[The Pillars of Dust] Alliance in Blood [Faroul]

[Rak'kena]

Day 76 of Spring, AV 511

It was a rare thing. Rak'kena hardly ever visited the Pillars of Dust. The place was not for his kind. Scorpions were always here, ready to prey on any passerby too ignorant or desperate to know better than to pass through. Luckily Rak'kena was neither of these. He came here with sword at his side and with the intention of seeing this horrible place. Everywhere he saw the women of his people, some weren't even Eypharian, and most were so think or broken that Rak'kena couldn't even find it in himself to find anything but atrocity in them. It sickened him, not because of their misfortune, but because he was actually standing so close to them. If one were to touch him, he thought, he would surely sever their hand off without warning or mercy. But why was Rak'kena here? He knew what it had to offer, very little. Outcasts, poor, lepers, criminals and prostitutes, everything he wanted to avoid, or did he? The Eypharian did not see desolated people, but a people that he would someday rule over. Every whore that flaunted her naked body with hopes that someone would come, take interest, and even have the soul to pay. Every thug that barely survived off of mugging foreigners or stealing food. They were all inferior, and they needed someone that would make use of them. Rak'kena, he wasn't displeased with Pressora Bashti's job, but he knew Pressor Rak'kena would do so much better. He stood in silence as he watched from underneath his hooded cloak. This was one of the few places he would hide his identity. It wouldn't be good if someone were to recognize him here. Rumors would be spread, which could devastate worse that truth. Nevertheless, Rak'kena had to come, to remind himself of these people for two important reasons. The first was to know who was not given attention and care, who was down on their luck, and who could be used and be trustworthy for a cheap price and ask very few questions, and two, because he had to remind himself of everyone that was inferior to him. And it felt wonderful to see these wretches strewn across the dirt with their games of dice and naked broken bodies basking in the sun. They had nothing else to do, nothing else they could do. Rak'kena, he had potential, and he planned to fulfill it.

[Faroul]

There was something about the Pillars of Dust that drew him here, time and again. His walkabouts through the city always seemed to end at these ruins, where the broken ribs of an ancient city's skeleton jutted through the sand. Perhaps it was familiarity; only here could he sit among those like him, jackals donning the skin of men. Only here could he witness the old carnivals of sin, the dances of murder and rutting that spun free in the dark. Only here did Ahnatep stink of hopelessness. It was the house of his heart. And perhaps he came here because it was the one place he could grab the end of the string that led to those who had ruined him. “Twenty gold mizas,” a leathery Eypharian man spat, not more than twenty paces away. “Hardly enough. Admit it, shyke. You've been skimming off the top.” “I ain't!” A smaller man, whom Faroul recognized as a Dusker, protested loudly. And in a lower voice: “I been robbed.” The leathery one burst out laughing. “And where are your guards? All those fancy boys you had last time I was around?” “Bought off,” he mumbled. “Seduced! By that Scorpion, Reyhan, and his damn whore Lark! Bought 'em over with money he got who knows where-” “Bashti's hidden nuts, you think I care? I've got princes breathing down my neck over this. Princes. And you know what happens when my princes aren't happy, don't you?” “Y-y-y-y-yes,” the Dusker stammered, cowed. “The sales is fine, Harketi! I swear! It's just-” “Not my problem.” Leathery Harketi raised four strong palms, as if to ward off responsibility. “Here's this week's merchandise. If you don't hand me the usual sum next time I'm back, plus what you lost, well. You'll be meeting some guys who'll introduce you to Krysus. I hear she is a fine lady.” “But-!” “No buts, shyke. Get hustling.” An exchange of a package and a few whimpers later, Harketi stalked off towards the main city. He did not see Faroul as he passed, where the Benshira huddled in the shade of a wide pillar. Did not realize that someone else was now privvy to his business. Faroul smiled a bitter little smile. Some things never changed. Whether in Ahnatep or the pit, a chain of predation wound through and bound the entire city. For those who watched it, traced its links, many secrets waited. Peering around the pillar, he saw that the Dusker had gone. A few more glances assured him that no one watched him. Standing, stretching, he made to follow the leathery mirage distributor, careful not to follow with too much purpose. Tangles of pillars, the rubble of fallen monuments, and lengthening shadows disguised his pursuit. His mark did not look back. Easy enough, Faroul thought. And likely enough that he is from the West Winds. Perhaps he will go right to their compound. The jackal in his breast stirred with satisfaction. Andrenaline raced through his limbs, carrying tense memories of hunting and being hunted through twisting alleys and tunnels of stone. He continued on. Then Harketi passed someone. The Benshira slowed to a stop, lurking behind a pillar. The cloaked and hooded figure seemed plain enough at first glance. But looking further, something about him was sorely out of place. It was not just the confident swagger – Scorpions and thugs made a career of strutting – nor the strong, unbent shoulders. Young laborers came here often enough to seek the dusty bowers of the Larks. No, the suspicious quality was the arrogant gaze, the expression of authority that not even a hood could shade. In other words, this was someone entirely too important to be walking the Pillars of Dust alone. Harketi passed through a broad archway and disappeared onto a distant avenue. Faroul did not follow; he knew his mark would return in a week. There would be plenty of time to find the Dusker again and await the supplier's return. But this – this was a rare chance, far too interesting to pass by. Once the cloaked man had gained a suitable lead, Faroul slipped after him, following as he journeyed into the heart of the forest of sand and stone.

