Roht Mirage
05-07-13, 08:57 AM
Roht Impulse
They say that a whisper in the temple's heart can be heard throughout the entire city of Faroh.
Astarelle knew it wasn't true. She had muttered blasphemies in the colossal room more times than she dared count, yet the people would always smile and brush hand against heart as graciously as ever, and the Kar'Roh had never lunged from the shadows to punish her. At the moment, there was every opportunity. The tiered room was only lit at the center, the lowest point, by sconces mounted to the inner-most ring of columns. Simply walking from the door had carried her through the blackest of shadows, yet the dark-stalking Claws of Roh seemed to have nothing against her... or did not exist. It never hurt to look for that small grain of truth in fairy tales, though.
Looking back into the darkness, Astarelle smiled mischievously. The Roht mark above her brow crinkled ever so slightly. “Hey... stalkers,” she whispered into the cavernous room. No answer. She reached her hand out at forehead level, one finger extended, and poked at a being that wasn't there. “Doop!”
A horrible shriek filled the room as light slashed straight down her field of vision. She snapped her hand back, biting her knuckle so as not to gasp. The light widened. A small figure appeared in it, pushing against the door with so much effort that, if not for the screaming hinges, her adorably childish grunts would have filled the chamber. The girl, who was somewhat more than a child, looked up and muttered. “Astarelle, really? Only those ones?”
Oh bury me, Astarelle breathed as her heart resumed beating. Fortunately, Lisere would only have seen her shape against the dim light, not the terror-wide eyes or the gnawed knuckles. It took a moment to make sure her voice was steady. “If you must,” she called across the void, “I know the steps well enough.” She had only stumbled once on her entrance as she counted the tiers in the dark.
Lisere's stark outline leaned down, hoisted a heavy object, then stepped through the gap. It slowly closed behind her without a breath of force in spite of the protesting hinges. “I will,” she answered haughtily. The sconces on either side of the door violently sparked to life, banishing the shadows that tried to return as the door sealed.
Clutching a capped pot tightly in spite of the long sleeves covering her hands, Lisere walked to the edge of the first tier. Pointedly, she looked to the sandstone pillars at either side. Above the sconces, bowls of sand, stone, and metal shavings rattled with a sudden, invisible stir and spilled sparks onto the oiled torches below. Only then did she gingerly descend the single step. “I'll need my ankles intact when I'm Mar'Roh,” she said with a spoonful of false sweetness. She continued more quickly, lighting her path with nary a glance.
“You have to be Set'Roh, first, dear sister,” Astarelle shot back with hands on hips.
Lisere snorted a laugh. “I'll do it just like you do.” With a grunt, she adjusted her grip on the heavy earthen pot. “I'll find a man to carry me when my ankles get sore.”
“Lisere! I'll stomp you down to Roh if you don't close it!” Astarelle scolded, her words echoing for at least two solid iterations.
The girl froze, swallowing as much air as she could hold before hissing, “You can't say that in here.” She looked up as if tracking the blasphemous words on their journey to the shadowed ceiling and the city far above. “They say that all Faroh can hear when-”
Astarelle lunged on lithe, dancer's legs up two tiers to catch the pot slipping from Lisere's grip. “You know that's just a story,” she said coldly as she guided the pot to the floor. It met the solidly packed sand with a clatter, but it didn't break. With an exasperated sigh, she pushed the pot to the side and looked up at Lisere, whose haughtiness seemed to trickle away over the edge of her quivering lip.
“Hey,” Astarelle whispered. Lisere leaned in, slow and uncertain. “Doop!” Astarelle's poking finger went straight for the Roht mark above Lisere's eyes.
She clutched her forehead too late to fend off Astarelle's attack, managing only to slap herself in the nose with her long sleeves. The rough meeting of her bottom with the step behind her would have been an out-and-out tumble if not for her own natural grace. She grunted loudly, then laughed even louder.
Astarelle beamed a smile, keeping her own laugh a bit more restrained. She crawled forward, lifted Lisere's arms, and rolled the sleeves up to the girl's pale elbows. The intention in the robe's design was to make the Kor'Roh understand that she had a much bigger role to grow into, but it was functionally backwards in a temple where they, as the Child and the Daughter of Roh, had to tend to many of their own needs. “Now,” Astarelle said, “Let's agree. Don't tell anyone that I cursed in front of the Kor'Roh, and I won't tell anyone that you insulted the Set'Roh. Things always work out better that way, right?”
Lisere nodded with a mischievous narrowing of the eyes. Astarelle smiled just as mischievously, then leaned toward the pot. “I'll get it,” Lisere said as she jumped up, reaching it before her temple-sister's hand even got close.
