~*Flashback*~ [Priskil's Pond] Wayfarer (Abashai)

[Dramiana Rosenthal]

Timestamp509AV - the 4th Day of Summer It is often said that there are places between the dark dells of Mizahar where those weary and lonesome of heart may seek refuge. This story happens in one such place… It was the early morning, when the sun’s rays enshroud the waters. Beneath the blossoming boughs where the river-roots run deep, there lie a young, unkempt woman who was buried beneath the strands of her own hair. Curiously, her long, left arm was sprawled before her, as if she were reaching for the shoreline. Slough and lichen painted her body and there were many blossoms and reeds entangled in her hair. Wrapped around her frame in various loops was a long, gilded chain. It coiled upward. The serpentine weavings finally straightened off of her middle finger and continued, elongating into the depths of Priskil’s Pond. From the look of things, the girl had lost consciousness sometime in the night. But rather than have the appearance of one who had merely collapsed from the hunger and exhaustion of a long journey, she looked as though she had been dragged unawares many, many leagues, to this destination. There was no wealth upon her save for that braided chain, and she did not concern herself with adornments or fine jewelry. Only a stiff black brocade dress was enough to suit her, now weather-stained and tattered from untold days of journeying. Her shoes looked too small and her leggings too tight. Her flesh was pale and sickly, suggesting that this wayfarer had seen many travels without the sun. A slight gurgle came from the pond.

[Abashai]

Abashai had risen early, the Syliran summer sun dawning bright and warming the flesh of is sand-worn face. Syna's orb did not render the same welcome dry heat in these northern regions as it did in the Burning Sands, but the Benshiran woke with a contentment he had struggled to maintain on the long road from Eyktol. Many days he had wondered why Yahal had lead him from his home, why he wandered for nearly two years through foreign lands. But this morning he had risen with words of thanksgiving to the Holy One. A short time of devotion was followed by a simple meal of dried meat and a few dried berries he had purchased from a merchant caravan. Once Sus was saddled and his gear loaded onto the Desertbred mare, Abashai had made his was back to the cart path he had found himself following. After a chime or so of plodding along the narrow, rutted road, the Benshiran discovered a smaller path branching off, barely wide enough for a horse to traverse. A curious urge compelled him to tug on the reins and direct his mount onto the small course. The path ran through a small copse of trees, and the trickle of water could be heard running parallel off in the underbrush. Soon the trees gave way to a wide opening, occupied mostly by a pristine pond. The water sparkled gloriously in the morning sun, surrounded by a variety of flowering and colorful trees. Abashai rode around the perimeter of the water, noting the prints of many kinds of animals in the soft earth at the pond's edge. Simply riding around the pond seemed to bring solace to his soul. But his mood darkened as he saw the form lying near bank, sprawled out in the soft green grass. Dismounting, Abashai led Sus to the water, muttering soft words in Shiber encouraging the horse to drink. With caution the man approached the figure in the grass until he could see it was a woman. His heart sank, for she appeared wretched and, with the pallor of a cadaver, frail limbs and delicate drawn features, quite probably dead. He wondered who would mar the beauty of the place by dragging this poor thing here, for surely she had fallen elsewhere and dragged through gods know what to be abandoned at the water's edge. The curious chain entwined about her body caught his eye, and he followed it with his gaze up her body and along her arm until it disappeared below the pond's glassy surface. Not far from the bank the water gurgled. Crouching down, the Benshiran's hand reached out to take hold of the gilded links, but hesitated. Instead he turned to look upon the woman. A hand reached to brush away the straggled strands of dark hair and pick off stray twigs from her face. She was a young woman, a tragedy lying at his feet. But her demise had yet to be confirmed, and he would convince himself of her passing before handling her belongings. Abashai's fingers drifted to her neck, his forefinger pressing to the artery in hopes of finding a hint of pumping blood beneath the surface of her pale skin.