[Rak'kena]

As Harketi walked by, Rak'kena stepped to the side, giving the man more than enough room to move without having to so much as share the same molecules of oxygen with him. He would sit here and watch him, watch his miserable life of thuggery and cheap dealings, he knew the man had nothing but muscle and intimidation. He probably didn't even have a dream of growing within the society of Ahnatep, nor did he have the cunning to do so. There was money to be made in extortion and gambling, sure, but that was weak, shallow profit. Rak'kena had little for now, but he would not sip on the dew of the poor man's money, he would forever be thirsty and never satisfied. That's why he wanted to gorge on the banquets of riches at the Pressora's House, that's why he would settle for nothing but the absolute best. The man gave Rak'kena a sharp threatening glare as he stalked by, probably nothing more than a little threat that spoke "I'm king around these parts, don't petch with me.", but Rak'kena was hardly worried. It wasn't worth his time, nor did it provide profit, to kill such a man for his idiocy. "They do not understand who it is they have watching over them. None but a prophet, and I myself, can truly understand who I really am. Pressor reincarnate. There is an impostor in my home, and a thief she is." Rak'kena inhaled slowly, taking in that dry sand-scented air, then he turned around and started to walk deeper into the Pillars of Dust. He wanted to see them closer, the prostitutes, not because he wanted to see their bodies for sexual purpose, but because of their hidden misery masked by trivial masks of beauty and seduction. He could feel their misery though, he was certain of it, and perhaps he was wrong, but you'd be able to convince him the sun was blue before you could convince him that he was misguided in his thoughts. "Hey gorgeous, you look lonely. Is there anything I can do to help?" The harlot stood up, she probably assume that Rak'kena's staring at her was that of lust and hunger, and there was hunger, just not for what she assumed. Rak'kena was not fickle, he was not so easily understood, nor his feeling accurately accepted as most. A lesser man might hand over some silver and take her right there, but Rak'kena was not interested. Even below the waist there wasn't so much as a tickle of intrigue or a tug of curiosity. He was as unresponsive to her as the sand beneath his sandals. "No." It took the Eypharian a long moment to say this, again misinterpreted by the whore as hesitation. She was convinced he did want to fuck, and she moved closer, her hips sway and six arms reaching out towards Rak'kena as she moved, then she stopped as Rak'kena reached down for the Gladius at his side. "No." Her eyes widened as she backed up, her strides not so seductive or attempting at swaying his interest. She feared him now, now that she saw he was armed, and had something else in mind. "Sit down." She obeyed, she wasn't around anyone, though a solid scream would bring all sorts of thugs and rough men down on Rak'kena's head. She seemed stunned though, fearful, and now Rak'kena's body was feeling a pulse. It was time to leave this place. Rak'kena turned as he released the gladius, and without giving it a second thought, he moved past the Benshira that had been following him. Rak'kena, being aware of who he was, should be, and better than anyone how cruel people could be, didn't even suspect this man was stalking after him, at least not yet. He moved, back towards the populated, less filthy, and generally acceptable part of the city of Ahnatep, but his steps were slow, leisurely, he wasn't drinking in his superiority, nor the inferiority of those around him. By the gods, Rak'kena was on some adrenaline-powered high right now. He needed a beautiful woman that would struggle with all her might, but was at least noteworthy within the Eypharian society. Wrestling with those in this place, it wasn't possible.

