Poor Substitute for Paradise [Sahreni]

[Aryaste]

Summer 30, 512 AV

Aryaste trudged through the dusty streets of Ahnatep, thankful for the respect that the Eypharians seemed to have for anyone with horns. Though, observing the way they thought of themselves, it was conceivable that one or two down the line may have tried to lie with bulls to breed the holiest bloodline of all: an Eypharian with horns. The irony of the city was far from lost on his cynicism; it seemed to him that the trend among the poor to emulate those that kicked them hardest was a universal one. A snatch of comprehensible conversation there, an unduly-dignified gait on a garishly-girded peasant there; it was all so ludicrous that it might have been funny, except it wasn’t. It was just sad.

Maybe they believe that if they act sophisticated now, it will ease their transition when that nonexistent break they’re waiting for finally comes. It’s not any of my concern, besides, it’s pleasant enough here. Sustenance at night and sunlight during the day.

That was the problem, though; the sun. Aryaste brushed an errant cascade of carmine out of his eyes, peering up at the Temple of Syna that these creatures had raised in their delusional devotion. Truth be told, it looked more like a brothel to his eyes, with its bold architecture, garish façade and even bolder coloration. Perhaps, however, it was an appropriate homage to such a fickle deity.

As tempting as the thought of a soft bed with one of these made-up boys in it sounds… they can keep their brothel of worship. I’d rather have a sheaf of wadj and a quill. Perhaps a brothel later, if I feel compelled to pay out my nose for a night of passionless passion.

He didn't break stride, continuing at a leisurely pace in search of a merchant who sold the essentials of his trade, or at least someone less disgustingly garish and animated to ask directions of. Tired at last of brooding rumination, he fell to counting unfamiliar colors. Needless to say, this occupied him for some time. The literal peacock’s tail of shades that seemed to be in abundance here only accentuated the eccentricities of those that wore them. Everyone, it seemed, had a favorite color that he felt compelled to champion. Aryaste took a peek down at his own carmine kilt after seeing between seventeen to fifty-two like-minded individuals. He had fancied himself rather original, but now he was not quite so sure.

Surely these are unnecessary shades. Why would anyone wish to have so many variations of green?

At long last, Aryaste happened upon a stall that would suit his needs. As it happened, the purveyor of this particular stall was one of those zealots that seem to crop up from any culture, and in any land. The Eypharian labored for several long, painful minutes under the delusion that the Ethaefal before him was fluent in Arumenic, and several longer minutes spent trying to convince his prospective customer (in painfully broken Common) that wadj that was dyed bright yellow was lucky. After settling on a painfully drab sheaf of the colorless variety, and a slightly less drab set of crimson quills and black ink, Aryaste made off with his fairly-purchased and hard-won prize, in search of somewhere peaceful to practice his forgotten art.

Perhaps a brothel now wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I could simply write on someone’s back…

He shook himself clean of the image of himself drawing a staff on taut, gold-tinted skin. No one would hire a lecherous composer. Perhaps no one would hire a composer at all, even if he were free of unclean urges, it was impossible to say. In any case, his mizas wouldn’t last forever, and unless he fancied resorting to the oldest profession in the world (in which capacity he also doubted his ability and desirability), he had to at least try to seek employment. In the process of this dour rumination, Aryaste had wandered in to a reasonably peaceful courtyard. The nature of the establishment, whether commercial or private, was impossible to determine from his current location and, as his personage had not already been forcibly ejected by six to twelve rough arms to the back, it seemed as good a place as any to begin. Plunking himself down on his stomach on cool sandstone, with his utensils arrayed haphazardly in front of him, it was almost easy to just ‘start’. ‘Almost easy’, alas, is not the same as simply ‘easy’. He had inked his quill, drawn the staff, marked the time… and nothing happened. It had been too long, perhaps. Aryaste scribbled a line, trying to hear the music as he assumed he once had. A trill, an arpeggio, even just a simple scale. He heard nothing. Scratching out the silent notes, he scribed himself another set of lines, this time trying to hum something out, all the while hounded by a hissing inner voice.

