(Flashback)Where Their Bonds Were Broken (Tarama)

[Abashai]

Timestamp: Mid-Spring 502 AV
Location: Ahnatep
Tag: Tarama

Ahnatep. It was a symbol of everything that opposed the virtues of Yahal and the traditions of the Benshira. The pinnacle of oppression, seduction and debauchery. Yet, for the second day in a row, a prodigal child of the Holy One wandered the alien streets of the city of white and gold and marveled at its opulence.

It had been five years since Abashai had fled Yahebah, a self-imposed exile fueled by guilt and shame. Wandering the sands, he had managed to survive on the hospitality of the roaming Benshira.

Then, two weeks ago, he spiraled into an episode of bitterness and loneliness. The young benshiran made the bold, some would say rash, decision to join a caravan bound for the city of the Eypharians. Now, assailed with the exotic aromas of Ahnatep, the cacophony of a foreign tongue and the penetrating glares of a strange people, Abashai could see how the young pre-Valterrian benshira could be lured into the decadence of the Eypharian capitol.

Yesterday he had found the Pavilion, an open market overflowing with wares from every corner of Mizahar. Gold, silver and vibrant colors gleamed in the desert sun from dozens of semi-permanent stalls, or laid on embroidered blankets on the dusty ground.

Abashai had found an old Drykas tattoo artist among the artisans quarter. In a defiant gesture to the multiple-armed Eypharians surrounding him, the brash youth had Shiber symbols tattooed on his forehead and cheeks. Then he got Broken Bands. He had seen some men in Yahebah with them, thick lines tattooed at the back of the wrist, three spikes reaching forth up the back of the hand. It was a symbol born of the Valterrian, worn by benshiran slaves who found freedom from the Eypharians when their precious city crumbled. The gruff old Drykas seemed especially amused to ink these marks on benshiran skin.

Abashai had returned this day at the behest of the Drykas man, to ensure the tattoos were healing properly. Passing through the crowded market, the benshiran again received glances that ranged from apathy to disdain to desire. At least two curious non-Eypharians glared at him with what could only be explained as hunger. They gave Abashai a cold shiver even in the steamy Eyktolian heat. But the rather plain-looking benshiran could not deny the exotic beauty of the gilded, haughty citizens arrayed in all their finery. Each one seemed to strive to embellish every aspect of their body, from divas borne on chairs carried by burly slaves to meager servants scurrying to do a master's bidding.

Two Jackals passed by, one intentionally shouldering roughly into Abashai. The benshiran staggered, knocking over a basket of pomegranates. The two soldiers glared at the desert wanderer with cruel grins, daring him to move against them. Abashai returned a defiant icy blue-green stare, his hand poised near the inside of his coat. He typically wore his khopesh outside his garments, but found it wiser to conceal it within the city. Though the benshiran did not shift his crystalline gaze, his hand slid slowly back to his side. The offending officer growled some epithet in Arumenic and his companion scoffed before the two turned away and moved on.

"Benachag." Abashai muttered under his breath. He turned to receive a stern accusation from the fruit merchant, again in the unfamiliar Eypharian language. Abashai muttered an apology and helped gather the scattered fruit. The benshiran, his pride scuffed, looked around to see the eyes of many upon him. One pair caught his eye, a deep blue-green gaze that seemed to literally draw him forward. They belonged to a young Eypharian woman whose stature was impressive, as she rose above the heads of those around her, indeed she may have exceeded Abashai's own height. With some effort he averted his eyes before his Benshira pride returned and he stood tall again.

He offered the produce vendor a few copper mizas and pocketed one of the damaged pomegranates. In a vain attempt to divert the unwelcomed attention of passersby, Abashai feigned interest in a nearby potter.

[Tarama]

The sun bleached stone wall, so unlike the smooth marble of the Pressorah’s palace or even the walls in the Garden of Concubines, slid roughly under Tarama’s pampered fingertips, coarse sand frozen in space, threatening to rub clean layers of skin were she applying anything but the slightest pressure. As she walked, her middle left arm continued to slide her fingers along the white wall that led towards the Pavilion proper, her hand being snaked up and down in a sinuous wave, the wall responding with a mixture of tingling, tickling and numbness that ebbed into her slender knuckles.

Tarama estimated that the old Hawk that had been assigned to her for the week would still be at prayers for the next two hours. Eighty four years old. Eighty four years! She sighed inwardly at the thought of it. And she had to spend the entire week with him; draping herself over his wrinkled trembling arms, laughing at his jokes, pretending that she was interested in his talk of Palace finances. Worst of all, against the norm of most sensible Eypharians who simply paid lip service to the gods, he was a devout follower of Syna. Each morning for the past four days he would wake up before the sun rose, dragging her out of bed with him, to perform some sun salutation that she could care less about. This particular morning they had left the Hawk’s abode to pay homage and give prayers at the Temple of Syna. Thankfully the old Hawk let her wander the city while he was at prayers. He was even generous enough to give Tarama a small pouch filled with copper and silver mizas, more than enough to find some food and perhaps even a little trinket or new adornment.

