The High Seas (Closed; Ajax Only, IC)

[Pulau Keramat]

“She birthed herself from a question.
a simple question of
What we are missing
What we are blind to
What we can begin to see.
It is from these waters that we have been given glory.
It is from these waters that we have been given sight.
It is from these waters, these sacred waters, that we have been given
a gift
A gift so powerful that it brings the stoic to bliss and awe
A gift so awakening that it brings the wise to their knees in new light
A gift so pure that it brings the cruel a sense of innocence
And this gift has a name
She is the child of the waters, born to fill our mind and soul
She is the echo of our mortality, showing us the limits of reality
She is vision
She is radiance
Her name
Is Transcendence.”

The First Ucapan of the Tuntutan Roh
Circa 950 BCE, Upasamada Chaumai Boodsabaan
Transcribed in the Grand Library of The Solustheris, translated circa 630 CE

Midday
The Grand Gereja of Kopiona Poi
Kopiona Poi, Pulau Keramat
August 7th, 1956

If Urassaya was going to be honest with herself, she would understand why her first impression to new members of the order always seems to align itself in a general idea of intimidation.

When she was still an adolescent, only just being admitted as a Bhikkhuni, there had always been some general consensus on what an Upasamada was, foremost being an expectation of harmonious energy. The thought of the Upasamada was supposed to represent a unifying entity to the Gereja, one who could effectively communicate on all fronts a peaceful message of ascension. Most certainly, almost everyone had seen the future matriarch of the order to be one with a somewhat whimsical attitude to life,this always being revered by Urassaya’s peers as a sign of a heightened attunement to transcendent thought. To be frank, Urassaya thought this was all utter bullshit.

She didn’t become the Upasamada because she spoke in a fanciful tone to every worshipper lucky enough to seek audience, or advocated great speeches on love and harmony, because, at least in her own words, she wasn’t a complete and utter moron. No, Urassaya took pride in the fact that her title came from her competition shying down with the mere clench of a fist, and a raised eyebrow. She was honored to know that her authority came from direct and brutal actions against those who would diminish her, squashing dissent against her own empowerment within the order with succinct responses and brutal asseverations. She knew that the best Upasamada, those who were truly remembered, were able to wield authority.

It was this knowledge, and this directive, that led her to where she sat now, within hallowed wood and ivory walls of the Grand Gereja, a monument to the N’nhivara and all that it encompassed. Against a carefully woven panang floor mat, and the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the green jasper encarved into the wall in an array of floral allure, the chamber would be described as peaceful at any other day, the gentle twang of a Chakhe resonating from somewhere within the sacred halls. This soft tranquility was broken by the businessman in front of her, beads of sweat streaming down his face, and nervous eyes looking to every direction but towards her own, the tension palpable as he struggled to stay composed in comparison to her still, impassive form. She didn’t care to get his name, he would gone soon enough that it didn’t matter to deal with pleasantries, but it was a far too familiar environment, one that evoked a standard response, feeling almost rehearsed at this point.

“I’m confident you know why you’ve been asked to come here. It is not common for the Upasamada to have to be bothered with to deal with ‘Kwai’ who don't seem to be able to respect the limitations and formalities that come with the gift of the Melangkah. And yet, it’s not only the disgrace of overindulgence that I am here for, isn’t it?”

She makes sure to lower the pitch of her voice for her query, the glimmer of fondness and hospitality that had been peppered into her first words diminished as to further accentuate her frustration, and more importantly, her irritation with the man opposite to her, which seems to hold significant enough of an effect, if the way he flinched at the shift in her tone would be any indication. He seems to almost shrink upon himself, stammering illegibly some excuse or the other as he tightens his grip on his pant leg, hands shaking violently. She wonders what runs through his mind, the gentle melody of the Chakhe conspicuous against his meaningless rambling, and if it’s actually regret, or just the rapid search for an excuse to escape the question.

“Isn’t it?”

She knows the power that words can hold, and one subset of this comes in a simple treat of repetition, a tone slightly more accusatory, a gaze sharper, the terracotta shikora in her hand making a satisfying clink against a glass table, the sound enough to make the accused jump slightly, lips tightly sealed as he looks straight at her, something akin to terror consumed in his expression. She decides against pushing further, simply choosing to raise an eyebrow, a composured, quiet nod permitting his response, with the threat of action if she didn’t happen to receive a satisfying answer.

“Please. Please it was a mistake, I just wanted her to calm down, she’s always been so loud and I thought that she would finally just, be still if I gave her a little! I never meant for any of this to happen, I swear!”

The response is laden with a tear-choked voice and wavering eyes, the aura of guilt almost visible as his knuckles turn bone white, and it takes a significant chunk of willpower to keep herself from a bark of condescending laughter, disbelief in how incredulously pathetic the excuse was. She lets herself exude a short exhale, loud enough to express some disappointment, and takes to slowly rising, the folds of her tricivara a loud crimson in the dimly lit chamber.

“You wish to blame this on a simple mistake? An accident, when every moment you’ve stepped inside this sacred Gereja, we have reminded you on the sanctity of the gifts we provide?”

She decides it most imposing to begin to approach him, a hand on his shoulder tight and crushing as she looks beyond him, ignoring his shaky frame to instead take note at the chipped wooden flooring, and the fading ivory that adorns the walls of the room. She can tell, the way he tenses as her grip only solidifies, that she’s on the verge of breaking any resistance left in this fragile, shameful halfwit.

“Each time, a promise to follow the Melangkah, for only your mind, only your body, as we spend painstaking hours trying to ensure your transcendence? No, Kwai, this is not the work of a simple mistake, but willful negligence, incompetence truly, that has led not to your own ill health, no, but instead the Runtuh of your only daughter. And now she sits in our infirmaries, already fallen below any chance of redeemability.”

