Blood Will Tell [Closed]

[Ghant]

Out in the Streets
Sevan, Nalaya

"Wherever the Yath go, there is trouble," Quenthel said with amusement. "It is known." Quenthel continued. "That is why they watch us so closely when we come to the cities."

Errando chuckled. “The same is often said of the Odolargiar. Nothing but trouble. And for good reason.”

As they walked around, Quenthel spoke. "To be honest, I am almost as much a stranger as you to the capital. I hail from the Holy City. That is many, many miles from here. They say the Fane at its heart is the very center of the world."

“Being a stranger isn’t so bad, that merely means that is more to see, more to learn.” Errando felt almost sagely when he said that. Who was he kidding? He was a fighter, not a poet.

Following Quenthel, they went from building to building. Eventually, they arrived at the Opera House. "It is almost Vehandzn Vaneni's day of birth. I know that they are preparing La Traviata. Every year, the opera changes, but there is always an opening night on that day. The Tigress goes as well. It is tradition now that the Protector be there. Though I hear she prefers Macbeth."

“Macbeth, eh? From what you have said of her, I would have assumed she was more of the Howling type.” Errando wasn’t sure if cheesy old horror movies were here, but might as well find out.

Quenthel seemed to speak sagely now. "Stories are important. You can tell much about a people by what stories they hold close to their heart…Is Ghant the same? I must admit that I have no knowledge of the songs or tales of your country."

Errando grinned at that question. Why wouldn’t he? Ghant was known as the Land of Stories. “Indeed it is, my Lady. Ghant is oft called the Land of Stories, and for good reason. A man could live a thousand years, and still not hear all the stories there are to be told in Ghant. I think a lot of that has to do with the lack of the written word for the longest time, so everything was passed along orally. Expand that over the course of, say, 6,000 years, and you will get you fare share of stories. And where I am from, we have some very interesting ones indeed.”

[Nalaya]

Quenthel nodded when he said that there was simply more to learn as a stranger. She sat down in one of the seats and motioned for him to join her. In the background one could hear an aria being sung, Ah, fors'è lui and Sempre libera, by the soprano playing Violetta Valéry. The yathrin had learned a great deal on her few trips to Sevan, including the layout of the city. It was fortunate she knew it, too, lest Errando be left lost around town.

"Would you tell me one of your stories?" she asked Errando curiously. She had not heard a Ghanti tale before and if it was well told enough, perhaps she would later share it with some of her people. It was the nature of stories to be passed around. They seemed to have lives of their own and sometimes there were even stories about stories. Myths based on legend based on reality, woven together so tightly they were almost indistinguishable.

Quenthel hoped to learn more about Ghant and her guest by asking for the story. She was not certain if he would care to hear one in return or what she would tell him if he did ask. But she was content for now to merely wait and listen. Patience was an art she had learned well in the course of her youth and reaped the value of now that she was into adulthood.

[Ghant]

On a Bench
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel nodded. "Would you tell me one of your stories?" she asked Errando curiously.

Errando took a seat next to Quenthel on the bench, and began to think of stories. hmm, what would be a good story to tell? Errando thought. There were so many. Stories of Kings and Queens, Princes, Princesses and Lords, of monsters and men, beasts both mundane and magical.

Perhaps a story of a warrior would suffice, Errando thought, as one came to mind. “Sure, my lady. I got one for you.”

Errando took a deep breath and recalled the story.

“Long ago, there was a great storm, and a family trapped in the heart of winter. The storm lasted so long that they thought they would starve. Finally, when the wind and swirling snow had died away to just a memory, the father, who was a brave warrior, ventured outside. The next storm was already on the horizon, but if food was not found soon, the family would starve.

Keeping his sword and spear close, he ventured out upon the most-frequently used game trail, watching intently for some sign, in the newly-fallen snow, of animal footprints or movement of any kind. The forest lay deep and oddly silent under its gleaming coating of ice and snow. Every creature of sense lay deep within its burrow and slept. Still, the warrior hunted, knowing how desperate his family had become.

As he moved through the eerie stillness, broken only by the soft caress of the wind, he heard a strange hissing noise. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once. The warrior stopped, his heart pounding. That was when he saw the blood-soaked footprints appearing on the path in front of him. He gripped his sword tightly, knowing that somewhere, watching him, was a Windigo.

He had learned about the Windigo at his father's knee. It was a large creature, as tall as a tree, with a lipless mouth and jagged teeth. Its breath was a strange hiss, its footprints full of blood, and it ate any man, woman or child who ventured into its territory. And those were the lucky ones. Sometimes, the Windigo chose to possess a person instead, and then the luckless individual became a Windigo himself, hunting down those he had once loved and feasting upon their flesh.

The warrior knew he would have just one chance to prevail over the Windigo. After that, he would die. Or… the thought was too terrible to complete.

Slowly, he backed away from the bloody footprints, listening to the hissing sound. Was it stronger in one direction? He gripped spear in one hand, sword in the other. Then the snowbank to his left erupted as a creature as tall as a tree leapt out at him. He dove to one side, rolling into the snow so that his clothing was covered and he became hard to see in the gray twilight of the approaching storm.

The Windigo whirled its massive frame and the warrior threw the spear. It struck the creature's chest, but the Windigo just shook it off as if it were a toy. The warrior crouched behind a small tree as the creature searched the torn-up snow for a trace of him. Perhaps one more chance.

The Windigo loomed over his hiding place, its sharp eyes seeing the outline of him against the tree. It bent down, long arms reaching. The warrior leaped forward as if to embrace the creature and thrust his sword into its fathomless black eye. The Windigo howled in pain as the blade of the sword sliced into its brain cavity. It tried to pull him off of its chest, but the warrior clung to the creature, stabbing it again and again in the eyes, the head.

The Windigo collapsed to the ground, bleeding profusely, almost crushing the warrior beneath its bulk. He pulled himself loose and stared at the creature, which blended in with its white surroundings so well that he would not have seen it save for the blood pouring from its eyes and ears and scalp. Then the outline of the creature grew misty and it vanished, leaving only a pool of blood to indicate where it had fallen.

Shaken, the warrior, heart pounding with fear and fatigue, turned for home. He was weakened by lack of food, but knew that the storm would break soon and he would die if he did not seek shelter.

At the edge of the wood, he found himself face to face with a great deer. It was a fat old creature, its body lined with gray. The creature stood still, as if it had been brought to him as a reward for killing the Windigo. With a prayer of thanksgiving, the warrior killed the deer and took it home to his starving family. The meat lasted for many days, until the final storm had blown itself out and the warrior could safely hunt once more.”

Errando nodded. “That is but one story my grandfather used to tell me when I was but a boy.”

[Nalaya]

The Tkhrali Opera House
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel tried to imagine snow swirling around her body. There were glaciers in the Homeland, but she had never seen it snow and rarely saw it rain. The mountains had real snow, she heard often, but she had only ever been to the edge and seen it from afar. Then she contemplated the story of the windigo. It sounded like a spirit of some kind, though she was uncertain what the man had done to anger it. Few were vengeful like by their very nature. This one sounded like one of hunger.

"Are there many windigo in Ghant?" she asked curiously. It was a creature she might want to see someday, and if it became dangerous she knew now where to strike at it. Strange that it would weaken itself in battle with a body. Most of the spirits she knew about would not have lowered themselves willingly to that level...if the stories were true. The spirits that were bound to the Yath were different, of course. Those were primal spirits from the time before time and holy ones at that. She could not fault the oura for being predators and even hunting people. It was their nature. And when they moved like ghosts in the darkness, she strove to learn from it.

Errando's world was strange and yet familiar. She could understand a test of a warrior's mettle and the triumph over a foe. It was just the rest of it that struck her as foreign.