[Dramiana Rosenthal]

A pulse... The bereft whisper of a dwindling gasp unraveled on the wind. However, in these dire times, a breath can echo farther than a prayer. Weighted with the heavy burden of fatigue, the girl's unsteady hand moved quite clumsily, still entangled in its snare. The chain links rattled uneasily in lieu of the circumstance. Finally coming to rest upon the arm of the Benshiran drifter, the woman’s hand gripped his sleeve forcefully. Yet, what should meet him but a pair of bedazzling amethyst eyes - bright and brazen with the morning. Unaware of their power, he would undoubtedly linger his gaze upon them, only to witness reality blink away in a tense instant. Rather than the stripes of the birch trees and the cold, fresh smell of the pond, he was lurched into an area where oaks and bracken grew thickly. It was easily recognizable: a section of the trail travelers would often pass that was nearer toward Syliras. It was the road some leagues before. But in this flash, there was no stillness. Trees were flying past him in a dizzying frenzy. An intense pressure could be felt on one's heart, and a smothering kind of dust throttled the lungs. One's eyelids wanted to close and never open, and everything from the waist down had gone numb from too much pain. Then, gone. Gone as quickly as it had come. The body of the girl barely stirred, though the nuances of awakening were present. Weakly, without regard for her companion, she moved to the chain and began to pull upon it. This endeavor proved too great, however, though she did not stop tugging at it. With all the strength of a bedridden cripple, the invalid kept pulling at her bond, unable to sit upright, stand, or even speak in a civilized manner to address Abashai. This went on for some time until her body lie limp and cold against her will. Limp, save for her eyes and the slow heaves of her breath. At last, when frustration had found her, she wept with dismay. The man had only those eyes for reference, whether they friend or foe. And despite they being flooded with tears, they did not sway their stare. In fact, they dilated, intending to flood her custodian with alien imagery. There, in the depths of the mind of the desert-dweller, a young woman stood. Her limbs and legs were longer than a normal woman's, and her hair flowed to her ankles, rippling in a pleasant autumn wind. She smelled heavily of salvia and jasmine and her skin was swan-white and firm. Her dress was a rich violet akin to her eyes, but when she smiled, her incisors were sharper than normal. Nevertheless - Abashai might not have seen a kinder face or known a daintier physique. She, too, wore a curious chain around her body, and shared the characteristics of the younger woman in front of him. A chain which was tied to an obscure and antiquated looking book. A book that was so precious, it was bound eternally to its reader. Though the ruse colorful, the girl could not keep it forever. Thus, it rippled away and became one with the pond. Still, there were those eyes…

[Abashai]

Though calloused, the ends of the benshiran's fingers detected the slight thrum and rhythm of blood pulsing through the artery beneath the woman's creamy soft skin. She was alive, though how much so, he could not yet tell. Then a soft gasp reached his ears, the slight chest rising ever so slightly as her lungs drew in a feeble draught of air. Then she stirred. Remaining still, Abashai watched as the frail hand fumbled to reach at him, siezing hold of his arm with strength he did not expect. Surprised, the man glanced back to the pale face to meet a startling gaze as bright as crystal. Shai could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the piercing eyes captivated his, the nomad both unnerved and drawn to the Amethyst stare. They did not bear the cloudiness of one striving against death, nor the glaze of one waking from unconsciousness. They were, splendid. Abashai was unprepared for the hallucination the woman set upon him. Without resistance he was drawn in to the fleeting images, then in a breath they were gone. The benshiran was perceptive, and though disoriented and shaken by the univited vision, he percieved it was indeed the persepctive of the woman he had been shown, as if she strove to tell her story. He coughed involutarily, the vivid images of being dragged lingering in his mind's eye. Abashai's brow furrowed in confusion and curiosity, unsure of how she managed her illusionary feat. Enchantments and majicks were not commonly welcomed among his people, from which in darkest history spawned Sagallius, one of the most infamous sorcerer's in history. The tragic body moved again, painful to watch as she struggled to tug free the chain that trailed into the water. She appeared surreal to the desert man, here eyes so vibrant, her body so broken she could not even speak, her attempt to retrieve the chain that ran into the pond sadly pathetic. His heart went out to her, such a pitiful sight laying in the grass. Yet Abashai was so confounded he simply watched, until she resigned, limp as her deep eyes welled-up with tears. Still, they seized on him as he gazed upon her. This time, he willingly opened up, welcoming her visions, know it was the only way she could manage to communicate. The stranger focused on her images, knowing the alabaster creature he saw in his mind was the same wretched woman who lay before him. She was an intruiging being, unusual in appearance, long-limbed with a long flowing mane and flesh like milk. Youthfulness was bound in her taunt skin, her features and form elegant and refined. And the smile. Even the hint of the sharp incisors could not diminish the unusual pleasantness of her grin, which bore no malevolence. The benshiran studied the chain again, seeing now that which was situated at its end, a book. The man did not know what it was, but he was certain it was of great value to the woman. His features softening, Abashai nodded slightly in understanding. His hand went to her brow, brushing away more tangles of her incredibly long hair, wiping away the dirt and debris carefully from her face. "Its alright, I will not harm you." He uttered in thickly accented Common. He removed his tunic, rolling it up and placing it gently under the woman's head. Then Shai looked to the chain where it trailed from her hand away towards the water. He knew it was of great importance to her. Glancing back to those glistening violet eyes for a moment, he gently begin pulling the chain out of the water.