Tears flow freely down his face, barely concealed sobs escaping trembling lips as she watches the weight of what he’d done begin to truly set upon him. She hardly feels sympathetic for the man, knowing fully well that the Order had warned him, with every purchase made, that the dosage was curated specifically for his consumption only, and that under no circumstances should it be provided to another, the threat of punishment made clear. Punishment was emphasized, especially if this transgression would lead to the Runtuh of another. Urassaya knows that her task here isn’t to simply break the man’s spirit, a task quite easily completed, but instead ensure that he could serve as both a lesson to those who would even dare to question the guidance of the Bhikkhuni, and a martyr willing to redeem himself, regardless of the cost. She leans in now, grabbing his jaw as to meet eye to eye, knowing that her gaze is a steel dagger against his watery, bloodshot vision.

“And it’s all your fault.”

Regardless of how many times Urassaya has seen it, there’s still something innately enthralling at watching the barriers a guilty soul puts up come crashing down entirely. She releases her grasp on his maw, only to watch him immediately break into a raucous wail, hands pressed against his face as he tries to hide the stream of tears and runny snot as any composure he had left shattered. Knowing it best to allow him to ride through the overwhelming sorrow rather than try and interrupt, she takes instead to pace back to her position on the mat across from him, tuning out the cacophonous whining as the floor zither plays louder, an attempt to mask the emotional outburst from disturbing more of the sanctum. And in this moment, where some may feel shame at bringing a grieving father to such vulnerability, and where others could embrace themselves in some idea of pride at having this sense of power over the spectrum of emotion, Urassaya can’t help but feel disappointed.

As much as she deviates from the aire of kindness that many had grown to anticipate for those who fill the role of Upasamada, ‘As if they’d seemingly forgotten the unbridled pride Munissara Arahma had in her outcry to storm the royal palace’ a biting note plays in the back of her mind, she knows that actions like this will never lead her to be immortalized. While the names and deeds of every Upasamada are immortalized in text, very few are given shrines, usually reserved to those who manage to compile a Tuntutan, or are in some way responsible for the establishment of a grand Gereja, like her predecessor. It rang bitter in her mouth to compare their successes to her own, and where many praised her successes in the journey to soothe the gaze of the Membantu Emas, it still wasn’t enough. She knew even here, in her consistent efforts to kill the habits of abuse within the capital city, that it wouldn’t be enough, not for the form of immortality she sought. She needed something more.

The silence alerted her away from the spiral of desire, the bawls of her rather despondent companion having faded into muted hiccups, and the occasional ruffle of his suit jacket as he tries to clean away his face. Chiding herself for allowing her own turmoils to get in the way of her job, Urassaya clears her throat, audibly enough to grab the attention of the businessman, exhausted eyes turning up to meet her gaze, yet again one impassive and cold.

“It’s extremely fortunate that you had enough common sense to bring your daughter here as soon as you had, why a moment longer and I’m near confident her heart would’ve stopped. I do hope it’s quite clear that both of us know it is only fair there are repercussions to this transgression. I think it would be more than appropriate to see a sacrifice of your own, made to help benefit the N’nhivaran order in our efforts to help others reach Transcendence, and avoid becoming disparaged, as you’ve let yourself become.” She finishes this statement by pulling at the small temple bell installed as the centerpiece of the table, a metallic ring resonating from the bronze, refusing to break eye contact as her opposite suddenly begins to fumble within his pockets.

“N-no, I, ah, I completely understand. The, um, the least I can do for your forgiveness is let myself give to the benefit of the Order.” As he stammers out the half-baked apology, Urassaya watches him take out a black leather wallet, a golden threaded trim indicative of how much wealth this man seems to actually hold. “I can write a check, or, or, oh, I can get you Rigganits, I should have more than enough with me right n-”

He’s interrupted by the harsh draw of the folding door, the intricate designs layered with gold flake and mangrove wood pulled to reveal two Nakkha Uhlam, jaws a bloody red as they step into the room at tandem with one another, gauze wrapped hands clenched into fists as they silently stare down the businessman. They both spare a glance to Urassaya, a subtle smile playing on her lip to affirm his repayment. He himself falls to silence, a quiet terror in his eyes as he turns to Urassaya, pleading unnecessary as his eyes beg for mercy from the fate that becomes apparent.

“Ah, we do not require your wealth, as the N’nhivaran Order is more than content enough with the fundings we have attained from the mere loyalty of those who follow. However, to have one provide themselves as an assistant to our very own Nakkha Uhlam in their pursuit of the mastery in Hancur Silat would be quite a gracious sacrifice to make, and one I’m confident that the whole of the Order would thank you for. I believe as of now, the new initiates are currently practicing the art of dislocation, so we truly do thank you for volunteering.”

The disbelief in his eyes grows wider, whatever plea he would make stuck in his throat as he looks to the Marah Rehang, synchronized as they pull him to his feet, a short yelp of pain in response to their lack of sympathy to his current emotional state. She knows that he’s smart enough at least not to resist against the Uhlam, as any person with enough common sense to recognize the name would know that the marital bhikkhuni have a reputation of little tolerance to opposition. It’s an expression of defeat, an acceptance of the price that had come with this transgression, yet still, to Urassaya it’s not enough.

“And one more thing, before you go.” Once more, she latches onto his chin, nails digging into the fleshy cheek as a flash of panic runs across the face of the businessman, a dichotomic experience from the slow and composed grasp she held prior. “I want you to make sure everyone knows why. When people ask you what happened, tell them that this,” And with a solid twist that flourishes her tricivara, she hears the pop of his jaw, dislocated in a fashion to provide just enough of a pain shock. “ Is what is deserved of those who break the trust of faith of N’nhivara. Do you understand?” She waits for a sign of affirmation, coming in quick, terrified nods as he whimpers against her grasp. Satisfied, she twists the mandible back into place, a loud snap followed by a painful groan, releasing her own grip with a moment of distaste, noting a need to clean her hands at the nearest opportunity.