[Faroul]

"They do not understand who it is they have watching over them. None but a prophet, and I myself, can truly understand who I really am. Pressor reincarnate. There is an impostor in my home, and a thief she is." The words were little more than a murmur from the hooded Eypharian, a quiet retort nearly lost in the brush of the wind. For Faroul, however, they blasted with the power of a sandstorm, almost knocking him from his feet. Could this be the child? It was an impossible thought. A hundred thousand circumstances would have to align for it to be true, chance upon chance upon chance interweaving just so in the loom of fate. Desperate flights, childbirth, infancy survived. Support found among hostile strangers. Knowledge of blood and lineage taught and accepted. Birthrights desired. Skills cultivated. Vayt and Krysus avoided. Returns made, secrecy kept. It could not be, not when single mistakes were all that separated man from utter ruin, from failure and death. And yet. Had he himself not tied together chance upon chance, fastening a bridge of decades over the abyss? Did this man not appear to be the proper age, judging from the form beneath his cloak? Who else would dare claim to be “Pressor Reincarnate,” would dare malign the exalted Bashti as an impostor and thief? Who but the legitimate child of Teremun and.... He staggered. His heart burned like a coal fed by the bellows, knocking hard against his ribs. His stomach churned, threatening to void itself on the sand. Slumping against a nearby pillar, concealed by shade, he fought for control. What was this sickening feeling? Was this hope? But Priskil had never been anything to him but a cruel, teasing whore. He could not believe, would not believe, until he looked this man in the face and saw proof for himself that these extravagant claims were just. Steadied by that conviction, Faroul drew in a breath and resumed the trail. Though his eyes did not leave the Eypharian, memories washed over him in a surging tide. The winter night hung dead and heavy over the gilded city, a funeral shroud that seemed to occlude even the light of the stars. Silence stagnated everywhere, broken only by the slur of frantic whispers. A small party hurried onward, rabbits fleeing a warren invaded by snakes. All too soon, pinpricks of light flared in the dark, sweeping towards them. “Sadiki's jackals,” a woman hissed. “We can't turn back,” a man responded. “But they can't be far behind..." “I will go. I will make time.” The words spilled from his lips before he even realized he intended to speak. The man turned to stare at him, cold and assessing, before nodding once. The woman stepped forward, torch in hand. Their fingers met in a whisper of a touch as she passed the light to him, brown brushing gold. For the span of a fleeting moment they stood there, encircled by the sphere of torchlight. Fire limned her silhouette and traced the curve of her full womb. Fathomless and inscrutable eyes smoldered within the depths of her wool cloak and ebony veil. He knelt. “Gods keep you, my queen.” It was the last thing he said to her before he darted off into the dark. The last time he ever saw her. “Hey gorgeous, you look lonely. Is there anything I can do to help?” Faroul blinked, awareness returning as a harlot propositioned the Eypharian he followed. Shaking off the lingering mental fog, he watched their exchange with a dispassionate patience. The man's refusal, however, surprised him. This is not why he came here? He had figured the youth too proud to dusk or dice, but too proud for pleasure as well? Curious. What else was there to do in this degenerate place? Rebukes made, his mark turned and stalked off the way he had come, drifting right past Faroul. The Benshira turned to follow again, not bothering to conceal himself. His quick steps soon overtook the other man's leisurely pace, and he swept up beside him. “Tell me,” he said with the casual indifference of a man remarking on today's weather. “What is a would-be pressor doing, walking alone in the Pillars of Dust?”