She traced over the tattooed line that divided her face into two halves where it ran down her lower lip and chin. The supernatural for her people was just another part of life, intrinsically woven into faith. Of course there were spirits like the windigo moving about the world of humans, just as humans could pass into the spirit world. She was not the Quarval-sharess and so she did not live with one foot in each world, but she would someday reach the point where she could cross over without needing a ritual. That was what it was to be yathallar, so attuned to the world of spirits that it became closer to a second home. At least, that was what her teachers told her. She had no reason to doubt their knowledge of the matter. There were other faiths, but they were either out of touch with reality or weak without a connection to true divinity. It was as simple as that.

[Ghant]

The Tkhrali Opera House
Sevan, Nalaya

"Are there many windigo in Ghant?" Quenthel asked curiously.

That is a good question. “Perhaps, although no one can be certain. The southerners say that no such creatures exist. But I know better than to say that. To the west of where I am from, in the region between Eskura and Odolargia, there is the Zorgindutako forest. Imagine a forest as big as entire nations, where the trees are ancient and grow thick. So thick are their branches and their growth that even when the sun shines for 30 straight days in the summer, there isn’t much light. And in the winter, towards the end of the year, there are 30 straight days of night, and the forest is frozen. And in the silence of it, when it might be quiet as a crypt, there are sounds. Beasts, men, spirits, demons, monsters, and all manner of things in between stalk those woods. There have been whole armies that have penetrated those woods, and very few emerge, and the ones that do are often raving mad. For they see things in those woods that would compel even the greatest warrior to madness. So yes, I believe there are many windigos, and most of them are probably around that forest, and the mountains and forests beyond, of which northern Ghant is not lacking. Very little of the wild parts are known to man.”

Errando thought for a moment, and then continued. “But I am sure you have heard enough of that. Your turn to tell me a story, lady Quenthel.”

[Nalaya]

The Tkhrali Opera House
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel looked ponderous for a long moment, as if going through her mind to select a particular story. So many of her people's were in the forms of poetic lays, not unlike the histories of the Nava'ai, but she doubted he would want to hear any of those sung or spoken. Besides, there was a chance of disrupting the rehearsal and she didn't want to do that in the slightest. Quenthel had a good voice, but not good enough to warrant disturbing the opera singers.

"I would like to see a windigo someday, I think," she said finally. "I have not seen a spirit of hunger, though I know of them. There are many spirits in Dyvynasshar. They lend their voices to the gift of prophesy among the yatharil." Quenthel had never been granted with visions of the future like the seers of the Yath, the yatharil. Her visions had all been of the world beyond and the spirits that channeled themselves through her body during rites. The things that allowed them to enter such deliriums were well-kept secrets—a combination of drugs, shamanic drumming, and deprivation.

Then she cleared her throat softly and marshaled together her thoughts like a small army. She could have chosen one of the myths of old, but the time before time was something a foreigner would probably not appreciate with their strange gods. "As all true stories start, let us begin with blood. It runs like a river through cracks in the stone, reflecting the fires of war that burn above. The beat of artillery drums across the ground as thick plumes of smoke choke the air. The walls have been made low. The buildings have been broken. The rounds of great guns strike the Fane itself and send its great stones plunging towards the ground. The Norveni have nearly taken Dyvynasshar. They came from across the sea in the name of their god. A crusade in a world far removed from the days of crusaders and knights in shining armor. The blood moon's light shines down upon them and their body armor as they walk amid the inferno they have caused. The moonglow does not reflect from their rifles, but is captured by the dark metal. This is the fall of the Fane."

Even though it was not sung, though it came from the form of a song, Quenthel's speech had a rhythm to it. It was a slow and insistent tempo. It did not fit into verse form when translated into Latin. "They say that the Dread Wolf was not born, but crossed over from the beyond. A spirit of vengeance moving like a whisper in the darkness. Solid and yet formless, real and yet unbound. A prayer, a breath, a passion pouring itself into a vessel of flesh. Out of the darkness from the rear, the Dread Wolf comes with an army like a wave crashing over the stones of the Holy City. The howling begins like that of a great wind and becomes the banshee wails of rockets. The ground thrums in time with their baying calls. The dimness is lit by tracers. It is a dark night and in the hearts of the wolf-kin passion runs darker. The battle is rejoined with a ferocity few know. The siren call to spirits echoes in the night as it summons forth the specters of vengeance, the souls of the dead long crossed over. This is the defense of the Fane."

"The Norveni cling to their rifles and flee to their guns. They can hear death on the wind as it calls out to them. They can feel the breath of the Dread Wolf upon the skin of their throats. In the crimson cloth of the Yath, the spirit of retribution comes. It is a ravenous thing that draws on the prayers of the people. The sight of its maw makes the foes shiver in their skin. The thought of its claws makes them shudder to their bone. The ice of dread courses in their veins, the cold of the grave envelops them. Stirred again to life from the ashes, the faithful rise and take to their weapons once more. As the fire rages and the smoke chokes and the blood flows, strength returns to fingers numbed by exhaustion. Relief has come in the night where it was thought forgotten. The cracking reports of gunfire breaks through the noise like the claps of thunder. The wolf-kin drive the Norveni back over their ruined walls and into the city. That is where the faithful wait with blade and rifle. This is the stirring of the Fane."

Now Quenthel came to the part of the tale that changed from person to person. Those who had personal experience included their own and those who did not told the tale of those who did. "She stands at the foot of the steps where once she had fallen. The Norveni flee to their doom, to the heart of what is holy. It welcomes them in to consume them, to turn upon what is weak with strength. This is the nature of the primal. She is there, fallen back to the Fane, and turns weapon upon the foe of the people. The howls of the Dread Wolf are clearer now and fast approaching. The wolf-kin have torn apart the defenses so hastily thrown up. She is young and unlearned, but all in armor with bended limbs she moves as oura amidst the starless shade. Her rifle cracks and her breath hisses, helping to lay the enemy low. The ranks of the enemy crack and fold as desperation becomes the flight of prey. This is the rise of the Fane."

She returned to the set part for the final verses. "Morning breaks red with warning, yet the battle-fires burn low. Smoke uncurls above the city and carrion birds wheel beneath, but still the faithful draw breath. The Dread Wolf mounts the steps of the Fane. Arrayed in arms bathed in the light of the sun and tempered by water that flows from the spring, the spirit returns to whence it came. Left fallen and transformed by battle, the Quarval-sharess rises from the ashes. The Linath is safe within the place of the holy. The soul is left unbroken. The foe is routed and driven back to the sea, where victory waits for the faithful. This is the standing of the Fane."

Quenthel shrugged a little when the tale had wound itself to the end. She felt a bit self-conscious since she was telling it in Latin rather than as it was meant to be told. She knew it was not a perfect translation by far and she had omitted parts in her own story within the story for time and somewhat out of embarrassment. It was not fair to tell of herself when he had not told of himself. "Not as graceful as it is in the mother tongue," she explained. "It is not a very old tale, of course. It had its origin within the past ten years. I could not begin to translate the older ones into Latin with expertise, as their language is archaic. Beautiful, but archaic. I apologize if it was not to your taste."

[Ghant]

The Tkhrali Opera House
Sevan, Nalaya

"I would like to see a windigo someday, I think," she said finally. "I have not seen a spirit of hunger, though I know of them. There are many spirits in Dyvynasshar. They lend their voices to the gift of prophesy among the yatharil."