“Good.”

She takes to turn her back to the Uhlam and their victim, taking heed of the lack of struggle as the folding doors click behind her, only meager whimpers out of pain that are barely audible over the zither, now accompanied by a Kendhang and Bamboo flutes. She lifts her teacup, the Teh Manis still steaming within the terra cotta, and can’t help but note that it’s slightly too bitter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bhikkhuni Melati Jusuf Krisnan was most certainly out of his own league. With quick footsteps, and a clearly nervous expression adorning his face, he was certain that if anyone around him took the time to ask what was wrong, it would only be right for them to be nervous for the newly ordained member of the N’nhivara as well. It hadn’t even been a full week after joining the Order at Kopiona Poi before he was faced with an imposing task, being that of delivering a set of highly private documents to the Upasamada herself, the thought of which made him shudder.

Melati knew the Upasamada wasn’t a bad person. Despite her rather brusque way of approaching life, she had a reputation of still being patient and fair to those around her, and had a rather adamant dedication to the goal of providing for the city around her, with much of the Order knowing that she took to sacrificing much of her own time for the sake of progress. However, the knowledge that the Upasamada wouldn’t act in irrational cruelty didn’t keep him from feeling absolutely terrified by her entire composure, most notably in the calm and collected way she performed at every Hancur Silat tourney sparking concern on how simple it seemed for her to have a trained martial artist bawling for mercy. And now it was his task to find, and deliver the messages to her, pacing through the hallowed Gereja halls with only his breathing techniques to steel his nerves.

“Pardon, Tua Bhikkhuni Mikaere, would you happen to know where I may find the Upasamada? I am to deliver this to her.”

The elder gave a slight to indicate she recognized his presence, still plucking at her Chakhe with a milky gaze staring into nothing. As far as Melati knew, Mikaere had been at the Gereja the longest, always content to venerate and perform Melangkah in the company of her music. The others who had joined her payed the young Bhikkhuni no mind, both seemingly in the process of enjoying the fruits of their labor whilst in the formation of the small, informal Gamelan.

“Ah, is that Bhikkhuni Krisnan? I hope you are well my brother. Our venerable Upasamada is free now, and in the Glass Chamber. She seemed to finish her last meeting on a more satisfying note, if the lack of a commotion is anything to say on that.”

She finishes her thought with a chuckle, a high pitched whistling tune, as if it would alleviate the dread that overtook Melati in knowing that the Upasamada was in recuperation from having to deal with another ‘Kwai’, the likes of which rarely meant a very positive outcome for any party involved. He finishes his conversation with a meager blessing and farewell, only barely noticing her wave him off as she continues onward with her melody.

It didn’t take long for him to make his way to the Glass Chamber, which had as of recently began to establish a reputation for where the Upasamada tends to pass her judgement on the ‘Kwai’. The matriarch seemingly finds it the best environment for when ‘issues arise’, he notes sardonically when thinking of how shocking it was to watch a man be carted out of the room with a bloodied nose, blurring promises to never sell the Mulut Darah to children again. He finds himself outside the familiar folding doors, the golden imagery that depicting the depths of the Nhivaran lake, a testimony to the foundations of their faith. He hesitates, fist pressed lightly against the mangrove frame, the question of if he should wait for a more opportune environment crossing his mind. It only takes a moment to cross the idea, knowing that if the missive was time sensitive, it would only draw the ire of the Upasamada if he had relegated the urgency of the task in favor of waiting for a better temperament.

With a silent huff, he knocks once, the sound of the knuckle against the near ancient wood a resonant thud. A beat of silence, and a moment of questioning runs through on whether he should knock again.

“Come in.”

Her tone could only be described as punctual, drawing neither a melodious cheer nor a growling ire, which somehow makes it all the more intimidating for Melati, who took to trying his best to maintain some level of composure, and pull back the door.

Melati had only truly met the Upasamada once before, and after getting past the initial shock of how young she was, at least a decade between them, the one thing that would consume his image of her would be the near constant passivity. He’s seen her in public settings, the standard affair of warm smiles and a softer tone, but the truth of the dispassionate gaze that seems to fit through every moment away from the outside was something that one could hardly forget. She made an affirmative hum, the recognition of “Bhikkhuni Krisnan.” clipped and formal, as with most introductions he’s had the pleasure of receiving. Knowing better than to keep her waiting, he limited himself to the bow of his head, and an immediate presentation of the documents. A simple nod of recognition, she took immediately to breaking the seal, leaving Melati standing, almost awkwardly at the door frame, watching as she scans over the precious letters, seemingly distinct papers.

He watches nervously, wondering whether or not he was free to leave, as she poured over the first letter, the document bearing an emblem on the back, something like that of a sun and blue moon against a sky of red. Melati couldn’t have anticipated what would’ve happened next, as her hand began to shake slightly, eyes widening as she seemed to scan the letter once more, a beat of silence overwhelming the room as the Upasamada stood perfectly still. He braced himself, expecting for her to barrage him with inquiries on where she received this, or even worse an immediate call for a greater meeting, with him as a subject. He would’ve never anticipated to see her smile. He watched, mystified almost, as the impish grin grew on her face, the normally inexpressive eyes almost aglow with something he would only compare to glee, an emotion he would've never anticipated to match with the Upasamada, as she hurriedly turned to the second document, this one more worn and bearing the symbol of a hook. If Melati would describe himself as alarmed by the first sudden shift in demeanor, it could only be shock that overcame him as the Venerated Upasamada actually laughed. It was almost beautiful, the pearls of laughter accompanied the slow stop of the gamelan outside, as the Upasamada turned to Melati, a near childlike joy emanating from her entire body. She stops for a moment, as if coming to a realization as she glances between the two papers, before breaking into another moment of laughter, even louder than before, and Melati can swear he’s hearing a confused murmur of approaching Bhikkhuni approaching the door behind him. It only takes a moment for the Upasamada to compose herself, the smile no longer that of simple mirth, but something far more cunning, matching her gaze onto him.