Side by side, they walked the last few steps without Lisere lighting any more torches. It was a more apologetic gesture than anything that could have been said. Astarelle's flint and striker, nearly in need of replacing, shifted in the pocket of her travelling vest. Lisere was, perhaps, the only Farohtian comfortable with her failings when it came to rizak. That didn't stop the little sandsquirt from having a good tease of it, though.
On the lowest tier, they stopped at the edge of its centerpiece. Kor'Fall; little Fallien. The mural, drawn with colored sand in a circle as long as three oasis steeds, showed Fallien from shore to shore. The Mountains of Zaileya, cleaving through the eastern third of the continent, were detailed so intricately that they seemed to rise from the map. The Attireyi River appeared to flow in the torchlight, yet the surrounding ocean was locked in static turmoil. It was colored a dark, abysmal blue that Astarelle knew to be inaccurate, though she didn't disagree with the sentiment. The only attractive colors were the beacons, carved sigils that marked the major cities and fields each with their own crest and hue. They seemed to glow with their own light. Of course, the woven hoop of Faroh burned brightest from the western edge of the Zaileyas, a day's ride north of the capital, Irrakam... for now.
Lisere set the pot gentley down and crossed her legs behind it. “What is it like to travel?” she asked quietly as she folded her hands on the pot's lid.
Astarelle smiled widely. “Wonderful. The desert rolling in all directions. Not a single wall. A powerful beast carrying you like the wind. The sun's so much brighter than it seems when you're inside the city's veil.”
Lisere sighed and jutted a finger at Astarelle's forehead, well short of touching it. “No, sand-head. I mean when Faroh travels.”
Astarelle grimaced. Only a few in the city had any real interest in the world outside, and Lisere rarely left the temple, let alone the walls. She would have wept for the poor girl if Lisere weren't so content. It was hopefully just a matter of 'what you've never known', though Astarelle's time as Kor'Roh had been anything but content.
“I was very young. It was loud and... scary,” she answered simply. Lisere pouted. Sometimes, Astarelle didn't know if the girl was too tall or too short for her myriad attitudes. “Come here,” she chided as she walked behind Lisere and playfully tugged at her hood, then she scooped up the hefty pot under one arm and lopped away giggling.
“Hey,” snapped the girl, pulling the hood back over her long hair, brown with just a hint of red in the right light, “I haven't woven it yet.”
Astarelle answered with a sway of her own hair, sleek yet wispy from inattention. She walked the solid edge of the Kor'Fall to the continent's northeast corner. “If you will honor me, Kor'Roh,” she said with a formal sweep of her arm over the mural.
Lisere locked her eyes on the sandy edge and nodded. “Go ahead,” she said with a bit of a grin.
Astarelle lifted a foot over the dark ocean, only a little tentatively, and brought it down without shifting a single grain. Jokes aside, they would both be in trouble if they damaged the handiwork of rizak-painter Tarim. They knew the Mar'Roh's punishments well enough, elder more than younger. But it was said, not without reason, that Tarim's glare could make a mountain sweat pebbles.
With that in mind, Astarelle gingerly walked to the shore, or rather, the cliffs of Outlander's Post. She squatted and hovered a finger over the unlit sigil, a fearsome battleaxe, marking the settlement. Not even a proper beacon. Carefully, she smoothed the curved double edge of the weapon into the bulky, square shape of a hammer. It certainly wasn't what the previous sigil keepers had intended, but from her few encounters with dwarves, she thought it much more appropriate.
Unbidden, a short stream of red sand slithered over her shoulder and lined the valley of the sigil. It immediately began to glow a barely perceptible crimson. Still, not a beacon. She looked back to nod her thanks. Lisere resealed the pot, now a quarter-hand lighter, and frowned in thought.
“Why the poks' cliff?”
Astarelle bit her tongue. As far as she was concerned, the word was an insult. Yet, it was also the only straightforward word in the Farohtian language for 'outlanders'.
“Faroh travels at night, when the moon is gone. All it can see are the beacons. Without them, it might... not get to where it's going,” she said as she made her way off of the mural.
Lisere's frown deepened. “But there are so many others! They're enough, right?”
Astarelle reached the edge and moved to kneel before her temple-sister, realizing immediately that she had grown too tall for that to bestow any comfort. Instead, she brush back a few strands that had escaped Lisere's hood. “Do you ever have dreams? Dreams that seem very important?”
Lisere's eyes went wide, then she looked down sheepishly. “Sometimes... I have a dream where you don't come back.”
Astarelle hugged her before the single, barely-there tear could fall. “I always come back, dear sister.... Will you help me carry the pot upstairs?”
