Ink Pot

(Closed to Phi!)

Varin wandered the lengths of the icy Salvarian docks, marveling at the calm, grey skies above. His wings were tucked neatly into the fabric of his robes, away from the bite of the wind and out of sight. One could not describe it as an evil place. Just… foreboding to Varin, in that it was unpleasantly dirty. The Drakari had nothing but distaste for the salt creep that crusted the seaside shacks, the barnacles that grappled every algae-scummed surface, and the dried gannet leavings. Everything smelled keenly of overripe fish. One wouldn't think that sand and snow were a good combination. And, they weren’t. Where grains of sand hitched a ride beneath his scales, they rubbed him raw. And went the falling snow invariably found its way into the folds of his robe, it made him shiver.

In short, the Drakari had no end of complaints to mumble to the little brown bird riding atop his shoulder.

While Varin had overheard rumors of ugly going-ons out here -- something about ruffians and the pilfering of trading ships -- the town didn’t seem too awful if one ignored the drab squalor. For one, he experienced little hostility. There was a strange look or two squared his way, but nothing more. He supposed that was an advantage to hubs of commerce and trading; all manners of beings passed through. There had been a ship of shivering Alerarian elves docked a few streets down, along with a few human non-native folk. Varin had even been hit on by a kobold earlier. Though, he wasn’t certain if being attractive by the standards of a squat, peeling-scaled lizard-creature was complimentary.

Varin grumbled, and pulled his robes more closely around himself. He might need to scrounge enough money to buy proper winter clothes later. “You know, one would think that someone in this ungodly place would be willing to purchase a drawing from me. Then again, perhaps it is not so shocking. Most of these people are haggard fishers and hurried traders. They would not make for a lovely portrait anyway. I wonder if the cold makes everyone ugly in the north.”

“Chirp cheep,” scolded the little brown bird clinging to his shoulder. “Cheep!”

Varin snorted at Arie’s glib chirp. “Yes, that was rude of me. However, it matters not, because no-one except you overheard. Perhaps we should catch a ship to somewhere else? I know we came here in hopes of avoiding… pursuers… but gods, I would almost rather face them than this scale-cracking cold. If there’s some odd job available, I might have to-”

Without warning her grumpy master, Arie pricked up, turned on her twiggy heels, and dove for someone unseen behind them.

Loose scraps of paper, broken pencils, and bits of charcoal bounced onto the pier with a clatter. “Call off your bird, call it off!” the man shrieked, swatting away the sparrow as she darted for his face, beak snapping. Her feathers were as ruffled as they could be. “I didn’t do nothing to you!”

“Arie, stand down!” Varin barked, skittering a foot back from whatever mess this was. And stand down Arie did, but not without chattering angrily at her owner first. The little bird fluttered down and stamped on the scatterings of his things in annoyance. “I have no patience for thieves either, but we do not try to scratch out their eyes,” Varin asked of her with a sigh as he bent over to pick up his scattered items. He cursed as one of his pencils slipped through the cracks of the docks and into the dark waters below. “Thank you for looking out for me though...”

The Drakari’s eyes wandered up to the odd, gangly man whom his bird had assaulted. That he hadn’t even felt this man’s light touch digging through his robes and pockets -- that made for an image Varin would rather not sketch -- embarrassed him greatly. His shaking thief wore an ugly grey trench coat, ruffled trousers, and a sheepish expression. Varin’s gaze lingered on the man’s wolflike ears and twitchy tail, an ambiguous ancestry. To his relief, Arie’s attack had left the thief with only a few mild cuts on his cheeks and some deeper nicks where she had bit. The man massaged them and clucked his tongue quietly at it. It only served to smear around the dribbles of blood. “Thank you kindly for calling off that demon-bird. She some kind of a guard-dog kind of deal for you? She’s good at it.”