“Bhikkhuni Krisnan, please bring me the printing set. I have responses to write.” He bowed, unsure of how to further approach the situation at hand, fully taken back by this seemingly foreign reaction to everything he had grown to anticipate. As he left the room behind him, opening the doors to the shocked expressions of the Bhikkhuni sat outside, he overheard one final statement, almost lost to him in the clutter of thoughts running through his mind.

“Oh, this will be fun.”

[Arkoenn]

OoC Note: Cowritten with Pulau Keramat.

Liangwan District, Nancheng
State of Xi, Uluujol Khaganate
Very Early Morning, August 18th, 1956

The lingering salt in the air rolling off the sea mixed with the aroma of oil and spices on a back street in Nancheng's Liangwan district, and Yijun Chu's mouth was watering as he waited for his food, standing next to the shopfront where a cook was making up a large batch of shrimp fried rice. The heat of the summer night was mostly bearable for him, aided by the lightness of a white linen shirt and light gray twill slacks over his lanky frame. Even the matching jacket was not precisely heavy, and it also made it easier to conceal the revolver he had tucked underneath.

He glanced at the other members of his uyum who had accompanied him tonight. The Balikji Birikme had long since carved out a respectable place in the activities of the pleasure and nightlife districts of Nancheng, but although any given night was generally quiet, sometimes there were interlopers, or troublesome customers that the uyum needed dealt with. Tonight, that was Yijun, along with two younger, burlier men. Usak Li did not cut nearly as sharp a figure, but he was built like a bunker, short, burly, and pug-faced, dressed like a day laborer. Yijun knew that Usak was not carrying any kind of weapon; he did not need one, his entire presence was an incitement to cowardice.

The other young tough, Min Yao, was of middling height, clean-shaven, and sharp-featured, in contrast to his boss, who had grown a beard to mask the softness of his own features. He had a nervous energy to him, and Yijun figured the man had at least a knife or three somewhere on his person. He was attired similarly to his boss, albeit in darker colors. Usak was sitting on the curb, staring blankly into space, perhaps lost in thought, while Min looked around warily. In the near distance, the sounds of young people enjoying their evening could be heard; amiable chatter, drunken rambling, the odd shout, cheers, and the accumulated din of footfalls.

The relative quiet was cut by the cook. "Order up," the middle-aged lady said as she finished serving the fried rice into three bowls. She wiped some sweat from her brow as another batch of customers walked up. Yijun thanked her, taking each bowl and handing them to Usak, then Min, before taking the last for himself. They stepped to the side, sitting down on three stools around an improvised table set up on the sidewalk. After splitting their chopsticks and giving a quick thanks, they dug into the savory stir fry of leftover vegetables, shrimp that must have been bought fresh at the dock earlier that day, and leftover rice. After a long night walking around the town, the hot dish hit the spot, and the trio only took a few minutes to devour their portions.

A dishwasher, probably the cook's son, had set up a basin next to the stove where the veteran cook worked her magic, and Usak collected the bowls and took them to the dishwasher, who set about his work immediately. Yijun was waiting for the other two, who rejoined him back in the street, nodding when they were ready to resume their patrol through their territory. They turned the corner on the block, and were greeted by neon lights. Even on the main drags, the streets were not exactly wide; Liangwan was a pedestrian-oriented area, although people still mostly kept to the sidewalks. This meant it was easy enough for Yijun's crew to walk down the middle of the street, watching the walkways. The entire block was filled by bars, brothels, and dance halls, and all of them paid protection money to the Balikji Birikme, with the exception of the handful that were outright owned by the uyum. A litany of signs using traditional Shuzi characters as often as more-official Chu letters hawked different establishments, trying different combinations of neon light to grab attention from revelers.

As they walked along, they watched through the crowd, keeping an eye out for members of any rival uyum, or for other troublemakers. The walkways were crowded with people out enjoying their evening; young men who had come straight from the office with their coworkers, old men flush with cash with a need to spread it around, old women out to work the charm honed from years of experience, and young women out to enjoy the benefits of their youth. Most of them were Xi, but the ebb and flow of Kardish, Oshi, and Tsurushiman, and other languages Yijun could not place, could all be heard, and there were as many skin-tones as there were languages.

There was a commotion up by the entrance to one of the establishments up ahead. Quickening their pace, the trio approached the tableau. A rather drunk man in early middle age, dressed in a suit, was attempting to pull a young woman along with him. The woman was clearly not interested in going with the man, and she tried to break away from him, only for the man to grab onto the woman’s yellow dress, pulling her off-balance, and he shouted incoherently. Yijun nodded to Min, who, with a roll of his eyes, palmed a knife. As the trio reached the incident, Yijun spoke.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder and attempting to gently guide him away from the woman. The man’s head snapped around, eyes training on Yijun unsteadily. With his attention now otherwise occupied, he let go of the woman, who tried to scramble away, although the loss of balance and fear robbed her of coordination, meaning she only moved a few feet across the ground. “Here, let’s talk this through, no need to cause a commotion,” he said, trying to guide the man away from the club’s entrance. Perhaps it was simply interference of the red neon lights, but the man looked livid, and he began sputtering at Yijun.

“Unhand me, you little shit! Who the fuck do you think you are?” the man snarled at him, slurring his words. Yijun ignored him, trying various calming words as he tried to get the man to budge from the spot. The problem was that, although Yijun was a reasonably strong man, the man had at least forty kilograms on him, was shorter and thus had the advantage of leverage, and the drunk did not want to move. Still, the verbal abuse was routine enough; being the glorified bouncer for an entire block generally ensured more than one’s fair share of harsh words.