Then she cleared her throat softly. "As all true stories start, let us begin with blood. It runs like a river through cracks in the stone, reflecting the fires of war that burn above. The beat of artillery drums across the ground as thick plumes of smoke choke the air. The walls have been made low. The buildings have been broken. The rounds of great guns strike the Fane itself and send its great stones plunging towards the ground. The Norveni have nearly taken Dyvynasshar. They came from across the sea in the name of their god. A crusade in a world far removed from the days of crusaders and knights in shining armor. The blood moon's light shines down upon them and their body armor as they walk amid the inferno they have caused. The moonglow does not reflect from their rifles, but is captured by the dark metal. This is the fall of the Fane."

Quenthel's speech had a rhythm to it. It was a slow and insistent tempo. "They say that the Dread Wolf was not born, but crossed over from the beyond. A spirit of vengeance moving like a whisper in the darkness. Solid and yet formless, real and yet unbound. A prayer, a breath, a passion pouring itself into a vessel of flesh. Out of the darkness from the rear, the Dread Wolf comes with an army like a wave crashing over the stones of the Holy City. The howling begins like that of a great wind and becomes the banshee wails of rockets. The ground thrums in time with their baying calls. The dimness is lit by tracers. It is a dark night and in the hearts of the wolf-kin passion runs darker. The battle is rejoined with a ferocity few know. The siren call to spirits echoes in the night as it summons forth the specters of vengeance, the souls of the dead long crossed over. This is the defense of the Fane."

"The Norveni cling to their rifles and flee to their guns. They can hear death on the wind as it calls out to them. They can feel the breath of the Dread Wolf upon the skin of their throats. In the crimson cloth of the Yath, the spirit of retribution comes. It is a ravenous thing that draws on the prayers of the people. The sight of its maw makes the foes shiver in their skin. The thought of its claws makes them shudder to their bone. The ice of dread courses in their veins, the cold of the grave envelops them. Stirred again to life from the ashes, the faithful rise and take to their weapons once more. As the fire rages and the smoke chokes and the blood flows, strength returns to fingers numbed by exhaustion. Relief has come in the night where it was thought forgotten. The cracking reports of gunfire breaks through the noise like the claps of thunder. The wolf-kin drive the Norveni back over their ruined walls and into the city. That is where the faithful wait with blade and rifle. This is the stirring of the Fane."

"She stands at the foot of the steps where once she had fallen. The Norveni flee to their doom, to the heart of what is holy. It welcomes them in to consume them, to turn upon what is weak with strength. This is the nature of the primal. She is there, fallen back to the Fane, and turns weapon upon the foe of the people. The howls of the Dread Wolf are clearer now and fast approaching. The wolf-kin have torn apart the defenses so hastily thrown up. She is young and unlearned, but all in armor with bended limbs she moves as oura amidst the starless shade. Her rifle cracks and her breath hisses, helping to lay the enemy low. The ranks of the enemy crack and fold as desperation becomes the flight of prey. This is the rise of the Fane."

She returned to the set part for the final verses. "Morning breaks red with warning, yet the battle-fires burn low. Smoke uncurls above the city and carrion birds wheel beneath, but still the faithful draw breath. The Dread Wolf mounts the steps of the Fane. Arrayed in arms bathed in the light of the sun and tempered by water that flows from the spring, the spirit returns to whence it came. Left fallen and transformed by battle, the Quarval-sharess rises from the ashes. The Linath is safe within the place of the holy. The soul is left unbroken. The foe is routed and driven back to the sea, where victory waits for the faithful. This is the standing of the Fane."

Quenthel shrugged a little when the tale had wound itself to the end. "Not as graceful as it is in the mother tongue," she explained. "It is not a very old tale, of course. It had its origin within the past ten years. I could not begin to translate the older ones into Latin with expertise, as their language is archaic. Beautiful, but archaic. I apologize if it was not to your taste."

“I thought it was a fine story.” Errando nodded. “I would like to hear some of the older ones sometime, provided I may ever come upon the mastery of your native tongue.” Errando continued. “And of course, perhaps you shall see a windigo someday, although that would require you to go to Ghant.”

Errando in that moment realized that Quenthel was hoping of seeing a windigo someday, and that Errando was expressing an interest in learning her tongue. Perhaps they were becoming friends. She seems cool enough.

[Nalaya]

The Tkhrali Opera House
Sevan, Nalaya

"I do not see why I could not go to Ghant," Quenthel said with a shrug and a smile at the notion of him learning her tongue. The idea was a pleasing one, though she could not say exactly why. Perhaps she was developing a fondness for the man. It was not beyond the realms of the possible. After all, he stood at her side during a battle, no matter how small. That was something she could appreciate and was more than enough reason to enter into the bonds of friendship. "The Anur of the Imanalov' people wander all over the world in the course of their lives. They are mystics as the Yath are. I have never seen a place so far removed from my own. I know nothing of Ghant other than what you have told me in your story, other than that it is foreign and you worship different gods."

It felt strange to sit and talk with Errando, but not unpleasant. There were few people she could converse with in Latin within the bounds of the Holy City, at least that she knew. She studied him thoughtfully for a moment. "Perhaps I could teach you a bit of our language and you could tell me about your homeland. It seems a fair trade to me."

Quenthel did not often volunteer so much of her time and effort. After all, learning the tongue of her people was not necessarily the easiest task. She knew it was nothing like Latin and assumed it was probably nothing even remotely similar to whatever it was that the Ghanti spoke. It would take a rare amount of patience to teach Errando more than a basic vocabulary. Rarely did the Yath have patience for people, no matter how much of an abundance they had for the wilds. It was strange that they could sit for hours as a hunter but not master listening to a conversation that angered them for more than thirty seconds. Quenthel was something of an anomaly in her tolerance, which was part of the reason she had been chosen for this task of guiding and protecting Nalaya's guest.

She stood and stretched. Sitting in a chair was a bit foreign to her yet. Most of the time she was either kneeling or sitting upon hard ground. On a rock was not much different, she supposed. "Come, let us return to the city. There are other things to see yet. I have not taken you to see the wall of names. That is where the names of the Vehandzn engraved, once called Arzhani in life. There is also the Nvazum Bridge, the very edge of Sevan where it looks over the edge of the mountain into the air beyond."

[Ghant]

The Tkhrali Opera House
Sevan, Nalaya

"I do not see why I could not go to Ghant," Quenthel said with a shrug and a smile. "The Anur of the Imanalov' people wander all over the world in the course of their lives. They are mystics as the Yath are. I have never seen a place so far removed from my own. I know nothing of Ghant other than what you have told me in your story, other than that it is foreign and you worship different gods."

Errando listened and smiled, something he didn’t do that often, but felt compelled to at her interest. “It is very cold, especially up north. So cold that it can turn your skin black. You would have to be covered in thick furs. You would look like a furball.” He laughed.

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment. "Perhaps I could teach you a bit of our language and you could tell me about your homeland. It seems a fair trade to me."

“Indeed, that seems like a fair trade to me as well.” Errando agreed. “Would impress the Arzhani Protector if I knew some words?”

Quenthel got up and stretched. "Come, let us return to the city. There are other things to see yet. I have not taken you to see the wall of names. That is where the names of the Vehandzn engraved, once called Arzhani in life. There is also the Nvazum Bridge, the very edge of Sevan where it looks over the edge of the mountain into the air beyond."

“Sounds like a good plan. After you, Quenthel.” Errando said as he got to his feet, the bruise on his face tingling.

[Nalaya]

Out in the City
Sevan, Nalaya

As they passed through the door, Quenthel gave him a haughty look. "I would not look like a furball," she said. There was a glimmer of light in her eyes that told the truth—she was joking. "Even the oura shroud themselves in fur, and yet they are not furballs. Why not I?"