[Dramiana Rosenthal]

Lax and disoriented, those gentle, but hypnotic eyes finally moved in a frightened jerk when he tugged upon the accursed fetter. As though it were her very umbilical cord on which he pulled, the girl’s breath was shallow and distraught, conveying layer upon layer of psychological pain. Was this book bound to her in merely a symbolic way, or did love create a much deeper, more vital necessity for having it around? It seemed so cumbersome, but the way the young woman flinched at it being tampered with even in the slightest, most delicate form, one couldn’t help but wonder how much she had sacrificed for it. “It belonged to my mother…”A whisper so faint divulged the revelation, but her mouth did not move. Regardless of those eyelids being heavy with wanderlust, an unnamed contentment overwhelmed her as she lie upon the soft cloth that was her make-shift pillow. “Your benevolence will be blessed by the Gods, dear companion,” continued she. A clever north wind brushed through the trees, swaying the boughs to and fro as birds darted overhead, singing and flying in the glory of the morning. A smile came to the young woman’s lips, but in her eyes lingered a sorrow that burned brighter than any star. “I wanted…family…” The pathetic voice whispered like a dying ember on a hearth. “I want to smell Salvia again...” Cryptic and iconic, the girl’s eyes moved back to Abashai, and their irises glistened with hope. “Are you my father?” The acceptance was uncanny: she did not care where he came from, what desert sand he had crossed, what deeds he had done, what people he had betrayed, what lives he had saved, or what Gods he had worshiped. No. There was only one thing of importance in her eyes, and that was love. “Did Priskil send you to me?” By now, the kindly Benshira would have had the prize on the shore line. "Y...you musn't drag it!" Her voice changed to a higher, more frantic state. "It is..is precious...we must...care for it...we must-- I shall remedy you of its burden. My arms. Please bring it to my arms, father."

[Abashai]

Abashai paused in his retrieval of the chain when the woman's captivatinig gaze darted frantically to the water where the links disappeared below the water. She had responded physically, as if the chain he tugged upon were latched to her viscerally. the man resumed his effort to retrieve the chain, now exercising care and compassion, as if he handled a member of her body. Hearing the soft whisper, Abashai turned to the pale, delicate face. He did not catch any movement of her lips, but her eyes again seemed to connect to his soul. The woman had seemed to relax as he tenderly drew the chain out of the water, hand over hand. It belonged to my mother. Abashai realized she spoke of the book, the one he assumed would soon surface from the lake. His fascination with the stranger waxed greater with every moment. He could not tear his gaze from her brilliant blue eyes, so expressive that he could read her emotions like a scroll in their depths. A sadness, a resigned sorrow, crept into her eyes as they drifted to scan the sky above. A sympathetic ache seized upon Abashai's heart as her face turned again to him. He saw the anticipation, the word that she indeed was not alone in this world, that somehow her savior was more than just a passing stranger. Father. Surely she was still not well, her mind affected by the torment she had endured. He felt a kinship with the mysterious waif, for though he had family, the benshiran had left them over a decade ago. Since then, he had no one but his horse. His empathetic melancholy brought a small smile to his face, one mustered for his unexpected ward. He no longer wondered if her lips moved with the words he heard. "I am Abashai." He did not affirm or deny her inquiry about fatherhood. Her condition was too delicate to handle disappointment, he believed. "It is indeed possible the gods have brought us together, for it seems we are both in need of companionship." His smile broadened with kindness. The tome broke the surface of the lake as he slowly pulled it ashore. The woman's urgent request again caused him to cease his efforts. With deliberate care, Abashai took the book in both hands as if he held her heart. The Benshiran delivered the dripping wet item to the stranger's frail grasp. "There my dear," he replied without thought, so was the richness of her tone, the desire that he truly was someone who knew her and loved her. And for now, he was willing to be that for her. Abashai did not take the liberty to examine the book, anxious to hand over what the girl so desperately wanted. He quietly stood to his feet and walked to his horse, retrieving his long desert coat and a water skin. Returning to kneel at the woman's side, he laid the garment over her body. He did not know if she were cold or not, but it seemed the right thing to do. His hand pressed against her forehead, looking for signs of fever. "You have it now." The man lifted her head gingerly, sliding his thigh beneath it so she rested comfortably upon it. Then held up the skin to her lips. "Drink. You have suffered much." He placed the spout near her lips, waiting for them to part so he could allow the cool liquid to dribble into her mouth.