However, when a fist went flying at Yijun’s head, he was disinclined to ignore it. It was a clumsy attack, and it was relatively simple for him to duck his head and avoid it. Dealing with the threat would likely be easy, but adrenaline flowed all the same: even a drunken mess like the bar patron could still be dangerous. He caught the man’s arm, using his momentum to essentially pick the drunk up, flipping him over Yijun’s shoulder and dropping him to the ground. The man fumbled at something inside his coat, probably a weapon, but Yijun grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching it free of his coat, while also prying at his hand. A small pistol dropped from the drunk’s fingers, and Yijun scooped it up, stepping back as the drunk slowly scrambled to his feet.

As soon as the man reached a standing position, his movement was arrested by the feel of steel blade against his throat. Min was standing behind him, his weapon held threateningly, and even the man’s drunkenness was penetrated by the explicit threat. Yijun eyed the man’s lost pistol, a small snub-nosed revolver. “Ah, thank you,” he said, speaking dryly to Min. He walked over and scooped up the man’s wallet, which had fallen on the ground. He pulled it open, looking at the identification card inside. “Ah, Mr. Zhao? Thank you for visiting our establishment tonight. While your patronage is appreciated, we must ask you to go home for the evening. Staff will be notified, and the next time you cause trouble at one of these establishments, you will receive a lifetime ban, are we understanding each other?” Yijun said, watching him impassively. The man nodded.

“Good,” Yijun said. He nodded to Min, and tossed the man’s wallet on the ground, a few bills lighter as compensation for the trouble.. “Let him go. Mr. Zhao won’t be bothering anyone again tonight. He knows what will happen if he does.” He looked pointedly from the taken pistol to Zhao. Upon his release, the drunken man grabbed his wallet and ran off, naturally more than a bit rattled by the experience of having a knife to his throat. Yijun looked around at the revelers who had stopped to watch the unfolding scrap. “We are terribly sorry for the interruption, please, return to your festivities,” he said evenly. “And please, put this from your minds. Do not worry, the Birikme assure your safety tonight, as all nights.”

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse. The woman who had been the target of Zhao’s attentions had regained her feet, but was standing at essentially the same spot, visibly shaken. “Min, Usak, go on ahead without me.” He walked toward the woman, whose eyes widened as he approached. Yijun held up a hand in a gesture that was meant to be reassuring. “Sorry, please, ma’am, I just wondered if you were alright.”

The woman nodded. “Yes. It was scary, but he didn’t hurt me,” she said. “He wanted me to accompany him to his next stop. He wouldn’t listen when I told him I wanted to stay there, that my friends were there. I don’t think he meant harm, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“I am very sorry you were subjected to that, ma’am,” Yijun answered. “Do you feel safe? I can call you a taxi if you’d like to go home.” She looked worried, and Yijun suspected she might not feel safe waiting. “I’ll stand watch for you, if it would make you feel better.”

She nodded. “Let me just go back in and tell my friends I’m heading home.” She retreated back inside the bar, and a few minutes later, walked back out. “I actually don’t have enough money with me for a cab…” she began apologetically. Yijun shrugged.

“I can cover you, if it means making sure you get home safe,” Yijun said, as they began walking to the nearest street where cars regularly patrolled. There was a phone booth on one of the corners where he could call a cab for her. It would be a journey of a few blocks. They would be skirting another Balikji’s territory, but safe passage was the norm unless the uyum were actually feuding or if a member caused trouble on another’s turf.

“So are you like a bouncer or something?” the young woman asked him, eying his wardrobe. “You’re obviously not a cop or a soldier.”

“Something like that.” Yijun watched their surroundings with the wariness born of years of habit. “I’m not the only one, of course. Our organization makes sure everyone stays safe here when they’re out in Liangwan. It’s our business,” he fibbed lightly.

“Are they all as gentlemanly as you?” Yijun realized her looks were more appraising now.

“I’m sure they’d say so,” he said with a chuckle. “But I try to be a cut above in that regard.” He glanced at her, now really noticing how comely she was. A few less-gentlemanly thoughts crossed his mind, and if her expression was anything to go by, he was not the only one whose mind was veering into that territory. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, ma’am?”

“Ooh, you must be popular. I’m sure that makes a headache for your girlfriend. And I’m Yan,” she replied, smiling back. The long ponytail that held her dark hair bounced slightly against her shoulders as they walked.

“Oh, there’s nobody to worry about that. And is there a last name I can call you by?”

There was a moment’s hesitation from Yan, before she took a quick breath and took the metaphorical plunge. “How about I tell it to you in the morning?”

Not that I mind, but damn, this girl is forward. He looked back to see Min trying to catch up to them. “That sounds like a good deal to me,” he said, before turning back more fully, “Err, one moment, it seems I need to speak to my associate. He stepped away slightly, as Min slowed to a walk. He was grinning evilly.

“<Aw, you were running off to get laid and not even give us a heads up?>” Min said in Oshi, possibly in a bid to keep their conversation at least marginally-more private. Yijun sighed and shook his head.

“<Don’t be daft. I mean, I guess I’m going to, but originally I was just going to get her a cab.>”

“<Oh shit, I was kidding. She’s already into you? Working quick, man,>” Min chuckled. “<Our reliefs just arrived, so Usak and I were going to go ahead and head back. Just wanted to let you know. Was going to see if you wanted to grab something stronger at the corner store on the way back, but I can see you’ve got your own plans now. Nice job.>” He paused to take a breath. “<By the way, Boss Quan said he wanted to see us tomorrow morning. Ten sharp, apparently. Dariush said.>” Before Yijun could respond, Min whirled and started trotting off, waving a goodbye.

Yijun turned back to see Yan waiting patiently. “<Does he just assume you two are the only ones that speak Oshi?>” she smirked. “<And really? Kissing and telling before the first kiss?>” He sighed.

“It’s a little less common around here. It’s not really private stuff, but it’s better if not absolutely everyone hears,” he explained, switching back to Xi, looking a little embarrassed.