“Considering that I never expected her to be such a thing, she really is.” Arie puffed up with pride as Varin shoved the last of his littered supplies back into his pockets. “Now, who are you? I would like to know what sort of thief I have had the mispleasure of greeting this morning,” he asked a bit frigidly.

The man narrowed his gaze and put his hands on his hips. “Ahh! Thief? I am no thief! You may call me Delorian. I am a merchant of exotically procured goods.”

“Stolen ones, likely,” Varin muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

In any case, the man straightened himself up, adjusting his ratty trench coat snappily. “Don’t take this personally, but youuu look like the tattletale type. You know, maybe I could let you have something for nothing if you don’t go blaming me for that lil’ mess on the ground. Don’t let the authorities know this humble ol’ coyote dropped in for a visit, you hear?”

Varin scowled, his ears flicking back in indignation. “Tattletale-?”

The hobo-man scratched his stubble and grabbed for something in one of his overburdened pockets. “Let’s see… Maybe this? It belonged to purdy redhead over in the Knife,” Delorian said with a hint of smugness to the prick of his ears. “Treated it real special -- 'til someone trashed it. Then it found its way into my hands. Figure, hey, maybe you can figure out what’s so great about it? I don’t have the room for it anymore, and no-one’s buying the dumb thing anyway.”

Arie shrieked happily on sight of what the man pulled out of his coat. Meanwhile, her underwhelmed master could only groan and ignore her excited bouncing. It was a little clay teapot, plain in color except for an X on the side -- an odd choice for decor -- and several spots of dirt. Varin had an eye for art, and this… this was not a beautiful work. His eyes went to his bird, whom was nudging his shoulder, as if encouraging him to accept the offer. Before he could think of a witty way to turn down the offer -- any valuable given so freely was suspicious -- Delorian plunked the dirty thing into his claws.

“Thank you very much sir,” the coyote said through a wily grin. “Again, don’t you go telling anyone I’ve been here. Buh-bye!” And with a high laugh, the man dashed off across the piers, slipping once or twice on the ice and slime.

Varin watched numbly, still a little dazed after the whole encounter. “I am now the proud owner of... a teapot. We don’t know where it has been, what it has touched, or what sort of “special” it is. For all we know, it is cursed. I hope you are happy, Arie.” She cheeped gladly in reply, peering down at the pot with bright eyes. “Still…” he murmured, “I... suppose I could find a use for the odd thing? After we clean it thoroughly.” Varin frowned and ran his claws down the side, fingering the X curiously. He hoped it wasn’t cursed in some way. It would be just his luck. “Very thoroughly.”

The last time Astrophel had seen her master - the lovely red-haired lass named Amari, who had been so kind and generous to her - had been the previous night. Taken deep within the bowels of the Seventh Sactum Astrophel had briefly seen the world of the Althanasian assassins. Then, for safety, Amari had suggested Astrophel go into her vessel for rest. It was not something that Astrophel took joyfully too, but she did so; after all, the vessel was her constant reminder of what she was, and what she had to bear every day.

A life cursed, to live as another's to command. A life of sorrow, of orders and of shame. A life that had, from her moment of birth, been Astrophel's to shoulder the burden of. To be a djinn was to be tethered to your vessel, and unless you got a kind master anything - anything - could happen.

It was not unknown that Lye Ulroke, once-again leader of the Crimson Hand, did not take kindly to other's possessions. Overmore, he had a complete disregard for those belonging to his plaything, Amari Red-of-Hair. And thus it came to be, that when a sleeping djinn was inside her vessel teapot for safety, and the white-haired assassin master had simply thrown out into the rubbish what he had presumed to be nothing but scrap. Scrap clay for a scrap slave-hand, for that is what Astrophel had seen Amari was to him. He treated her like the dirt that Astrophel had been subject to so many times - sentenced to incorigable tasks, asked to grant insane "wishes," all the other usual things - but yet Amari did not seem to notice that. Instead she stood tall, kept Astrophel safe and looked after, treated her like a little sister, or like Astrophel's mother should have. Was nice. She was nice. She was actually ...