When he asked her about the Protector, the yathrin shrugged expressively. She couldn't even begin to imagine what went on in the head of that creature. "I do not know," she said honestly. "I assume she can be impressed, but I know not what with. The mind of the Tigress is as cold as ice and sharp like a scalpel."

She lead the way out through the streets and towards the bridge, smiling a little in good humor. The sun had moved in the sky with the passage of time. Another call to prayer sounded above the city and so she knew it was well into the afternoon. The sun was warm enough to be hot now, though Quenthel was not affected by the temperature in the slightest. She was accustomed to it and in her own way dressed for it. Errando with his pale skin and dark tunic would have more to worry about. Even though people were used to foreigners moving about the city, Sevan being the diplomatic hub of Nalaya as it was, they still cast glances at the obviously different man. However, since he was moving through the city with Quenthel, no one stopped to ask questions.

They were quickly nearing the Nvazum Bridge. Built over the very edge of the river at the tops of the falls, it was a narrow pedestrian foot-bridge with low walls on either side. There was a broad lower ledge that was fenced in below, designed to catch people if they tumbled off the edge before they could plunge into the falls. The perch allowed one a stunning view. The valley below was wreathed in mist that scattered the light into rainbows of color, much of it turned to gold by the sun. Below, the farms and orchards of the valley alongside the lake that gleamed in the sunlight seemed tiny. It was a dizzying height, the reaches beyond the edge lost to view. One couldn't quite look over the edge to the direct bottom. Quenthel leaned against the wall and looked out. The sun was beginning its long, slow sink towards the horizon and illuminated a very distant ocean just barely visible in that distance.

"Quite the view," Quenthel said with a smile. "I never tire of it. I make a point to come here every time I am in Sevan. The thrill of danger comes with the height."

It was a thrill she knew very well. Walking so close to her animals that she could almost reach out and touch them was something that always sent shivers of awe down her spine. They were predators, sleek and beautiful in the dying light of the sun. She always found them around that hour, their eyes reflecting in the dusk. This was no different—death was equally close and yet also unlikely. She wasn't certain if Errando would appreciate it the same way. Perhaps he was afraid of heights. She could hardly blame him even though fear was an emotion she did her best to stay away from.

[Ghant]

Out in the City
Sevan, Nalaya

“I would not look like a furball," she said. There was a glimmer of light in her eyes…as if she was amused. "Even the oura shroud themselves in fur, and yet they are not furballs. Why not I?"

Errando chuckled. “Takes a lot of furs to stay warm up there. I have seen people look round. Mammoth furs, the furs of cave bears, stuff like that. My little sister gets bundled up so thick in them, that all you see is a round ball of fur with stubs for arms and legs, and a very deep pit where her eyes are.”

When he asked her about the Protector, Quenthel shrugged. "I do not know," she said honestly. "I assume she can be impressed, but I know not what with. The mind of the Tigress is as cold as ice and sharp like a scalpel."

Quenthel lead the way out through the streets and towards a bridge, smiling a little in good humor. The sun had moved in the sky with the passage of time. Another call to prayer sounded above the city. It was getting warm out, to Errando’s reckoning. People were shooting glances at him as he went…he must have been strange for most ordinary people to behold.

When they got to the bridge, Errando examined it, taking note of its features and the fact that one couldn’t see the bottom.

"Quite the view," Quenthel said with a smile. "I never tire of it. I make a point to come here every time I am in Sevan. The thrill of danger comes with the height."

“Yeah, about that…have you ever gotten vertigo looking down there? That is a long fall it looks like…ever seen anybody fall?” Errando wasn’t afraid of heights, but at the same time figured that most people might have been at least weary of such a height. “Don’t worry, I am not afraid of heights, if anything I appreciate the view. Tis quite beautiful, as I am sure you might agree.”

[Nalaya]

Nvazum Bridge
Sevan, Nalaya

"They added to the construction to catch people who fall before they hit the water," Quenthel said. "I have never seen anyone go over the edge, but I assume at least someone has or they would not have built anything. It is a dizzying height. I hear it takes more than a minute for a person to hit the bottom, though I do not know how they measured that."

"Beauty and danger often go hand in hand. Belladonna, venomed thorn, the fires of a mountain or the ice of a glacier, and all the animals from which the Yath take their arlathil. It is nature at its most pure," she said when he mentioned the aesthetics of the view. "That which captivates can also kill."

She looked down over the edge again, leaning out just a little without a trace of fear. As far as she reasoned, everyone had to die of something but she doubted strongly that her own death would be from a fall. The Yath almost to a one died in battle...though perhaps that would change now that Nalaya was at peace for now. She did not necessarily hold out hope that this calmness would last forever. Not when people agitated for a return to the old days where they could kill blood enemies with impunity rather than being bound by the rule of law. People preferred what they were accustomed to. Stability was a new and foreign concept. It would take several generations for it to sink in.

The wind started to pick up and Quenthel wisely moved to be back inside completely. The gusts could be fierce here, carrying the smell of the salt sea. But for now, the breeze seemed a tame creature rather than a wild beast. Passing over the river and gathering coolness, it added a pleasant and refreshing air to the warm afternoon. A little spray of the river hit the yathrin. She blinked it from her eyes and almost scowled in a pouting way as she wiped off her tattooed face. The droplets that had hit her body were of far less concern.

When she was dried to her satisfaction, she turned to Errando. "Tell me if you have more questions or if you wish to return to the Zoranots'in. You are in control of our schedule, Paron. I am here to serve." It was a strange statement even though it was an accurate one.

[Ghant]

Nvazum Bridge
Sevan, Nalaya

"They added to the construction to catch people who fall before they hit the water," Quenthel said. "I have never seen anyone go over the edge, but I assume at least someone has or they would not have built anything. It is a dizzying height. I hear it takes more than a minute for a person to hit the bottom, though I do not know how they measured that."

“Back in Ghant, one of the Seven Wonders is the Bridge of Gauekoizarra, that transects a great swampy lake, and built in ancient times. It is not high, but it is long, and there is nothing to catch you if you fall over. Entire armies have been consumed in that dreadful swamp, and it is said that at times, you can see them looking up at you, as if gesturing you to join them in their murky crypt.” Errando explained. “I think I like this bridge better though it seems much more majestic.”

Quenthel continued. "Beauty and danger often go hand in hand. Belladonna, venomed thorn, the fires of a mountain or the ice of a glacier, and all the animals from which the Yath take their arlathil. It is nature at its most pure," she said when he mentioned the aesthetics of the view. "That which captivates can also kill."

“…Like you?” Errando asked in response to Quenthel’s comment regarding that which captivates can also kill. Errando was not a man prone to flattery, nor was he deliberately attempting to woo his guide. He merely thought that it was an appropriate thing to say in response, if only to see how she might react.

Quenthel looked down over the edge again, leaning out just a little without a trace of fear. The wind started to pick up and Quenthel moved to be back inside completely. She got splashed with some of the river water, and then she turned to Errando. "Tell me if you have more questions or if you wish to return to the Zoranots'in. You are in control of our schedule, Paron. I am here to serve." It was a strange statement even though it was an accurate one.

“…Why don’t we return to Zoranots’in, and on the way, if I have any questions, I will let you know.” Errando asked, preparing to start walking. “Actually, there is one. I am curious to know what the general stereotypes of Ghantar are in Nalaya. I know it isn’t universal, but I am still curious to learn. We have been around for a very long time, so certainly there must be some prevailing thoughts.”

Of course there is…everybody has an opinion on us, Errando thought. For we are nothing if not…interesting.