Lisere nodded into her chest.
They say that a whisper in the temple's heart can be heard throughout the entire city of Faroh.
Astarelle knew it wasn't true. She had muttered blasphemies in the colossal room more times than she dared count, yet the people would always smile and brush hand against heart as graciously as ever, and the Kar'Roh had never lunged from the shadows to punish her. At the moment, there was every opportunity. The tiered room was only lit at the center, the lowest point, by sconces mounted to the inner-most ring of columns. Simply walking from the door had carried her through the blackest of shadows, yet the dark-stalking Claws of Roh seemed to have nothing against her... or did not exist. It never hurt to look for that small grain of truth in fairy tales, though.
Looking back into the darkness, Astarelle smiled mischievously. The Roht mark above her brow crinkled ever so slightly. “Hey... stalkers,” she whispered into the cavernous room. No answer. She reached her hand out at forehead level, one finger extended, and poked at a being that wasn't there. “Doop!”
A horrible shriek filled the room as light slashed straight down her field of vision. She snapped her hand back, biting her knuckle so as not to gasp. The light widened. A small figure appeared in it, pushing against the door with so much effort that, if not for the screaming hinges, her adorably childish grunts would have filled the chamber. The girl, who was somewhat more than a child, looked up and muttered. “Astarelle, really? Only those ones?”
Oh bury me, Astarelle breathed as her heart resumed beating. Fortunately, Lisere would only have seen her shape against the dim light, not the terror-wide eyes or the gnawed knuckles. It took a moment to make sure her voice was steady. “If you must,” she called across the void, “I know the steps well enough.” She had only stumbled once on her entrance as she counted the tiers in the dark.
Lisere's stark outline leaned down, hoisted a heavy object, then stepped through the gap. It slowly closed behind her without a breath of force in spite of the protesting hinges. “I will,” she answered haughtily. The sconces on either side of the door violently sparked to life, banishing the shadows that tried to return as the door sealed.
Clutching a capped pot tightly in spite of the long sleeves covering her hands, Lisere walked to the edge of the first tier. Pointedly, she looked to the sandstone pillars at either side. Above the sconces, bowls of sand, stone, and metal shavings rattled with a sudden, invisible stir and spilled sparks onto the oiled torches below. Only then did she gingerly descend the single step. “I'll need my ankles intact when I'm Mar'Roh,” she said with a spoonful of false sweetness. She continued more quickly, lighting her path with nary a glance.
“You have to be Set'Roh, first, dear sister,” Astarelle shot back with hands on hips.
Lisere snorted a laugh. “I'll do it just like you do.” With a grunt, she adjusted her grip on the heavy earthen pot. “I'll find a man to carry me when my ankles get sore.”
“Lisere! I'll stomp you down to Roh if you don't close it!” Astarelle scolded, her words echoing for at least two solid iterations.
The girl froze, swallowing as much air as she could hold before hissing, “You can't say that in here.” She looked up as if tracking the blasphemous words on their journey to the shadowed ceiling and the city far above. “They say that all Faroh can hear when-”
Astarelle lunged on lithe, dancer's legs up two tiers to catch the pot slipping from Lisere's grip. “You know that's just a story,” she said coldly as she guided the pot to the floor. It met the solidly packed sand with a clatter, but it didn't break. With an exasperated sigh, she pushed the pot to the side and looked up at Lisere, whose haughtiness seemed to trickle away over the edge of her quivering lip.
“Hey,” Astarelle whispered. Lisere leaned in, slow and uncertain. “Doop!” Astarelle's poking finger went straight for the Roht mark above Lisere's eyes.
She clutched her forehead too late to fend off Astarelle's attack, managing only to slap herself in the nose with her long sleeves. The rough meeting of her bottom with the step behind her would have been an out-and-out tumble if not for her own natural grace. She grunted loudly, then laughed even louder.
Astarelle beamed a smile, keeping her own laugh a bit more restrained. She crawled forward, lifted Lisere's arms, and rolled the sleeves up to the girl's pale elbows. The intention in the robe's design was to make the Kor'Roh understand that she had a much bigger role to grow into, but it was functionally backwards in a temple where they, as the Child and the Daughter of Roh, had to tend to many of their own needs. “Now,” Astarelle said, “Let's agree. Don't tell anyone that I cursed in front of the Kor'Roh, and I won't tell anyone that you insulted the Set'Roh. Things always work out better that way, right?”
Lisere nodded with a mischievous narrowing of the eyes. Astarelle smiled just as mischievously, then leaned toward the pot. “I'll get it,” Lisere said as she jumped up, reaching it before her temple-sister's hand even got close.