[Rak'kena]

"Tell me, what is a would-be pressor doing, walking alone in the Pillars of Dust?" Rak'kena had not suspected anyone would overhear him, let alone bother to eavesdrop in such a place as this. This was a place where you were more inclined to watch your own back and purse, but stay clear of the business of others. Rak'kena slowed his movement to a gentle halt, turned his head to see the man, not an Eypharian, which was calming in this situation. He wondered if the man was with one of the houses, perhaps from the Pressora's family itself, but a Benshira, it was unlikely. Rak'kena studied the man a moment, he was a mystery to Rak'kena. Little more than a specter wandering in the presence of Rak'kena. He continued to stare at him for a long moment, drinking in his visible appearance to the best of his ability, then he grinned. "Come, I will let you see what I see. I will teach you what it is I know." Back the way they came, Rak'kena turned, moving back into the depths of the Pillars of Dust. It was no different for certain, just as they left in only chimes ago, it remained. Dice here, prostitutes there, men arguing over trivial details in the distance, sand and dust everywhere. Desolation, that's what this place should have been called. "What do you see here?" Rak'kena had stopped again. His arm extended outwards to offer the whole area for Faroul to inhale, to absorb. There were the obvious things, the people, the poverty, the violence, the lawlessness, the sand, the dust, the stone, the remains and reminder of a once perfect city, and what it is now. "What is it you see in the eyes of these woman, begging for you to take their bodies for a few pieces of silver? What is it you see in these men, fighting, stealing, gambling, cheating, all for a bit of coin? Those that are dying from hunger, yet are now too weak to eat, to live, what is it you see in their hearts?" Rak'kena turned his face towards Faroul. His hands reached to his head, lowering his own hood to reveal groomed hair and an odd crazed look in his sapphire/emerald eyes. He was studying now, wondering what it was he could see in this Benshira. He was interesting, important even. Rak'kena knew this because he noticed Rak'kena when everyone else just saw an Eypharian, or a client, or a person with coin, or a beautiful face and beautiful body. Faroul was important because he recognized importance. But that, in itself, did not make him a friend. No, that made Rak'kena wonder if he was here to throttle Rak'kena for his plans. Surely nobody knew, but there was that voice that cried otherwise. "What is it you see in my eyes? What do you see in my heart?" Rak'kena motioned with his head and replaced the hood. His legs started moving again as he continued to pass through the Pillars of Dust, and the public display of sex, an interesting little orgy not far from them, didn't even seem to draw Rak'kena's attention in the least. "I'll tell you what I see, what I feel. These people, they are all hungry for something. Many, it's in the literal sense, it's food, water. For others, it's dignity that they lost. Others still want recognition amongst their peers. They want to be accepted into society once again, but Ahnatep has told them they are not worthy, except to stay here in this wretched place. Did you see it in my eyes? The hunger they feel? It's there, I assure you, I am hungry. I hunger not for food, not for a woman's touch, not for riches, but to make this place, all of Ahnatep, all of Ekytol, great beyond anybody's imagination. The Pressora Bashti..." Rak'kena turned suddenly, putting himself face to face with Faroul. "She has ignored these people. They suffer because of her. Have you ever seen a feast in the Garden of Concubines? No, it would be unlikely for a Benshira to have the privilege. They feast until they should be fat, disgusting, and sometimes they will vomit just so that they could consume more. They dance, they sing, the petch on the palace floors, for days and days they might do this, but here in the Pillars of Dust, they only die. I would change that." Rak'kena wasn't smiling anymore, he was brutally serious now. But he had spoken too much. Faroul was now a threat to everything Rak'kena had fought for, was fighting for. He could threaten the future of Ekytol with only a few words in the wrong ears. Rak'kena's gladius would hover inches from the Benshira's sternum, ready to pierce through him. Rak'kena had two choices, death, or a life in alliance with Rak'kena. A life which would only end in death. "I cannot risk the Houses, the Nobles, nor the Pressora learning of me and my dreams. They are fickle-minded and easily distracted. I cannot risk your tongue exposing me."