The wall under her fingertips ceased to exist when she finally entered the bazaar. She had been here many times before, but rarely by herself; and so she stood on its outskirts, staring with a hint of wonderment marking her slightly tilted head. While she had never seen a large body of water, she imagined this is what it might be like to stand at the edge of one. An ocean of sound, a sea of conversations spread out before her. The whole of the body obscured to her by its sheer size, she could hear local tides, lulls and surges over a background of droning, and even cresting waves of raucous laughter.

The novelty of it all wore off quickly when she ventured into the market. The sounds that intrigued her just moments before were starting to overwhelm her and, more importantly, when she glanced around at the people around her Tarama began to notice what kind of people they all were. Plebs were at her every side of her, part of her was pleased at the fact that she was by far the most elegant person in sight. But another part of her was disgusted by the fact that she might have to talk to some monstrous creature, she could deal with other humanoid creatures, she didn’t know if she had the patience to deal with much more. She quickened her pace towards a grocer, an Eypharian grocer, with a colourful array of fruits. Both common and exotic fruits were piled on the grocer's counter, on it's own it was a beautiful site, they even had her favourite - pomegranates.

Tarama picked up one of the small pomegranates with her middle right hand and brought it up to her face, with her upper left hand she cupped the pomegranate and lifted the end that used to be the flower towards her nose. She took a breath in, inhaling the intoxicating scent of the fresh ripe fruit. She didn’t need to smell it to know that it was ripe – perfectly ripe fruit was like gold; while you could be surrounded by it, a single portion of it was rapture. And like gold, when you pick it up you could feel the weight of it pulling your palm down, and you would be surprised by it, not expecting it to weigh as much as it does. The fruit now in her upper left hand, she raised and lowered it in the air several times, feeling the inertia of it dragging her hand with it. Reluctantly she lowered her arm and placed the pomegranate back with the others, her fingers lingered for an extra second caressing its leathery skin; delicious as they are, pomegranates are a tedious and potentially messy fruit. Tarama knew she wouldn’t have the patience to eat one or the confidence to not splatter flecks of red over the pure white silks that draped her body.

Her lower hands grazed over the piles of fruit, finally stopping over the brown, thinly skinned, fuzzy exotics. She picked two up, one in each of her hands, they fit nicely, just slightly larger than her palms. They were firm when she squeezed gently with her forefingers and thumb, and again, they were heavier than they appeared. Tarama leaned over the counter of fruit, her gold necklace lifted from her chest and swung like a pendulum, forward and back, its weight tugging at her neck foreshadowing stiffness come next morning. She held out the fruit in her cupped lower hands such that it looked like they would slip from her grasp. The grocer’s own hands came up to catch the fruits, her hands delicately brushing his while they both shared a smile.

“It would be a kindess if you could peel and slice them.” Tarama whispered sweetly. The grocer just smiled and pulled out a small kitchen knife, a board and began peeling and cutting. Tarama couldn’t help but smile with anticipation when the knife first exposed the vibrant green flesh; the man cut each fruit into about six little discs, large delicious green coins, and then placed them on a large leaf that would serve to keep Tarama’s hands clean as she held them. The grocer handed the fruit filled leaf to Tarama while there was a simultaneous exchange of coin, a handshake of gratitude and reciprocating thank you’s.

As she walked away from the grocer she examined the slices of fruit. If it weren’t for the little black seeds, speckled in an annular pattern, and the white centre, she imagined it would look like the iris of a green eyed person with its striations extending radially outward from its pupil. She brought a slice up to her mouth, parted her pouted lips and bit, it didn’t dribble juice but its nectar swam into her mouth. She was right, perfect fruit was just like gold – absolutely decadent.

Tarama made her way back to the edge of the bazaar to become once again an observer of her sonic ocean. While she ate she watched with mild interest the people coming and going through the market. There were nobles of powerful bloodlines wandering through, elbow to elbow to elbow with commoners, the poor. There were even collared slaves whom she guessed were Kelvics by the tightness of their collars. Then, back at the fruit seller’s stand there was a bit of a commotion. Two young Jackals, one of which was a face she recognized from somewhere she couldn’t remember,were having a particularly tense interaction with a filthy Benshira. Tarama’s blue-green eyes rolled dramatically as she watched fruit, including the very pomegranate she held just minutes ago, tumble from the grocer’s table.

Normally she wouldn’t have even graced a Benshira with her attention however this one piqued her interest. Their eyes locked momentarily as they caught each other staring at one another. Tarama didn’t break her gaze, instead, like everyone else, she started to pay closer attention the tattoos marking his face – shiber markings. There was no law against it, but tensions still were still taught between the two races and to wear markings like those openly and proudly in public in an Eypharian city was brash to say the least. This man was either incredibly confident or impressively stupid – Tarama assumed the latter. Still he was unique in an already eclectic mixture of people, and that was enough of a reason for Tarama to decide to follow him.