[Dramiana Rosenthal]

Timestamp509AV - the 4th Day of Summer “Abash-ai,” uttered she forcefully. The deliberate annunciation of his name was made gravely important for some reason. And her eyes were kindled with a kind of fire. “Abashai,” she repeated in a softer, gentler tone than before. “Though I am ill- travelled, I know a foreign name when it strikes my ears.” Though her voice held intonation, dynamic, and pitch, it was hardly ever above a whisper. So eloquent was its delivery (as Symanestra are known to do) that it was never fully known whether or not she moved her lips when crafting words. These nuances did not concern her, however, nor did any obvious sign of malediction. Still - there was an awkwardly stiff and dangerous air about her that was too vague to place. Why was it growing increasingly difficult to trust her? Fervently, her fingertips cradled the archaic bible, going so far as to hold it closely and dramatically over her heart. With her traipsing bell-sleeves and tattered gauntlets, the book was wiped of its moisture with all the care of a mother caressing her child. "You have it now." Abashai's voice was keen on breaking heavy silence. At last, her eyes closed and she gladly accepted the water – ravenously drinking so as to quench her parched tongue. This went on for several moments before a sigh of contentment left her. When some strength had returned to her limbs, she rested in the morning sun, breathing deeply from exhaustion. “You must…take me to her…an errand, have I, with the Lady of Light. An errand, father, and I will taint your eyes no more.“ The image of a bronze tower in Syliras flashed into his mind instantly - rising high above the horizon with the clouds moving behind it. A gem sat at its zenith, immeasurable in beauty and flaring verdant hues all across the wild. But, as all of her other glimpses, it left just as quickly as it had come. “In return, I shall give you something worth having.” Damiana fell back into unconsciousness, content in the safety of her new-found companion.

[Abashai]

The woman, in every way, was a mystery. Her appearance possessed something that was vaguely, unsettling. Not menacing or malignant, but beyond the norm. Long delicate limbs, pale flesh, fine features, and the hint of pointed teeth, even in the vision she had given him. And the eyes, vivid azure orbs from which Shai found difficult to turn away. She spoke as one highly educated, or at least as much as the Benshiran's limited knowledge of the Common language could reveal. His eyes darted to the tome she clutched so dearly, tending to it as if it were a loved one. He wondered at its contents, but would pose no inquiry. It was of the most personal nature, he surmised. Besides, the girl was barely coherent. Indeed, after she was refreshed with water from his skin, the strange female continued to speak in her soft voice, her intonation and clarity of speech holding the wander's attention. His mind remained open as she proffered her proposition, and he saw in his mind's eye the images of the city she painted there. Escort her to the city, Syliras he believed. The marked of Yahal had traveled at the urging of his god, and Abashai believed that, for whatever reason, he had been led to find this poor soul. His heart went out to her again, and he found he could not leave her. Eyes still fixed on the woman's gaze, he nodded slightly and smiled. "Yes, I will take you there." He had more questions, but they would have to wait. The girl's lids slipped over the cerulean irises and she slipped from consciousness. As she slept, Abashai worked to remove the debris from her hair and dress, though he was careful not to disturb the book. The Benshiran worked carefully, conducting himself in a way that would not bring his intent into question, nor to embarrass the woman. A soft cloth was employed to wipe the smudges of dirt from her face, and oil was applied to a number of scrapes and cuts that adorned her alabaster skin. Having done what he could for her, Abashai retrieved his oud, sat in the grass next to the woman, and began to strum the instrument softly as he gazed out over the lake, his soul washed in serenity.