[Faroul]

The Benshira eyed the gladius as Rak'kena aimed it at his chest, lifting his gaze a moment later to the wielder himself. The look was as cutting as the blade's edge, a swift dissection. A Devourer, he thought. After so many years, Faroul could recognize them the way others recognized blood kin. The Eypharian carried all the familiar signs - a face molten with pride, a body boiling with desires, and eyes that flashed with danger and readiness to kill. Because of this, Faroul already knew the shape of the man's condemnation. Either he would be consumed by his own lusts and fall into madness, or he would die in a struggle for dominance, be it in Ahnatep or the pit. It was a semhu play he had seen reenacted countless times. Yet maybe the Eypharian's dignity could keep him from succumbing to monstrosity, even if that alone would not spare his life. Perhaps he had intelligence and skill enough to survive until the final act. And if those qualities could unite with his ambition, perhaps this man could achieve something greater than the real Devourers he resembled, who sought only to string one moment of satiety to the next. It was unlikely, Faroul knew - just as unlikely as discovering royal lineage in this stranger. It was but one more taunt from Priskil. On the other hand, a man was a fool to ignore an opportunity. He smiled. “My tongue, expose you? Who in Ahnatep would listen to a ragged old Benshira?” He replied in smooth Arumenic. On the surface, it was true. The city was steeped in racism and derision, and the Benshira did look little more than a beggar or vagrant. Dusty robes covered him from head to toe, and a turban concealed his hair and lower face. Only mobile gray eyes, dark eyebrows, and a hint of weathered brown skin were visible through the gap in the fabric. And yet the undermode of his question brimmed with invitation: you might listen. Continuing, Faroul's voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "Besides, why do you think this the fault of Bashti alone?" He motioned to their desolate surroundings, to the people plagued by the hungers the Eypharian had mentioned. "They suffer because all things are built on the backs of others, the backs of the weak. Fact of life, no? Even these people, they are not brothers in their pain." He pointed towards a distant game of dice that had devolved into a brawl, and the now-disbanding orgy where a man used all four arms to drag off a struggling woman. "They do this. You, me, we do this. The Four Houses, the Scepters and Jibade, even the gods, they do this too. Not just the Pressora. How is your greatness different?" Though the Benshira's tone was neither dismissive nor defiant, it was clear that he had laid a challenge for the Eypharian, who could not know that Faroul had indeed seen feasts at the Garden of the Concubines, and far more beyond that. He smiled again, amused by the irony, and searched the younger man's face for resemblances while the would-be pressor gathered his words.

[Rak'kena]