“Boss? So you really are in one of the uyum?”

“Yeah, sorry if that throws a damper on the evening,” he said.

“So do you get to live large and all? Like a real hustler?” Yijun laughed at the question.

“Not really. I have a flat not too far from here. I’m afraid it’s nothing special. A bit on the small side, actually.”

Yan stopped walking. “Sounds cozy to me. How close is ‘not too far’?” He explained to her that it was maybe a mile’s walk away. “Well, how about you show me?” she asked, eying him up and down. A part of Yijun thought that perhaps obliging her would create one more entanglement that could make his life harder, but the rest of him had already overruled it. He stepped forward, took her hand, and led the way.

---

Yijun’s Flat, Liangwan District
Slightly later morning

Despite the fact that he had not consumed even a drop of alcohol the night before, the morning sunlight flooding in through the uselessly-thin blinds on the main window of Yijun’s east-facing flat caused him to groan with discomfort. He tried to roll away from the brilliant light, only for his movement to be impeded by the cause of the painful-shortness of his rest. Even with the half-roll, the bed frame creaked loudly, and he sighed. The fact that he even had a bedframe these days was an improvement, but the noise had drawn the ire of his neighbors the previous night. At least if the multiple kicks at the adjoining wall between the flats had been any indication.

The clock told him it was not nearly late enough for him to be happy rising. He vaguely remembered it reading a little after four in the morning when he and Yan had finally succumbed to sleep, and it was only a small way past seven. He had time. He pushed his eyes shut as tight as he could and tried to return to sleep, snuggling Yan’s sleeping form closer to him. She sighed contentedly.

He actually managed to succeed in returning to sleep. It was more than an hour later when his eyes fluttered back open. Not remembering the previous waking, he tried to immediately sit up, and was shocked awake by a surprised squeak from Yan who he jostled as he rose. He looked down at her, hair messy, make-up smeared, and smiled as her eyes fluttered open. “Good morning,” he said with a chuckle. She groaned and picked herself up, looking at the clock.

“Oh, seriously? This early?”

“Sorry,” Yijun said, walking over to the single-burner gas stove set into a countertop and lighting it with a match. “The flat faces east. Gives you a nice faceful of sunlight in the morning. I’ve been meaning to get better blinds,” he explained. Yan nodded as she stood up and began retrieving her clothes which had been discarded around the single room of the flat the night before. She looked at Yijun and raised an eyebrow.

“I can watch the stove, if you want to put something on before you start dealing with hot water,” she said as she began dressing. He nodded back and ran over to a small built-in closet, and quickly pulled on some minimal clothing before returning to the stove.

The breakfast he made for them was modest, but deeply satisfying after a long night. As they ate the rice porridge he had prepared, there was a knock at the door, and Yijun sighed. He yelled, much to his neighbors’ chagrin. “Who is it?”

“Who else would it be this early in the morning, you lucky shit?” Min called back through the door. Yijun looked over at Yan.

“I can tell him to come back in a bit, if you want,” he said to her. She shook her head.

“I’ll be fine,” Yan replied, between bites. The simple food was working wonders for her hangover, minor as it was. She was still disheveled, but she was at least decent now. Yijun nodded, standing up and pulling open the deadbolt on the door. He swung it open to show the open walk of the apartment building, and Min’s much better-groomed visage smirking at him. A wave of heat rolled into the already-warming apartment. Even this early, the sun was starting to bake Nancheng.

“Oh, hey, thanks for letting me in,” Min laughed. He was already made up to see Quan, in a light blue sports jacket and slacks, with a white shirt underneath, all of it pristine. “<Figured I’d come up and check and make sure you were at least getting ready for our meeting,>” he added.

“<I know what you’re saying, you jerk!>” Yan piped from inside the flat.

“Oh shit,” Min sighed. “Sorry, it was worth a shot!” He looked back at Yijun. “Anyway, I hope you remember what I told you last night? With Boss? Ten o’clock?” Yijun nodded back. “Figured I’d check, you had other things on your mind.” He tried to lean into the apartment. “Speaking of ‘other things’...” Yijun blocked his way.

“Oh, come off it, give her some privacy, she’s already got the embarrassment of being seen in this dump,” Yijun said with a laugh. “I’ll meet you down at the street at nine, okay?” Min nodded, turning and giving him a last gesture of approval. Yijun shut the door, turning back to the small table he and Yan had been eating at.

“It’s not as if I’m living the life of luxury,” Yan said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I didn’t think you were some sort of President or General. I’m not embarrassed being seen here,” she added as Yijun resumed eating.

As he finished, he looked at the clock. “I’m going to need to shower. I can’t be covered in day-old grime to meet my boss,” he said. He indicated the adjoining bathroom that had been worked into the remodeled building. Yan bit her lip idly.

“I could use one, too. Is there a lot of hot water?” Yijun shook his head. “Well, it would be a shame if one of us went and used it all up.” The next look she gave him was positively smoldering. “Mind if I join you?”

---

Usak had arrived about ten minutes after Min had returned to the street. The tough had walked up, sat down at the curb, and promptly pulled out a book. Min eyed him. “What are you working through now?”

“Oh, it’s the Journey to Karda,” Usak replied, voice level. “It’s an old travelogue from the Ozkanid dynasty. It was written by a merchant who started in Nancheng and travelled all the way to the sea.”

“Now that’s downright scholarly,” Min remarked. “I thought you were still working on that one about the Khan and the peasant girl,” he said, needling him about the pulpy romance novel Usak had last read.

“Nope. Finished that one on Monday,” Usak said, unflappable. “How long do I have until Yijun gets down here?” Even as they held the conversation, the half-Chu man’s eyes never left the page he was working on.

“Well, if he knows how lucky he is, he’s probably getting one last screw in with the girl he took home last night,” he said. Usak whistled appreciatively.

“She cute?”