Been done before. Everyone knows that, everyone would think you’re a fraud. No, too pedestrian; any cow could plop that dreck out its least dignified hole.

With a sigh, Aryaste let his neck droop and obscure the world in a thick curtain of crimson hair…

[Sahreni]

Two men emerged from the Villa's bathhouse, sauntering under the pavilion that canopied the edges of the courtyard. Both were clad in brightly colored, fresh clothing, and smelled of floral oils and fragrant salts. One appeared twice the age of the other, but the more noticeable disparity between them was the uneven number of arms. The elder man had only two, while the youth possessed six. All eight arms were presently as involved as their tongues while they engaged in an apparently important conversation. Nascht was listing off his recent experiences with a North Winds girl who, he estimated, was stalking him and possibly plotting his demise. Or at the very least, trying to sabotage him. "She is following me, Sahreni. Nearly every time I visit the city, she somehow shows up. How does she know where I'm going to be?" "Informants, perhaps. The North Winds are known for their cunning and guile." Sahreni made a partial gesture with both hands, then tucked his arms behind his back. It was part of a High Arumenic motion that implied strongly dismissive sarcasm. With fewer than four arms, Sahreni's approach at the language's idiomatic gestures was artfully simplified. Primarily, only close family and associates understood it without difficulty. "She is extremely irritating. She is always smiling—like she's hiding something. And she won't stop talking to me. Whatever I'm doing, she just invites herself to join me." "It rather sounds like she is just infatuated with you." Sahreni cast a sidelong glance at his half-brother. "I get the sense that the feeling is mutual." "What?! You're mad! I'd never… wait. Sahreni, do we have any horned servants or slaves?" "Horned...?" The taller halfblood turned his head to follow Nascht's eye line. Sure enough, the courtyard was empty but for a small-looking being with brilliant red hair, crowned by a pair of ornate glass horns. They seemed almost like faux ornaments at first. The gender was difficult to make out at this distance. Sahreni gradually slowed his walking, coming to a stop in the pavilion's cool shade. Nascht lingered next to him. "That isn't one of ours," the bastard said quietly. Fresh from the bath, his clothing was minimal, hair wet, and he was not carrying a sword. His only defense against attack was a pair of leather bracers not meant for combat. "We don't have any Ethaefal at the Villa." "It's a thief. Shall I send for guards?" "Perhaps, but he looks harmless." It looked like a he. "I'll investigate. Stay here." "But—" "If I take a dagger to the ribs, you'll know to call the guards." Cautiously, Sahreni left the shade of the pavilion, leaving his doe-eyed brother to watch him approach the quiet stranger, who still seemed oblivious to their presence. The noble stepped into unabated sunlight, his skin glittering brilliantly under Syna's attention. He forwent using the sandstone paths that snaked through the gardens, instead choosing to pass through beds of orchids and foxglove and ducking beneath the arm of a tall briar shrub. Although Sahreni had seen Ethaefal at the Temple of Syna, he couldn't recall ever personally meeting one. His education had persuaded him to regard the creatures with some measure of respect, considering their divine origins. This one had wandered onto protected property, however, so Sahreni took enough care to at least be wary. "The gardeners must be doing superb job," Sahreni spoke in Common once he was close enough. It was instinct to default to a simpler language for anyone with only two arms. "I've never known Ethaefal to grow out of flowerbeds, but that is the only explanation for your trespassing. I am not aware of any recent invitations to the Villa of the West Winds." Still clasping his hands behind his back, Sahreni put a warm smile on his face to assuage any fear that the Ethaefal was about to face any sort of punishment. "The guards must be otherwise occupied. May I offer some guidance, friend? I can only assume you are lost." Sahreni's wet hair overshadowed his face, darkening the kohl lines painted around his eyes. The Ethaefal had appeared to be writing something, but his presence alone was a much more pressing matter.