Rak'kena was shocked to see Faroul stare back at him with those deadly eyes. It was a game now, a game that they could not back down from. Faroul, rather than acting impulsively on fear as most of the world would in that moment, stood his ground when death was only an inch from piercing his sternum. A quick, clean kill. Rak'kena felt something, a hunger being very slowly satisfied. This was the sort of feeling the harlot could not bring to him. This was the sort of feeling that only death, danger, and victory could bring about in Rak'kena. He grinned, he couldn't help it. He wanted to burst into laughter, uncontrolled, pure blissful laughter, but he refused himself that foolish act. Rak'kena was used to the position of dominance. Over women. Over weak men. Even now, when it was without a doubt that he had Faroul under his control, a thrust away from silence for eternity, and he actually felt that he wasn't on top, he wasn't leading the show, he wasn't winning the game. Faroul intrigued him because of that strange, cold, analytical eyes of his. Rak'kena pulled the sword away, feeling it was pointless now to threaten Faroul with death. It didn't phase him. "Any man, even a Benshira, can become powerful in Ahnatep. It is not easy, but with a knife in the right hands, and the hardness to keep the heart strong in the face of death, anyone can do anything. Your tongue could prove devastating if I allowed it freedom, but I believe there is gain to be found." Rak'kena grinned, Faroul, despite being wise, misunderstood him, or just assumed further than he was meant to. "The Pressora is not the only one to blame. She is, however, the one that can make the sands sprout flowers and the prostitutes virgins again." Rak'kena wasn't speaking literally of course, these things were impossible, but he was implying that if anyone could make the next-to-impossible happen, it was her... or rather, whoever held that title. "She is ignorant or she is cruel. I do not know which, but either one is a weakness for this city. The Houses, the Jackals, everyone with power to change this, aren't." Rak'kena couldn't care less about those in desolation, except that it caused Ahnatep to look filthy (which it was). He wanted everyone, especially foreigners, to see how powerful Ahnatep really was, and how frightening it could be if trifled with. "They suffer because they are not rewarded for their troubles. These women could be concubines. These criminals could be soldiers and spies. Gamblers could be competitive business men, but they are ignored so they are not aware of who they could be. I am aware of who I can become. This city is broken, and it is my intention to use its flaws to fix it. Everyone else, they abuse it to keep their personal joys, their comfortable lives, their superiority over these people." Rak'kena started walking again, now that he had finished saying everything that needed to be whispered in hushed tongues. "I am Rak'kena, merely Gilded in Ahnatep. I know you are Benshiran, nobody but your kind finds pleasure in so much clothing, but why are you so formidable? You are hardened, dangerous, and if I had been a lesser Eypharian, I would have killed you when I had your chest exposed to my blade."

[Faroul]

Rak'kena's grin chilled Faroul. It was all the more unsettling for its nakedness. The taut pull of his mouth's corners, the bared display of his teeth, and the almost jubilant gleam in his eyes told the Benshira that this man took pleasure in challenge, that it aroused rather than frustrated him. The hunt was a thing to be relished. And surely Rak'kena considered this a hunt or game; in addition to his eager grin, his body, too, tensed with predatory anticipation. It was as if the Eypharian also carried a jackal within him, a twin to the beast denned in Faroul's own breast. The thought sobered the Benshira, the remnants of his smile fading even as the other man lowered his blade. His body tingled with the familiar warning: caution. "I see," he said once the Eypharian had finished explaining himself. "Better to hitch an animal to your cart than break it beneath the wheels. One who does not understand that should not be driving the wain." He turned as the Eypharian did, matching his steps as they walked. Only now did Rak'kena see the gleam of a khopesh peeking from beneath the Benshira's outer coat. "Dangerous, me? You imagine things, Rak'kena." He responded to the other man's question with a low chuckle, as a father might dismiss his child's fanciful make-believe. "I am just a worn-out nag, an old servant to cart drivers. You can call me Faroul." The wistful introduction lingered through the silence of several steps. "Named for the goddess of healing, are you? Funny," he mused. "How do you intend to accomplish all that you have said, son of Rak'keli?" Despite his wariness of the man, Faroul found himself more interested in the answer than he had expected. While the lineaments of the Gilded's face did not match the shape of the ghost he remembered, the Benshira could not deny that Rak'kena glowed with the same charisma and beauty. Though not related by blood, she and this man were cut from the same golden cloth. Now that he had caught her echoes in Rak'kena's face, he knew he could never forget them. He would always see. His feet ceased to carry him any farther as he struggled to hold shut the crack in his heart. OOCNote: I'm not trying to pull a khopesh out of my bum or anything. I intend to buy one in my earlier thread, just haven't gotten to it yet.

