessons. Or not.

The night was soft and quiet, and Ennisa was peaceful. She wandered absently through Lhavit's nightlife, thinking about some scams she could try, but her enthusiasm for the shallow scam she concocted was weak, and dwindled almost as soon as she'd come up with it. She set aside her madcap ideas, and settled into walking. One foot in front of the other. There was still something hauntingly familiar about the man, and this odd thought disrupted her usual rambunctiousness, made her thoughtful.

Her thoughts turned to the events of the first part of the season. Already, it had been a busy one. Tonight had been a nice breather. Yet, despite the few bells of serenity, she suddenly found herself thinking of Madeira, and Aleth. Madeira was... well. She was certainly something. Her name made her lip curl with displeasure. Then Aleth... The Kelvic was a strange one. She wondered if he was doing alright. He hadn't told her much about his life, but she thought that perhaps there was more to find out, and find out she would most certainly do.

Eventually, her feet took her home. She creaked the door open and waved in Itzi's direction. The red-head was sleepy, and curled up on the bed. She raised herself a little as Ennisa came in. "What you been up to?" She asked. Ennisa sat on the edge of the bed. Gods, she was tired. "I went to get a drink, clear my head a bit. Not sure it worked. But eh." She stared at the wall distantly, then kicked off her boots. "It's been a busy few days." Itzi nodded in agreement. "Sure has." She thought for a moment. "I was at the bar earlier too."

"Oh yeah?" She said. "Up to anything fun?" She turned to look at her friend. There was something a little different in her voice. She seemed a little less sleepy, and there was a twinkle in her eye. That meant secrets. Ennisa perked up. Gossip. "What is it? Tell me, tell me! You've done something." She grinned, and poked her to elicit an answer. Itzi squealed a wriggled away, but kept schtum. "I just had a nice drink, jeez!" It was so obviously a lie. Ennisa knew Itzi. The blush, the gods-damned blush of all things gave it away. Apparently though, Ennisa's mellow mood was still lingering, and she relented. "Alright then, Itz. Glad you had a nice time."

After that, the two women stayed up until the moon shone too brightly through their thin curtains, talking about this and that. In the end, even Ennisa got too tired to chat, and she settled onto the sleeping mat. She drifted to sleep very quickly, whilst Itzi stayed awake, her eyes bright with thoughts of the future, and the man she'd met at the bar. The man who'd shown her a good time. The man she'd kept a secret.

oocIf you return Fabell, and this has been graded, please feel free to carry it on as a job thread if you need to. Otherwise, it was nice writing with you whilst you were around.

[Madeira Dusk]

Grades Awarded!

Don't forget to edit/delete your grade request!

Fabell

Please contact me for your grade!

Ennisa

Skills

• Observation: 3xp
• Planning; 1xp
• Writing: 1xp
• Cryptography; 1xp
• Meditation: 1xp
• Socialization: 1xp

Lores

• Observation: people watching
• Planning: scheming
• Cryptography: basic shorthand
• Meditation: clearing the mind with music

Awards & Retribution


Notes
Too bad Fabell left! This had some great interaction potential.