[Nalaya]

Walking Back
Sevan, Nalaya

"Gauekoizarra," Quenthel said, stretching each syllable thoughtfully as she tried to internalize the pronunciation. His language was certainly foreign to her, just as hers was to him. That was a knife which cut both ways. She could picture a mire full of the dead in her mind, not that swamps were common in her part of the world. Ghant was beginning to sound almost inhospitable, but then again, she had a very skewed view of what was hospitable. Her homeland was not what one called 'easily inhabitable'.

When he payed his compliment, the yathrin laughed. "I laud you for your charm, Paron," she said, pleased to hear it even though she knew to take such things with a grain of salt. She was useful to him and so it would not be unheard of for him to attempt to keep her around one way or another. A healthy dose of suspicion had gotten her a long way. Still, flattery was flattery. Honey was easy to swallow.

She turned their feet to the path in the direction of the Zoranots'in. Around them, daily life flowed on at its languid pace. A few people nodded in Quenthel's direction. They were Mak'ur, like her, though their tattoos were not in black nor so prominently displayed. Neither were they animal markings. Such things were reserved for the Yath. She returned the nods where she caught them with a dignified tip of her head.

Errando's question gave her some pause. "The Ghanti are not at the forefront of our minds, nor have they been for hundreds of years," Quenthel said with a small shrug. "Survival is what matters. Passion is what matters. Power is what matters. These are things in the now, in the here. If you asked many people what they feel towards your country, they would say they feel nothing. No fondness, but no animosity either. But in the ranks of the powerful? Yes, there is a stereotype. You are ruled by nobility. Blue blood. Sel'tur vlees. This is a mark of weakness. To submit to another simply because of who they were born to is an anathema to nature. That which is strongest rises to the top, wherever it may originate from. This is why Nalaya has no aristocracy. It is rule by accomplishment, not by birth."

Quenthel honestly believed in that vein, though she did not really think of it as a stereotype as much as a refutation of a worldview. It did not mean that the Ghanti were inherently weak, only that they had made themselves so by subjugating their people—regardless of strength or merit—to a weak system. If the Ghanti learned to elevate the best even if they were low-born, perhaps they would have been viewed differently by her people. And there was the business of the Peregrino mediation. The Avangardn had not been impressed upon in a positive way and that would probably color the Protector's view.

Even as an outsider to the Avangardn, Quenthel knew that Arzhani Siri Kalousdian was the Protector's conscience in a body. If she said something to the Tigress about someone, it would be more than noted. It made for an unflattering portrait of at least the Ghanti diplomats.

"There is much ground to be covered," Quenthel explained. "Nalaya has to prove it is not a land of savages. Ghant has to prove that it is not weak. It is that simple."

[Ghant]

Walking Back
Sevan, Nalaya

"Gauekoizarra," Quenthel said, stretching each syllable thoughtfully.

“They call it the Jewel of the North. Been around for what some say is 6,000 years. Many tales to tell of that place, the one of its founding I know very well. A shame that nowadays it is a haven for smugglers and crooks.”

When he paid his compliment, Quenthel laughed. "I laud you for your charm, Paron,"

She turned their feet to the path in the direction of the Zoranots'in. Around them, daily life flowed on at its languid pace. A few people nodded in Quenthel's direction. They were Mak'ur, like her, though their tattoos were not in black nor so prominently displayed. Neither were they animal markings. Such things were reserved for the Yath. She returned the nods where she caught them with a dignified tip of her head.

Errando's question gave her some pause. "The Ghanti are not at the forefront of our minds, nor have they been for hundreds of years," Quenthel said with a small shrug. "Survival is what matters. Passion is what matters. Power is what matters. These are things in the now, in the here. If you asked many people what they feel towards your country, they would say they feel nothing. No fondness, but no animosity either. But in the ranks of the powerful? Yes, there is a stereotype. You are ruled by nobility. Blue blood. Sel'tur vlees. This is a mark of weakness. To submit to another simply because of who they were born to is an anathema to nature. That which is strongest rises to the top, wherever it may originate from. This is why Nalaya has no aristocracy. It is rule by accomplishment, not by birth."

“I would say that is only true in some parts, mostly in the south. The further north you go, the less Ghant is ruled by nobility. Go up far enough, in the lands that have 30 days of sunlight in the summer, and 30 days of night in the winter, and it is a place most savage, where those that are strong rule. Warlords, Chieftains, Barbarian Kings, they rule until someone can cast them down. I would know, I have seen them, in their halls of stone, earth and wood. I lived amongst them as a boy, fostered by the Izgama Clan, because my father said that if I were to be King someday, he would want me to be strong and fierce, for that is the only way to command respect. But yes indeed, it is unfortunate that the northerners are often shunned and marginalized by the south, except when southern lords lack for a worthy bride, in which case they often journey north and try to court some savage northern girl with promises of wealth, power and better weather down south. Many are like to take that bait.” Errando laughed.

"There is much ground to be covered," Quenthel explained. "Nalaya has to prove it is not a land of savages. Ghant has to prove that it is not weak. It is that simple."

Errando puffed out his chest in jest. “I can prove that Ghant is not weak. Give me any challenge to prove my strength, and it shall be overcome.” Errando laughed. He wanted to keep the mood light, after all. He was enjoying his time with Quenthel, and found himself becoming more comfortable and relaxed around her. He wondered if she felt the same way in that regard.

[Nalaya]

Walking Back
Sevan, Nalaya

"Kings are still nobility," Quenthel pointed out. She had forgotten that it was a prince she was talking to. He did not strike her as particularly weak, but it was a reminder that he had still assumed his position by heredity. These were not purely honorary titles. "It is still rule by blood, even if tempered. I do not fault you for it. Your people have been subject to such a thing for many, many generations and such things do not easily change. Perhaps it is better for you if they do not, who can say? But it is what it is. One does not paint the house-cat and call it the lion."

Her mood was still light even if her words had a touch of seriousness to them. He had wanted to know what the people in charge of Nalaya thought. Now he knew. At the mention of a test of strength, she laughed. If only it were something so simple. She had no doubts about his physical prowess after seeing him in a fight. But in the heart, the head, and the spirit? She was not familiar or wise enough to say. Better a warlord take his measure, for they could sense such things like one predator could sense another...or prey.

"Perhaps we shall have to find some rocks for you to lift or a stump to dig out," Quenthel said lightly. "No doubt the Tigress would not object to you landscaping a garden."

They reached the Zoranots'in in another minute or two, passing through the great main gate. There, in the midst of people passing to and fro, was a flash of orange and black. Prowling through the courtyard unhindered was a Hostillian tiger, albeit a young one that was wearing a collar. It seemed to perk up at the sight of Quenthel and approached without a hint of fear. "Ah, I was wondering when we would see Qiuse," she said brightly. "He belongs to the Protector. He was brought by back by the Ambassador to Hostillia as a gift. The Quarval-sharess's affection for him has led him to like a great many of the Yath on sight. He is a fine omen."

The tiger's cautious strides turned into a bound and he practically leaped up on Quenthel, rising up onto his back legs to put his front paws on her. She ruffled the fur on his cheeks and stroked the top of his head. "Such a handsome cat," she said indulgently, which seemed to look pleased with the attention. After a few moments of this affection, the young tiger turned his attention to Errando. Qiuse dropped back down to all four paws and butted his head against the noble's hand as though he wanted to be petted.

[Ghant]

Walking Back
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel explained. "Kings are still nobility…it is still rule by blood, even if tempered. I do not fault you for it. Your people have been subject to such a thing for many, many generations and such things do not easily change. Perhaps it is better for you if they do not, who can say? But it is what it is. One does not paint the house-cat and call it the lion."

Errando smiled in response. “There is power in a king’s blood, it is said. Indeed, in Ghant, change never comes easy, and many people do everything in their power to resist it. There is a fear that change might threaten their old ways and erode those things that make them feel special. As for me, well, I change as needs be. For the tree that doesn’t learn to bend with the wind, will surely break.”