[Rak'kena]

Everything was a game to Rak'kena. The game of feeding his need of superiority. The game of pleasuring himself any way necessary. The game of plotting his great uprising from the shadows of Ahnatep. The game of taking rank and power in his palms. It was all a game, he enjoyed every second of it, but he was also a sore loser. To fail, to drift into the areas of submission and weakness, it drove him insane, desperate, which could be more frightening than the Eypharian that would rape and kill just because he wanted to. The beast Faroul saw inside him, it was there, though many could argue that it was not a monster that dwelt within his soul, but he was in fact the monster hidden in the visage of a four armed man. Either image would please Rak'kena, monstrous was frightening, and he could bask in the radiant rays of fear for a lifetime and never grow tired of it. "You see? Perhaps. There is much that goes on that is unseen, unknown. Not even I can pretend to see it. I do not pretend often, Faroul, but I am not deceived in my belief. Your eyes are cold. They hold a history, greater than that of many. It makes me curious about you, a Benshira. By Syna's cunt, I'm intrigued by a Benshira. I never thought this was possible." Rak'kena chuckled loudly, he didn't care in the least if Faroul was angered by the blatant and blunt insult. Faroul of course knew how Eypharians treated Benshira, Rak'kena wasn't even going that far by Ahnatep's typical standards. "But, yes. Rak'keli, I am named in her honor. I was to be a healer, my mother wished it, and my father wished for her legs to spread so it was done. Do you know why I am not a healer?" Rak'kena shifted his tangent suddenly with the question, his feet stopped moving as he stared into Faroul's eyes. His smile was gone, and for a brief moment there was a seriousness as stone-cold as death itself. "I am not a healer because I did not wish to become one." It was a fairly logical reason, but Rak'kena was trying to make a point. He wasn't trying to claim that he obtained everything he wanted, but there was something, a hinting that he didn't allow anything to happen that he didn't want to happen. As if he could in some screwed up way, get what he wanted by not allowing which he didn't. In his mind, it made sense. He began moving again, his odd arrogant grin returning once again. "To take Pressora Bashti's title from her, I cannot rely on a single plan. I cannot trust a single sword in the hands of a single man. Nor can I think that a plan made today will lift me to the top of Ahnatep tomorrow. It is a game I must play. There are several plans I must make, I must execute. Like a child learning to stand before it can walk, and walk before it can run. Pressora will not be mine until her family is deceased, lost, or abandon all claim to the title. That is the final step of my final plan. For now, my eye is on the Houses of Four Winds. Concealment, Faroul. That's the goal of my first plan. Conceal myself in their house, take over from within, undermine the other houses in petty wars and struggles for money while I work for bigger gain. It's a very delicate game." Rak'kena glanced back at Faroul after his brief monologue, considering again if he should end the Benshira's life. He could be a threat, though he was convinced Faroul meant nothing to Ahnatep. He would probably be mocked and harassed if he tried to reveal Rak'kena's vague plans. It was risky, but it also added a flavor to this game they were playing. "My father abandoned me and my mother, left us from the circle of the Four Winds. He took my younger sister, but left me to rot where I am." Bitterness, it was finally revealed. His motive, his belief that he was wronged, neglected, and deserved more than he had, and most of all, he was prepared to slit throats to earn it.