Flutter. A heartbeat. Flesh meeting fine, cracked clay. Over the spot, the spot of absolute recognition, of summoning.

Waking her up.

She had no choice, she had to answer. For it was her duty as a djinn to do so any time a hand crossed over the small 'x' mark on her teapot's surface. Softly her eyes blinked, her form began to stir, and, she realised, that it was safe time now. Amari was calling her out, to be free from the constraints of the teapot, to be bold and alive and not fear who was in the Sanctum!

Deep asleep, the blue-haired djinn had never felt the move. Her body had not noticed the removal of Amari's safe hold to the dung heap. And then from there into the hands of a man who recognised the pattern and the skill, the fact it belonged to the red-haired wild woman of the Salvarian towns. And thus she assumed, that as she took form, that there standing with brilliant eyes and great mind would be Amari, her master after Herandira, the pirate trader.

"I think I just dreamt there," she was saying as she took physical form as the young, blue-haired girl she usually did. "I actually think," she rubbed her eyes, her ghostly, gas-like aether essence pouring from the spout of the teapot onto the ground and steadily building into the girl, "I actually think I was able to dream. I have-"

And then she noticed it. The cold. The freezing, numbing cold, what was that, and creaky wooden planks beneath her bare feet. It was freezing, not like inside where they usually were, with the toasty fire and lovely tea. Dropping her hand from her face Astrophel looked around, frowning a little. No, definitely not inside: instead she was on a dockyard of some sort, with the fine calls of powerfully-winged gulls cawing overhead and the raucous voices of merry seamen.

"Where are we?" she asked, turning as if in a daze, her eyes dancing as she saw houses on the edge of the sea. "Why are we outside? And how can I help, I-"

Then she cut off, seeing the sudden, gawking stranger at her. A proud dragon-headed man, standing at a similar height to herself, a sparrow on his shoulder. His head was not a mask, but rather the real thing, and he stood upon two legs, a hybrid of drake and human. Flashes of wings poked from under a cloak, glints of deep gold in those bold eyes. But overall, shock and surprise at the girl before him, who had floated out of the teapot that was in his hands like water from a simple tap.

Oh yes, the teapot. In his hands.

"Oh," Astrophel blinked, as the realisation came to her. "Ohhhhh ... Oh." The last one was disappoinment in the tone, a final understanding. This drakling man had been the one to touch the mark, after some way it had fallen into his claws. There was no Lye Ulroke, and there was no Amari. Astrophel's vessel had fallen into this lucky traveller's hands and now. Well. Now he was akin to a god.

Sigh. Damn it, she thought, as she dropped into the necessary low curtsey, Amari had been so nice. She raised her eyes to look at those of her new master and murmured the ancient words, knowing she would likely never see the red-haired beauty again.

"Master," she said to Varin the Drakari, "Your will is mine."

Varin hadn’t been prepared for the cascade of indigo that fonted from the teapot’s spout, and it nearly tumbled its way out of his hands for shock. He stood motionless as the mist snaked out. It burbled something about dreams as it collected on the ground and solidified into mortal form. The emerging figure was a human girl-child in a simple blue dress. She had hair of deep indigo, an uncommon color to be sure, with eyes to match. Arie chattered in delight at the pretty child, pleased to meet this curious new being. Her dragonic friend was somewhat less enthused, though no less awed.

Children. Varin was no good with them.

Aside from sketching a nobleman’s sons, his last close encounter with a child -- well, a child-like being -- had not gone very well. Yet compared to the one from that incident, this child was strikingly subdued. There were no complaints from her about the frigid snow falling onto her frail form. No complaints at all, actually. Her gaze wandered around the docks, at first in confusion and with murmured questions. Then, her eyes melted into liquid disappointment when she spotted her teapot clutched between Varin’s fingers.