Then came the bit about feats of strength. "Perhaps we shall have to find some rocks for you to lift or a stump to dig out," Quenthel said lightly. "No doubt the Tigress would not object to you landscaping a garden."

“In Ghant, lifting rocks and digging out stumps are popular pastimes.” Errando laughed. “But it is hardly fun without worthy competition…I wonder if you have experience with landscaping. I could picture you in a garden planting flowers and tending a birdbath.” Errando grinned, playfully.

They reached the Zoranots'in in another minute or two, passing through the great main gate. There, in the midst of people passing to and fro, was a flash of orange and black. Prowling through the courtyard unhindered was a Hostillian tiger, albeit a young one that was wearing a collar. It seemed to perk up at the sight of Quenthel and approached without a hint of fear. "Ah, I was wondering when we would see Qiuse," she said brightly. "He belongs to the Protector. He was brought by back by the Ambassador to Hostillia as a gift. The Quarval-sharess's affection for him has led him to like a great many of the Yath on sight. He is a fine omen."

Errando had to repress his feeling of being startled. In Ghant, there were various species of Puma that were vicious and could tear a man apart. They were never kept as pets though…being wild animals. It took Errando a moment to get adjusted to the sight of a collared tiger in his presence, and naturally he had to wonder if the creature was a threat…it didn’t seem as though it was. “A fine beast indeed…this Qiuse. Never seen one like him in person.”

The tiger's cautious strides turned into a bound and he practically leaped up on Quenthel, rising up onto his back legs to put his front paws on her. She ruffled the fur on his cheeks and stroked the top of his head. "Such a handsome cat," she said indulgently, which seemed to look pleased with the attention. After a few moments of this affection, the young tiger turned his attention to Errando. Qiuse dropped back down to all four paws and butted his head against the noble's hand as though he wanted to be petted.

Taking note of Qiuse’s gesture and not wanting to seem afraid, or to startle the animal, Errando attempted to deftly pet the tiger, clearing his mind and coming to possess a positive, calm energy. “A fine tiger Qiuse is indeed.” Errando stated. He decided that it would be best to stay quiet about his own father’s appetite for big cats…

[Nalaya]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel made a noise of disbelief at being told he could picture her tending to a garden. It was not uncommon for Nalayans to do, but she had never been one for something like that. Perhaps it was in part due to how rare such things were in her homeland, simply because the climate was rather prohibitive. Near rivers, yes, which was usually in the city, but there were not often carefully tended gardens. "Birds are food," she said with a smile. She was always careful not to show her teeth outside of the appropriate situations. She had no ill will towards Errando and so she did not bare them.

Playing with Qiuse was still enjoyable. He was a well-muscled creature who weighed about eighty pounds. He was far from his adult size yet, of course. He yawned as he butted his head against Errando's hand, displaying the sharp teeth of his powerful jaws. Even small for a tiger, he could tear into a person if he took it into his head. He was nearly the size of a Rottweiler and had lethal claws in addition to his formidable teeth.

He was a part of Quenthel's arlathil and so she felt a sense of connection to the animal. The Mak'ur had no word for tiger, so they used the same word as they did for the Homeland's great cats. She loved them for their grace and deadly skill, though they were not perfect. There was much to be learned from them all the same.

"So shall we go acquaint you with the Arzhani Protector?" Quenthel said, looking pleased when the tiger circled back around to her for attention. She scratched behind his ears like he wanted. "Unless there is something else you wish to see here in the Zoranots'in, that is."

[Ghant]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel made a noise of disbelief at being told he could picture her tending to a garden. "Birds are food," she said with a smile.

“Naturally,” Errando replied with a laugh. There was an old saying in Ghant: if it has four legs and mother, you can eat it. Now was not the best time to share that, so Errando kept it to himself.

During the course of Errando petting Qiuse, Quenthel addressed Errando. "So shall we go acquaint you with the Arzhani Protector?" Quenthel said, looking pleased when the tiger circled back around to her for attention. She scratched behind his ears like he wanted. "Unless there is something else you wish to see here in the Zoranots'in, that is."

Errando mulled that thought for a moment, not necessarily apprehensive, but rather cautious. He wanted to be ready...but perhaps he was ready enough...as ready as he was like to get. No better time then the present, Errando thought. Better go in now. “Yes, why don’t we meet the Azrhani Protector? And just to be sure, when I speak to her, I should address her as Arzhani? Errando assumed that was the case, but he thought it would be prudent to play it safe. After all, it was better to be safe…than sorry.

[Nalaya]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

"If you want to walk away with any respect, you would call her Arzhani," Quenthel advised. "She speaks Latin as well as I do, so you will not need me to serve as translator, but I will linger in case something goes wrong." The yathrin wasn't certain what she would do if the Protector's mood turned unpleasant, but she figured it was probably wise to be there in case she needed to apply an elbow to Errando's ribs. The Ghanti had a reputation among the Avangardn for shoving their feet in their mouths, and Quenthel was certain that they had good reason for that attitude. No stereotype existed in a vacuum.

Quenthel gave the young tiger a pat goodbye and left him to wander off in search of affection from someone else. Once again, she lead Errando through the winding halls and corridors of the Zoranots'in to a familiar area. The statue of the woman with the broken sword stood in the garden. This time, however, they were on the opposite side where it opened up into a corridor lined with wooden doors. Each bore a brass name plate. These were the names of the Avangardn that they passed. Siri Kalousdian, Siran Zadian, Hravad Ardzuni... Finally, at the end of the hall stood the door of Khavar T'avish, unmarked by any plate. If one had to ask who the office belonged to, they did not belong there.

The door stood open to allow warm breezes perfumed by the garden in. Songbirds could be heard singing through the windows, hopping about on the ledges as if completely unafraid of humans. None of them came through the open glass, but they came very near it. Some could be seen building up their nests. The room was not expansive, but not small. Thick burgundy carpeting covered the floor in a way that seemed to absorb sound and give the office a muted air. There was a dartboard on the wall near the door, opposite a large mahogany desk covered with neat stacks of papers in file folders and a collection of very nice pens. Broken glass from a paperweight crunched under Errando's feet when he entered, something Quenthel was very careful to step over.

The owner of this particular office was standing near the window, golden sunlight falling on her upturned face. Khavar T'avish was beautiful in the way statues are beautiful, fair Arusai skin bathed in the sun's glow. The lines of her face were patrician, even regal, with an unmistakable pride that bordered on arrogance somehow impressed into her whole bearing. There was a coldness to her, a certain distance to her features as if she was detached from her surroundings. Her thick brown hair was left down and loose rather than schooled into the military regulations of the rest of the Avangardn. It framed her face with a hint of a wave to it. Then she turned and the features everyone knew focused on her guests. Her eyes were a grey-green color and seemed to look upon the world from the outside, thousands of miles away. They had a way of making people feel their insignificance in the greater scheme of things. Behind them was a mind as as sharp and unforgiving as shattered steel.

The Protector was currently in uniform, a rare sight indeed. Her uniform was sable, cut to fit close so it wouldn't snag, a red cord around her left arm and a matching crimson sash wound low over her hips and knotted at the side. There was no rank insignia, as it wasn't necessary, and not a single medal, as traditional for the Unkndirnei—her service. The sash was enough of a symbol to inspire respect.

"You must be our Ghanti guest," Khavar said in Latin. Her voice was a smoky alto, low and carefully worded. She spoke at a relaxed, almost languid pace as if there were not a hurry in the world. It was a good sign. Quenthel knew that the more angry the Protector was, the more clipped and precise her speech became. It was a warning that had been passed on to her when she arrived in Sevan. "Well met. I hope you have found Sevan hospitable. I understand there was something of a confrontation out in the city."