[Faroul]

Faroul listened in silence as Rak'kena spoke. He had nothing to say in response to the man's interest in his eyes and history, nor the curiosity he had inspired despite his race. Once, ages ago, the esteem of Eypharians had been more valuable to him than golden mizas; nothing fed vanity quite so well as winning an unwinnable respect, the respect denied all others of his kind. Men always desired to be exceptions. Now, however, such regard was hollow. His history made him what he was, but it was more a dragging weight than a source of bouyant pride. There were no boasts to be made about life in the dark - not when his skin ran with scars and loss chapped his heart. His heavy footfalls and distant gaze spoke for him as he resumed walking next to the Eypharian, offering nothing except space for speculation. "It is true that you are meant for more," he finally said once Rak'kena stared him down, explaining why he was not a healer. The comment neither rang with praise nor stuck in his teeth as a grudging admission; it was merely an observation, a fact about all people cursed to dream large. What "more" meant, however, the Benshira neglected to say. Rak'kena imagined triumph, grandeur, and transcendence, but Faroul knew the attendant struggle and anguish, the knives that struck from unforseen places. This Gilded was sure to come to grief and die. Just as she, too, must be dead. The suddenness of the thought slapped him. He sucked in a stunned breath, trying to push it aside. Not here. Not now. He could not afford to show weakness in front of Rak'kena. And yet the awfulness of the thought made it tempting to believe. He was, after all, a man seduced by hopelessness. She is dead. It was all for nothing. Was Rak'kena laughing at him? No, the Eypharian merely grinned as he revealed his plans. Faroul forced himself to pay attention, willed himself not to cry out or tear at his own clothes and hair. At this moment, nothing was more important than Rak'kena. His breath slowed; his fingers steadied and brushed the hilt of his khopesh; his chest unclenched. He listened to his companion, drawing the words together like a beggar draws loose coppers into a purse. He listened as this man spoke of eradicating the entire royal line. Though spoken without particular emphasis, amid a rush of other plans and plots, the gravity of the statement was not lost on Faroul. Nor was the precariousness of his own situation. Rak'kena's interest only mattered to the Benshira because it prevented violence against his person, but soon that interest would be eclipsed by the risk of his existence - he knew too much. The Eypharian had laid it all on the table. It was time to offer some of his own cards, or deal death. Rak'kena eyed him, knowing the same. The jackal in his breast roused in response. His pulse quickened. Thought gave way to instinct, fist closing about hilt in an unconscious motion. His eyes narrowed and he shifted his weight into stance. His entire body poised on the edge of a moment; once the blade was drawn, he must cut. It would be so easy to murder this Gilded, to hack open his naked gut and end every single one of his plans. To kill him and return to his own tiny room, to live out the rest of his days in Ahnatep as if it had never happened. As if this man wearing a phantom queen's glamour had never desired the pressor's crown, had never met a Benshira who had crawled out of the broken dark. But was that really what he wanted? "My father abandoned me and my mother, left us from the circle of the Four Winds. He took my younger sister, but left me to rot where I am." Rak'kena's words curdled with bitterness, betraying years of resentment. Faroul could see veins throb at the Eypharian's temples, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. There it was - the secret he carried, the fuel that fed his every fire. Rak'kena had been forsaken. Perhaps, then, they were not so different. Bitterness was a language Faroul understood too well. Wasn't it bitterness that had led him here, to the Pillars of Dust? Faroul had lost everything; Rak'kena had been denied everything. Though the Benshira did not share the Gilded's hunger for privilege, nor luxury, nor power, he too wished to move the world according to the shape of his heart. He need not labor alone. Even Devourers banded together in their shadowed hall. "I could kill you," he said, "but that would only be a waste." Withdrawing his hand from his blade, he relaxed his posture, and reached up to loosen the rough veil that covered his face. No longer hidden, Rak'kena could see the Benshira's brown countenance in its entirety. It held the eroded remains of a distant youth; like the pillars the men stood beneath, it contained only a trace of bygone glories. What had once been strong features were now marred by the ruts of deep-set lines and haphazard scars. A short black beard streaked with white and gray bordered sunken cheeks. A lean wastedness hinted at the privation of decades. Time had not been kind. Dispensing with subtle intimations, Faroul confessed as Rak'kena had. "I have also lost much to the great Houses. I once served the West Winds, made a career of collecting secrets. Perhaps I can be of use to you." He laid a card onto the table.