Side by side, they walked the last few steps without Lisere lighting any more torches. It was a more apologetic gesture than anything that could have been said. Astarelle's flint and striker, nearly in need of replacing, shifted in the pocket of her travelling vest. Lisere was, perhaps, the only Farohtian comfortable with her failings when it came to rizak. That didn't stop the little sandsquirt from having a good tease of it, though.
On the lowest tier, they stopped at the edge of its centerpiece. Kor'Fall; little Fallien. The mural, drawn with colored sand in a circle as long as three oasis steeds, showed Fallien from shore to shore. The Mountains of Zaileya, cleaving through the eastern third of the continent, were detailed so intricately that they seemed to rise from the map. The Attireyi River appeared to flow in the torchlight, yet the surrounding ocean was locked in static turmoil. It was colored a dark, abysmal blue that Astarelle knew to be inaccurate, though she didn't disagree with the sentiment. The only attractive colors were the beacons, carved sigils that marked the major cities and fields each with their own crest and hue. They seemed to glow with their own light. Of course, the woven hoop of Faroh burned brightest from the western edge of the Zaileyas, a day's ride north of the capital, Irrakam... for now.
Lisere set the pot gentley down and crossed her legs behind it. “What is it like to travel?” she asked quietly as she folded her hands on the pot's lid.
Astarelle smiled widely. “Wonderful. The desert rolling in all directions. Not a single wall. A powerful beast carrying you like the wind. The sun's so much brighter than it seems when you're inside the city's veil.”
Lisere sighed and jutted a finger at Astarelle's forehead, well short of touching it. “No, sand-head. I mean when Faroh travels.”
Astarelle grimaced. Only a few in the city had any real interest in the world outside, and Lisere rarely left the temple, let alone the walls. She would have wept for the poor girl if Lisere weren't so content. It was hopefully just a matter of 'what you've never known', though Astarelle's time as Kor'Roh had been anything but content.
“I was very young. It was loud and... scary,” she answered simply. Lisere pouted. Sometimes, Astarelle didn't know if the girl was too tall or too short for her myriad attitudes. “Come here,” she chided as she walked behind Lisere and playfully tugged at her hood, then she scooped up the hefty pot under one arm and lopped away giggling.
“Hey,” snapped the girl, pulling the hood back over her long hair, brown with just a hint of red in the right light, “I haven't woven it yet.”
Astarelle answered with a sway of her own hair, sleek yet wispy from inattention. She walked the solid edge of the Kor'Fall to the continent's northeast corner. “If you will honor me, Kor'Roh,” she said with a formal sweep of her arm over the mural.
Lisere locked her eyes on the sandy edge and nodded. “Go ahead,” she said with a bit of a grin.
Astarelle lifted a foot over the dark ocean, only a little tentatively, and brought it down without shifting a single grain. Jokes aside, they would both be in trouble if they damaged the handiwork of rizak-painter Tarim. They knew the Mar'Roh's punishments well enough, elder more than younger. But it was said, not without reason, that Tarim's glare could make a mountain sweat pebbles.
With that in mind, Astarelle gingerly walked to the shore, or rather, the cliffs of Outlander's Post. She squatted and hovered a finger over the unlit sigil, a fearsome battleaxe, marking the settlement. Not even a proper beacon. Carefully, she smoothed the curved double edge of the weapon into the bulky, square shape of a hammer. It certainly wasn't what the previous sigil keepers had intended, but from her few encounters with dwarves, she thought it much more appropriate.
Unbidden, a short stream of red sand slithered over her shoulder and lined the valley of the sigil. It immediately began to glow a barely perceptible crimson. Still, not a beacon. She looked back to nod her thanks. Lisere resealed the pot, now a quarter-hand lighter, and frowned in thought.
“Why the poks' cliff?”
Astarelle bit her tongue. As far as she was concerned, the word was an insult. Yet, it was also the only straightforward word in the Farohtian language for 'outlanders'.
“Faroh travels at night, when the moon is gone. All it can see are the beacons. Without them, it might... not get to where it's going,” she said as she made her way off of the mural.
Lisere's frown deepened. “But there are so many others! They're enough, right?”
Astarelle reached the edge and moved to kneel before her temple-sister, realizing immediately that she had grown too tall for that to bestow any comfort. Instead, she brush back a few strands that had escaped Lisere's hood. “Do you ever have dreams? Dreams that seem very important?”
Lisere's eyes went wide, then she looked down sheepishly. “Sometimes... I have a dream where you don't come back.”
Astarelle hugged her before the single, barely-there tear could fall. “I always come back, dear sister.... Will you help me carry the pot upstairs?”
Lisere nodded into her chest.