"Master. Your will is mine," she told him simply, sinking into a deep curtsey.

That was a sentence the floored Drakari had never expected to be uttered towards him. Though her tone was unwavering, Varin thought he detected a strain of reluctance to the words. Inquiries of his own slipped from his mouth unbidden. It came off more rudely than he had intended. “Who are you, how did you get inside a teapot, and what on Althanas bids you to call me your Master?” he demanded, albeit through a daze. The last word left him with an ugly taste in his mouth and a gagging sensation in the back of his throat.

The mysterious teapot girl lowered her head and began her answer, only to be cut short by a harsh breath of wind. Shivers rippled her as it whipped her hair back from her face.

Varin winced. “Ahh, nevermind, you may wait a moment to give me explanation.” What was he thinking? Shooing Arie off of his shoulder -- which only forced her to cheerfully hop onto his head instead -- he removed his outer robes. Thankfully, he had the foresight to garb himself for the weather with a plain, long-sleeved shirt underneath, as well as his typical slacks. The girl’s mouth fell open in surprise as he drew the cloak around her shoulders. It left him colder than before, but it wasn’t as if he weren’t already cold and miserable in the first place. “I hope that helps. To answer your earlier question, we are in Salvar, which may explain the snow and the general eyesore nature of this place. The bird is Arie, I am Varin,” he introduced himself uneasily, with a low whistle from his sparrow friend. “If you would answer my questions from earlier, that would be lovely. And as you do so, please, refrain from referring to me as your ‘master’. It is not a word I associate with pleasant memories.”

A heavy shudder wracked the Drakari, and it was not from the chill.

Her wide, sable eyes looked up at him with awe as he draped the cloak around her. As soon as he did so she felt the soft warmth of a good covering creep over her. A breath escaped her lips - a sigh, by all means - and it made whisps of smoke upon the air. For a moment she was caught by the wonder of it, and then her sense of duty fell over her once more.

Her duty. To serve the one who held her vessel, who brushed the mark with their flesh. This man, the one with the dragon's head.

Taking the sides of the cloak she pulled it closer around her form, feeling a mixture of fascination and wariness coming over her. This man - by his actions he seemed kind, but that could merely be a ruse. She had had kind masters at the start at first. Those who acted with goodness and gentleness, and then over time realised what they had. They would end up misusing her, becoming cruel and manipulative, declaring that she had to do this, that, the other, that they expected the world from her. Oh yes, the good masters could end up being the worst.

But then there was Amari. Again Astrophel felt the sinking feeling in her stomach as she realised she might never see the red-haired beauty again. Probably would never. In fact there was such little chance of it the young djinn considered if she should just say 'never'. In any place, that was the past, and like all things times changed, and Astrophel moved on to a new master.

Except ... 'And as you do so, please, refrain from referring to me as your ‘master’.' So here was another who did not like the term. Perhaps this continent was made of people who disliked it, so far were they from Alteron, her home land, far across the sea.

Her eyes drifted over to the tiny bird that he gave a name to. 'Arie.' Astrophel had always liked birds, so maybe she might get on with it at least.

Carefully she blinked, trying to consider what she should say to begin on good terms with this man.

"I ... I cannot call you by your first name," she said in a small voice, "It is not the way." She nibbled on the corner of her lip in a delicate manner. "You are my master. You have my vessel in your hands. I apologise for the way I appeared to you, ma-mister, and I spoke out of turn. I am sorry."

When her words did not seem to have any effect on the man, she cuddled the cloak closer around her. Her heart sinking, she realised he had no idea what she was and what he had in his hands now.

"As I am bidden, I will answer your questions. My name is Astrophel, and I am a djinn. The teapot is my home when I am not in my physical form. You have it, my vessel, in your possession, and called me forth and now you are my master. I am bidden to obey your every order." She curtseyed again, her long hair falling beyond her face. "Your will is mine."