Quenthel stiffened. How does she know already? the adept asked herself. Then again, this was the Protector they were talking about. Even if the report would take a day or more to process, the woman had eyes and ears everywhere in the city and they certainly paid attention to where a diplomat or envoy came and went. Quenthel supposed that they had probably been followed, but so expertly that she had not detected it.

Khavar's eyes flickered over to the yathrin. "Vendui, Quenthel. The Quarval-sharess spoke highly of you. That is a rare thing indeed."

"Thank you, Arzhani. I will do my best to ensure her praise does not ring hollow," the young woman said, bowing respectfully. "This is the Paron Prince from the land of the Ghanti. He is here to speak to you."

"Fascinating," Khavar said as she walked over to her desk. Her voice was not kind like Quenthel's. "By all means, speak."

[Ghant]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

"If you want to walk away with any respect, you would call her Arzhani," Quenthel advised. "She speaks Latin as well as I do, so you will not need me to serve as translator, but I will linger in case something goes wrong."

Errando nodded with a slight smile. “Thank you. That is what I shall do, then. And I will do my best to avoid any trouble.”

Quenthel gave the young tiger a pat goodbye and left him to wander off in search of affection from someone else. Once again, she lead Errando through the winding halls back to the statue of the woman with the broken sword. This time, however, they were on the opposite side where it opened up into a corridor lined with wooden doors. Each bore a brass name plate with names that Errando didn’t recognize.

They came to an open door that led into a room. Thick burgundy carpeting covered the floor in a way that seemed to absorb sound and give the office a muted air. There was a dartboard on the wall near the door, opposite a large mahogany desk covered with neat stacks of papers in file folders and a collection of very nice pens. Broken glass from a paperweight crunched under Errando's feet when he entered. Oops…didn’t mean to step on that, damn it. Errando thought.

An attractive looking woman in a sable uniform stood underneath the window at present. She had thick brown hair that was left down and loose. She turned to face Errando and Quenthel, and indeed she was quite attractive it seemed. Her eyes were a grey-green color and framed by fair skin.

"You must be our Ghanti guest," Khavar said in Latin. "Well met. I hope you have found Sevan hospitable. I understand there was something of a confrontation out in the city."

Khavar's eyes flickered over to the yathrin. "Vendui, Quenthel. The Quarval-sharess spoke highly of you. That is a rare thing indeed."

"Thank you, Arzhani. I will do my best to ensure her praise does not ring hollow," the young woman said, bowing respectfully. "This is the Paron Prince from the land of the Ghanti. He is here to speak to you."

"Fascinating," Khavar said as she walked over to her desk. Her voice was not kind like Quenthel's. "By all means, speak."

Errando did a slight bow, and then spoke with eye contact. Certainly, he wasn’t expecting the Arzhani Protector to be so easy on the eyes. That made things much easier for him. “Thank you, Arzhani, it is a pleasure to meet you. I thank you greatly for the hospitality that your country and its people have shown me. And yes, you understand correctly, Arzhani. Three drunken men followed Quenthel and I from a restaurant with the intent of harming Quenthel, and I did what I could to keep her and myself from harm.”

Errando thought of his next words carefully. “Arzhani, it is a great honor to be here in your country today, treading where seldom my countrymen might have treaded before. I wonder, Arzhani, how Ghant might be able to grow its relationship with your fine country, or at the very least create one.”

[Nalaya]

The Protector's Office
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel almost sighed audibly in relief when Errando addressed Khavar with respect. There was still time for things to go horribly wrong, of course, but for now things seemed to be sailing more smoothly than they had between Siri and Ghant's representatives previously. She relaxed a little and moved over to the window, seating herself on the broad ledge that extended inward. She eyed the great height even as she listened. Errando would either swim or sink here under his own power. While she was his guardian and his guard, that did not mean she could perform his task for him.

She did not envy him. She remembered the old days and the thing that the woman they were speaking to had once been. The Tigress of Yeraskh was not a name given out of love or admiration. It was an epithet given to an avatar of fury.

"We pride ourselves on our hospitality," Khavar said as she seated herself at her desk. The clearly well-loved and well-worn leather chair creaked a little. She folded her hands atop the papers sitting there. "Normally our visiting diplomats are not accosted in the streets, but then again, they are normally not in the company of the Yath. Their beneficence is perhaps a mixed blessing. Old tensions still remain."

Quenthel knew that would probably be true for centuries to come, but people seemed to be adjusting to the idea of a new world with a certain amount of alacrity. They weren't acting on the tensions, with two main exceptions. The Nava'ai dispute with the Mak'ur wasn't open warfare anymore, but it wasn't all that far from it either. That was a pot that could boil over at any minute. The only thing stopping it was the knowledge that the Tigress would pounce the moment someone stepped out of line and then everyone involved would feel those claws. Neither set of hardliners were quite far enough around the bend that such an outcome was deemed acceptable. Then there were the Vatani, who wanted their blood-feuds to continue into the new era, but even they were being brought to heel despite the ugliness of the process.

It was a very delicate balance.

Those distant eyes seemed to focus not on Errando, but into him. Khavar appeared to be searching his soul even as she paused to consider his words. Her hands moved and her long fingers skimmed delicately across the surface of the desk before pausing. Then the drumming started, her manicured nails against the wood. It was just soft little taps. If it was a tell, Quenthel did not know what it meant. The Protector was as transparent as a lump of coal to the yathrin.

Quenthel considered the fact that Errando was blessed by his ignorance in some ways. He was blissfully unaware of the minefield he was walking into and perhaps that blindness would save him. He did not know of the black temper and mercurial arrogance that could so easily crystallize outwards.

"Your country is a very interesting one, Paron Odolaren," Khavar said. She lifted a thick dossier on her desk for emphasis and then dropped it back onto its stack again. "I have been doing some reading. Not many countries practice the same political and diplomatic strategy that they might have used in the Medieval Ages." There was no hint of emotional inflection that might signal that the statement was an insult. It seemed only a sort of calm and polite commentary. "How may our countries do business with each other? It depends on what Ghant has to offer us."

The Tigress leaned back in her chair, studying her northern guest with lips ever so slightly pursed. She seemed as tranquil as the mirror-like surface of a still pond. "I have heard the honest report of a powerful figure in this nation regarding your homeland's diplomacy. It was not a glowing endorsement. I respect this speaker's opinion as I do that of very few others, so you must forgive me if I remain somewhat...reticent."

[Ghant]

The Protector's Office
Sevan, Nalaya

“We pride ourselves on our hospitality," Khavar said as she seated herself at her desk. The clearly well-loved and well-worn leather chair creaked a little. She folded her hands atop the papers sitting there. "Normally our visiting diplomats are not accosted in the streets, but then again, they are normally not in the company of the Yath. Their beneficence is perhaps a mixed blessing. Old tensions still remain."

Khavar’s eyes seemed to penetrate Errando deeply…all he could do was look out, and be as he was. Khavar continued. "Your country is a very interesting one, Paron Odolaren,” Khavar said. Errando watched as she lifted a thick dossier on her desk for emphasis and then dropped it back onto its stack again. "I have been doing some reading. Not many countries practice the same political and diplomatic strategy that they might have used in the Medieval Ages." There was no hint of emotional inflection that might signal that the statement was an insult. It seemed only a sort of calm and polite commentary. "How may our countries do business with each other? It depends on what Ghant has to offer us."