It was never meant to be clandestine. She could never hope to hide the clinking of her bangles and bracelets that jingled on her arms and ankles. Each of her steps, though gracefully placed like a cat’s paw, was coupled with rhythmic percussion. A dance with its own music. She followed the filthy dull drab human as he feigned interest in a large clay vase with intricately carved designs of Dira; she knew he was feigning interest because there was no way a Benshira could know the value of properly crafted vase, nor would he be interested in one with pictures of Goddess of Death on them.

She stalked the man with open curiosity, wondering what those symbols on his face meant, a smarter woman would have been cautious but Tarama still had a spirit of rekless youth inside of her. She was led along a meandering path leading through the makeshift shops until it became evident that they were heading towards the artisan’s quarter. Finally the man stopped, she didn’t notice exactly where he had stopped but she tried to stay close enough so that she could hear what, if anything, he might say.

[Abashai]

Once satisfied that those who witnessed his incident with the jackals had moved on to more self-centered pursuits, Abasahai shouldered his youthful pride and set down the vase he had absolutely no interest in. Ignoring the loathesome glare of the pottery vendor, Abashai continued his pace towards the artisan's quarter. A hot wind blasted through the bazaar, kicking up dust and twisting dark curly locks of the desert man's mane across his face. Brushing them aside, he spied again the tall Eypharian woman. She did not blend well, even among her own kind amid the busy market. Aside from her impressive stature, she was certainly more elegant and aloof. The silken garments draped around her slender form maintained a clean whiteness, tinkling bangles of gold encircled wrist, ankle and neck, and jewels and glitter caught and reflected the sun from her henna-streaked black hair. Even her delicate face was adorned with sparkling decor.

Had she not appeared so alien, so haughty, Abashai would have found her quite beautiful. As it were, she was certainly exotic. He simply noted that she seemed to be moving in the same direction as himself, glaring down her softly curved nose at those beneath her, both literally and socially. The wanderer never fathomed that the pristine woman could be following him.

Abashai jostled through the crowd into the artisan's quarter, where the masses thinned, though the dizzying array of scents, both of the market products and its patrons, clung to his nostrils. He approached a tent, a small awning shading the canvas dwelling's doorway. He called to the man inside, Duvalan. In a moment, a grizzled old man with long gray stringy hair and a hide tunic appeared.

Duvalan smiled broadly at the sight of the young benshiran. Wizened hands gingerly poked at Abashai's tattoos, both on his face his wrists. Duvalan did not speak Shiber, Abashai did not speak Pavi nor Arumenic, so the two conversed in broken Common. "So, my friend, how has your new adornments been received by our Eypharian nieghbors?" The older man jested, cackling. Abashai cracked a wry grin. "I am certainly no more endearing, that's for sure...and you promised children would throw orchids at my feet and six-armed women would wrap me in their scarves." The two outsiders guffawed loudly. The drykas tattoo artist held up a finger, darting into the tent, then returning with a small clay jar. He dipped out a viscous clear suave from the container and smeared a thin layer across Abahsai's inked skin.

"Seriously Duvalan, do they ever accept you?" The young benshiran inquired of the immigrant drykas, squirming at the greasy feel of the older man's ministrations. Without ceasing his applications, Duvalan replied. "They grow tolerant. If they did not want me here, I would not be. Like all people, young one, there are some that are good and some that are not. Do not always judge them by appearance. Some of them just do not understand what it is to live the kind of life you and I have. There." Wiping his hands on his dirty tunic, the old tattooist raised a wary finger to Abashai's face. "Explore, observe, learn. It is a fascinating place, but be wise, son. Do not take lightly the past your peoples have shared."

Smiling at the unexpected sagely advice, Abashai nodded in agreement, dropping another copper coin in the old man's ink-stained palm. Patting Duvalan on the shoulder, Abashai turned to further browse the vast Pavilion. Again, the jingle of precious metal and the flutter of fine ivory silk drew his attention and arrested his progress. She was there, again. He did not look at her at first, only perceiving her at the fringe of his vision. Then he turned his head, seizing in his gaze the sea-green eyes of the Eypharian woman.

Duvalan had warned not to judge too rashly, but surely this prideful daughter of Ahnatep was nothing more than another selfish, vain, pampered citizen. Though her persistent appearance stirred a curiosity he could not deny. He even thought to say something, his lips parted, then paused. He did not even know how to greet someone in Arumenic, or insult them for that matter. Instead, he stalked slowly to a nearby table, perusing some goldwear laid out on a blue and white cloth. Picking up a torc, Drykas in origin, he ran his fingers across the thin design etched into its surface. All the while the benshiran kept the mysterious woman at the edge of his eyesight.