“He wouldn’t let me in when I went up to check. If it’s the one he was walking with last night after that fight, then yeah, she’s pretty fine.” Usak grunted approval and continued reading. About fifteen minutes after that, there were footsteps on the external staircase leading down from the apartment building’s upper floors.

There were two sets of footsteps, one the heavy footfalls of a grown man in some kind of solid footwear, the other the distinctive pop of high heels. A minute later, Yijun and Yan arrived at street level. Yan was in the same (now slightly-wrinkled) yellow dress she had worn the night before, although the smeared make-up had been cleared from her face. Next to her, Yijun’s short hair had been parted to one side, and he was wearing a khaki sports jacket and matching slacks, with a pink linen shirt underneath. His left pinky bore the small ring that marked him as an enforcer of the Balikji Birikme, and he had cleaned up his stubble so that his beard was at least tidy.

As they arrived at street level, they quickly let go of each other’s hands in a motion that was conspicuous by its furtiveness. Min quietly smiled at it, but for once held his tongue. Yan started to walk away. “So I’ll see you tonight?” she asked Yijun. He nodded back with a smile. With that, she stepped into the street and began the journey home.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Min whistled. “Nice work, man.” Yijun punched him lightly on the shoulder and gave him a look. “What, I’m not allowed to look and admire? I don’t blame you for ditching us for that.” He shook his head. “Anyway, let’s get moving. Dariush has been a real dick about us being on time for this.” Usak marked his spot in his book, stood up, and the three set off.

It was not actually all that far of a walk; the place where Bo Quan, the man in charge of the Liangwan branch of the Balikji Birikme held court during the day, was a particularly ritzy bar on a quieter edge of the nightlife district. During the day, the streets were hardly empty, but this early on a Saturday most of the people were either reasonably respectable shopkeepers, or hungover people finally stumbling home. After following a learned progression of streets, the trio reached their destination.

A sign declared that this establishment was known as an "Eternal Sweet Spring." If the wood finishes and polished brass fittings on the windows and door were anything to go by, it was a more upscale establishment than Yijun could generally afford. He had only ever been on official business, and this time was no exception. Outside the door, Quan’s personal errand boy waited, a burly Hwarezmite man in a rather garish pink sports jacket. Yijun, in the lead of the group, nodded to him.

“Good morning, Dariush. I realize we are a bit early, but I was told Boss wanted to see us?” Dariush nodded back.

“Correct. His previous meeting actually finished early. You can go ahead on in.” The swarthy man pulled the door open, watching the street. The trio stepped inside.

Normally the lights would be kept low, but outside of the bar’s normal hours and with the full light of the day bearing down, the inside was quite bright. The bar was decorated in the kind of understated way that radiated expense far more than any amount of gilt and velvet ever could. The wood was well-polished and smooth, the staff was dressed in understated black uniforms, and seated at a private table, with a mass of papers detailing the expenses and revenues of the Balikji Birikme laid out in front of him.

Bo Quan was impeccably dressed in a pinstripe suit, his dark hair slicked back and well-combed, with the chain of a pocket watch protruding from his pocket. Quan himself was on the tall-side, lithe, but with unmistakable strength and grace in his movements. His face was of indeterminate age: he could pass for someone in their mid-thirties as easily as he could pass for a person approaching middle age. He looked up, pushing up a pair of glasses that Yijun suspected were purely ornamental. He gave Yijun a smile that was clearly meant to put him at ease, and although Yijun had no particular reason to fear this meeting, the effect left a lot to be desired.

Yijun, Min, and Usak all bowed deeply as he was presented to Quan. "Boss Quan," Yijun said, as his better waved off the bow. "What may we do to advance our organization?"

"Come sit down," Quan said, indicating three chairs at the table. "We have things which need discussing." All three did as they were told, settling into the chair and pulling up to the table, listening attentively. Quan flourished a paper written in a language which seemed familiar, but which Yijun could not quite place. "We have been in contact with the Upasamada of the Grand Gereja of Kopiona Poi. It's over in Pulau. It's a religious organization." Yijun nodded, understanding the context but not understanding the connection. "They are quite interested in what we can offer them in terms of cargoes of opium. And its derivatives," he explained. "Now, this Upasamada is as yet unfamiliar to us. So it behooves us to send a delegation to establish proper contact. You've been a very useful and reliable member of this organization this past decade, and I would like for you lead the crew we send to establish contact. You'll be authorized to negotiate on behalf of the uyum, should it come down to it, Quan explained further.

"Now, as this is new ground for us, it could well be dangerous. I'm not going to insist you go, if you feel you are not up to the task," Quan continued. "But this is a big opportunity for you to move up in the organization. Given your importance to the job, should you go, it would reflect very well on you moving forward. You've been one of us for twelve years, now. I want to see you move up, but it's hard to justify without some sort of merit."

Yijun's response was immediate. "You can count on me, Boss," he said. Quan had been the defining authority in his life for long enough that even if he wanted to, Yijun was not sure he knew how to say no to the man. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow, ideally," Bo Quan replied. "We're sending five men as assurance, plus the three couriers themselves with the samples. This could be a big deal, so we need to make sure it goes off without a hitch, understood?" Yijun nodded. "Good. I’m trusting you. You'll be backed up by Askar Ren, he’s been part of similar expeditions before. I’m sure he’ll have good advice for you. The last member of your crew will be selected later today."