Errando nodded. “Indeed, Azhani, Ghant is not a place that embraces change easily, for it always comes slow and sometimes painfully. My goal of course is to demonstrate why Ghant is worthy of the honor closer ties…in that area, I will admit that there is work to be done. Perhaps once I have accomplished my goal, other fruits might be contemplated, such as trade, and even embassies…I doubt the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would be like to allow a…diplomatic, incident to happen again, for seldom is the same mistake made twice. Ghant has much to offer, Arzhani, as does your country.”

Khavar leaned back in her chair, continuing to study Errando with lips ever so slightly pursed. She seemed as tranquil. She doesn’t seem so bad, Errando thought. He was beginning to think that her reputation might have been exaggerated. "I have heard the honest report of a powerful figure in this nation regarding your homeland's diplomacy. It was not a glowing endorsement. I respect this speaker's opinion as I do that of very few others, so you must forgive me if I remain somewhat...reticent."

Errando mulled the words for a moment, and then he responded with a neutral face. “Indeed, Arzhani, that is understandable, for I too know of the bumbling ex Minister of Foreign affairs…Ninu Inogaru. The man was a fool, Arzhani, and that much is certain. More competent leadership is in government now…people that address others with respect and take things more seriously. As it happens, Arzhani, I am not a man in a position of government. I am just the heir of a King. Perhaps that is why I am here…I take things like respect, honor and manners seriously. I am here to demonstrate that among the Ghanti, there are enough people like me to merit consideration. Yet, I wouldn’t expect you to take my word for it, Arzhani, for against the word of your speaker, my word means little. Rather I mean to demonstrate that my words are true…if only the chance to do so is given.”

[Nalaya]

The Protector's Office
Sevan, Nalaya

Khavar sat in a thoughtful silence as Errando spoke, giving every appearance that she was listening intently to his words. Her eyes flickered a little back and forth as she took in every single movement he made, overlooking nothing. When he finished, she tapped her index finger against her lips not to signal silence, but to signal she had collected her thoughts.

"If one allows another to speak for them, one must accept that the world will see them through the lens provided," she said of Ninu Inogaru and the Ghantish government. Time would tell if things had changed. They could not apparently rest much faith on Errando's actions, as he was not a government official. That was an admission that did not appear to thrill the Tigress. If he was not from the government of Ghant, what business did he have here on their behalf? Of course, Ghant was a strange country and had its own idea of who could serve as an ambassador. Perhaps being nobility was sufficient.

Quenthel was still trying to understand how they could have many kings and yet be one nation. That seemed as prone to infighting and civil war as the warlords had been, and yet she heard no such stories from Ghant. Her attention was brought back to the room when Khavar rose from her seat. Quenthel immediately rose and moved towards the door, though she was careful not to stand in front of it. She could feel a growing unease in the pit of her stomach. The yathrin considered her survival instincts well-honed and she could tell that they were rapidly departing from safe and steady ground.

The Protector's long fingers curled around a stone she had been using as a paperweight on her desk. She started to pace near the windows where Quenthel had been, fluid motion almost resembling the prowl back and forth of a great caged feline. Up and down the paperweight was tossed and then caught by one hand or the other. Every motion seemed as effortless as one of Quenthel's. Khavar was another who was acutely mindful of the working of every muscle, athletic enough that there was not a hint of uncertainty or tremulousness to her movements.

"Nalaya does not have nobility. We do not have royalty. That makes us an unusual choice for Ghantish diplomacy. One cannot simply marry into the influential here. And yet this is looked down upon, because of blood. I wonder what your people know about blood. Paron Odolaren, yspeak of respect, honor, and manners. I even believe that you have a grasp of them as the yathrin here continues to tolerate your presence. But where is your government? Does Nalaya not warrant the respect that such an emissary conveys? Or are we percieved as so dishonorable that we cannot be trusted with the safety of a political guest?" Khavar's low, throaty voice was beginning to change tone.

Those grey-green eyes flickered back at Errando. "Not that I seek to lay blame at your feet, Paron. You are but a servant of your country and your manners do you credit. I have yet to hear of you doing anything that would not endear you to the Avangardn." She turned the stone over in her hand, studying it for a long moment. "Nalaya is interested in trade with Ghant. Any chance to expand markets and allow resources to flow is a welcome one. I believe that it is possible to do business together. Should I entertain the notion of warmer relations? I have yet to be convinced."

Quethel exhaled softly. She hoped that would be the extent of the displeasure. She didn't think Khavar would hurt Errando, not when he was a guest in the halls of the Zoranots'in, but that did not mean there would not be very unpleasant consequences. Particularly for Quenthel herself. She liked Errando a fair amount, but not quite enough that she was alright with being his whipping girl. The black beast of cruelty dug its spurs too deeply into the heart of Arzhani T'avish for Quenthel to throw herself on the woman's mercy.

[Ghant]

The Protector's Office
Sevan, Nalaya

Khavar sat in silence as Errando spoke, her eyes flickered a little back and forth as she took in every single movement he made, overlooking nothing. The Arzhani is studious, Errando thought. I must needs be careful to portray myself in a positive fashion. When he finished speaking to her, she tapped her index finger against her lips.

Then the Arzhani Protector responded. "If one allows another to speak for them, one must accept that the world will see them through the lens provided," she said of Ninu Inogaru and the Ghantish government.

Errando nodded. “A very reasonable position, Arzhani. The government of Yula Zimya was corrupt, incompetent and produced one embarrassment after another…Ninu being but one example. And now they are gone, and a more sensible government has emerged in its place, one that is far less overreaching and that places trust and confidence in those that it knows will not disappoint. Dare I say like myself, Arzhani.”

Errando watched as the Arzhani Protector's long fingers curled around a stone she had been using as a paperweight on her desk. She started to pace near the windows where Quenthel had been. She tossed the stone and then caught it by one hand or the other. Every motion seemed as effortless as one of Quenthel's.

"Nalaya does not have nobility. We do not have royalty. That makes us an unusual choice for Ghantish diplomacy. One cannot simply marry into the influential here. And yet this is looked down upon, because of blood. I wonder what your people know about blood. Paron Odolaren, you speak of respect, honor, and manners. I even believe that you have a grasp of them as the yathrin here continues to tolerate your presence. But where is your government? Does Nalaya not warrant the respect that such an emissary conveys? Or are we perceived as so dishonorable that we cannot be trusted with the safety of a political guest?" Khavar's low, throaty voice was beginning to change tone.

Errando was prepared to answer that question thoroughly, maintaining his sense of calm. “Indeed, Arzhani, that is true. Despite that, we are not averse to diplomacy with your country. Take Adiran for instance…they have no royalty, or nobility for that matter, but we conduct business with them and have cordial relations with them all the same. The government of Ghant is a motley collection of elected peoples, the monarchy and the nobility, of which I am but an emissary. As an emissary, I have nothing but the most profound respect for your nation, Arzhani, based off of what I have seen with my own eyes. Whatever I tell the Jauneketxea will reflect that. I am a political guest, if you will, and an heir…I trusted you with this, and so far, I feel as though my trust has been well placed, as you have been most hospitable.” Errando thought for a moment about blood. “It is also most interesting, Arzhani, that you should mention blood. Where I am from, people worship it.”

Those grey-green eyes flickered back at Errando. "Not that I seek to lay blame at your feet, Paron. You are but a servant of your country and your manners do you credit. I have yet to hear of you doing anything that would not endear you to the Avangardn." She turned the stone over in her hand, studying it for a long moment. "Nalaya is interested in trade with Ghant. Any chance to expand markets and allow resources to flow is a welcome one. I believe that it is possible to do business together. Should I entertain the notion of warmer relations? I have yet to be convinced."

Errando bowed courteously. “Thank you, Arzhani. That should be a good place to start…a point from which more might be built over time. For this I am grateful.”