---

August 22nd, 1956
The docks of Kopiona Poi

It wasn’t an unfamiliar environment, the overwhelming scent of seawater and boisterous clammer of shipyard workers scurrying back and forth, and yet it was only these constants that could be recognized. The harbor was packed with a burst of distinct cultures, some recognizable with the cries of Mutulese traders unloading crate upon crate of produce, others lesser so, a gathering of fishermen in unfamiliar palm leaf garb, haggling with what appeared to be Tuluran merchants. The docks spanned for what seemed to be miles, an array of distinct ships of any size, each more exotic than the last, blending into large warehouses built from mangrove and stone, intricate carvings making imposing statues at every building. Even moreso, the mass of traders, dock workers and fishers were so far in familiarity to one another, it seemed to looking into a sea of cultures, headdresses ranging from the feathered ceremony of the Mutulese priesthood to several thatch and shell designs, accompanied by heavily painted faces. Where even a word of Tsurushiman was uttered, ten more voices rang out in ten distinct, unrecognizable tongues, a cacophony of orders and bargains truly embodying the sheer amount of life in this small pocket of the world. They had arrived at Kopiona Poi.

Eight Uluujolis came down the gangplank from the long-distance ferry they had been chartered on, each bearing suitcases. They walked onto the pier, part of a throng of travelers. Many were locals returning home, or people on business, and, in all fairness, the eight men technically fit the latter description. It was simply a matter that their business was most likely illegal. They made a point of quickly leaving the harbor, trying to discreetly avoid any of the local authorities, just to be safe. Getting off the port proper, they entered a side street. Usak was holding a map and attempting to navigate, while Min, Askar, and Yijun looked around. The only familiar language Yijun was hearing was Tsurushiman, and even that was simply a strong second language to him. He thought he heard the odd word of Xi, but not enough to be useful.

Try as they might, they simply could not find the rendezvous point that they had been informed of in advance. The streets near the port were clearly an old part of the city, and the layout of the roads made little to no sense. After about ten minutes of walking, even Usak’s map was borderline useless because they simply had no point of reference to operate from. Already, Yijun was having misgivings about this job. Although the opportunity to move up and make a name for himself was still there, right about now, as they wandered, lost in the streets of a foreign land, what Yijun really wanted right now was to be sharing his bed with Yan for a third time.

Stay focused, he chided himself.

“ Berpindah! ” A voice rang out from his right, and with a surprising celerity, the busy movements back and forth that surrounded them seemed to die down, traders with suddenly solemn expressions quickly pushing their crates away, leaving only a short figure in a heavy red wrap, her entire upper body bare except a complex tapestry of red tattooed carved as floral lines across her chest and core. She makes her way closer to them, standing in front of the group with a narrow gaze over, before turning her face, spitting out a large mass of red onto the stonecut path.

“~Do you speak Tsurushiman?~”Accent heavy yet still spoken with a short clarity, she seemed to wait for a response, hands tucked behind her back, seemingly now analyzing each of them with a calculating gaze. “~I’m assuming you are the Uluu group that came with the grace of the Upasamada. Which one of you is Mr.Chu~?”

Yijun stepped forward. “~That would be me. And yes I do.~” His Tsurushiman was coherent, albeit spoken with an accent of his own. He gave her a bow of his head, putting his hands together, as if in prayer, and trying to remember what he had been briefed on as far as proper manners for the meeting. “Salam Sejahtera” he said. He was not positive he had gotten the pronunciation exactly right, but he was reasonably sure that he had not uttered any foreign profanities. “~I am glad you were able to find us. I confess we were a bit lost,~” he added with a genial smile.

The monk seemed to watch his motions, an eyebrow raised at the traditional greeting, and a slow nod as he continued. She responded in part, clasping her hands and with a deep head bow in part. “~The harbors have always been a difficult experience for those who have never seen them before. It is good you had come in such distinct fashion, it was not difficult to find you. I am Nakkha Uhlam Namthip Philavong, and I will be escorting you to the Gereja. Come, as I expect our other guests will be arriving soon as well.~”

With a strict and rigid movement she turned from then, a simple jerk of her head an indication for them to follow. She begins to walk to a smaller, worn road, stopping briefly to turn towards them, the shadow of a smirk gracing her lip. “~ I hope one of you can speak ’Turañńa. We’ll be having company.~” and with this, she carried on, an intricate tattoo carved across the whole of her back, the symbol of the N’nhivara.

Oh, great, competition. Guess it wouldn’t be impressive if it were easy.

[Tulura]

July 10th, 1956
Somewhere in Rural Tulura

The sleepy community arose with the morning sun, greeting the land with an exuberating light. Each beehive-shaped adobe house stood proudly with intricate and thoughtful design, against the backdrop of a bustling rocky oasis upon the vast desertous plain. Each community member was dressed identically as they stumbled from their homes, in plain white robes, stained with age, with black sleeves. The men and women had clean shaven heads, as did some of the older adolescents. Children froliced freely in just pure white robes, with long matted hair. The people seemingly coalesced like a singular mind with a purpose at the center of the town, where the small oasis was.

This oasis was special to them, for it was the deathplace of their long-disgraced propet, Yeruut of Bilema. It was she the oasis was named after and she which the community venerated through their leader, believed to be a reincarnation of this dispelled ‘heretic’. One side the Oasis of Yeruut was surrounded by a steep, jagged rock formation, shaped like thin fingers creeping toward the sky. On the other side was a hill, which creviced in the center and had several small acacia trees upon it. A modest path led through the crevice, which all the communal people funneled through and began taking their places around the oasis, with an air of dire anticipation.

Modi was among the crowd, taking his favorite spot with his wife, Khulyani; beside a small acacia tree atop the hill with provided moderate shade. In Khulyani’s arms a small toddler, their boy named Bankala who darted around with a hyper disposition among the sleep weary adults. Bankala jumped and rolled in the grass, screaming loudly and turning heads, while annoying others. Khulyani took his arm and whipped the boy around, spanking him and twisting him back around quickly, “Now sit!” she commanded, the boy froze in fear and sat, his bottom lip huffing and eyes watering. Modi, stumbled on down as well with a sigh, how he hated keeping up this charade. His eyes were filled with sadness and loss, Khulyani could see it, but she couldn’t fathom what she was doing wrong. She would look around at the other couples and see them moderately happy, but she observed Modi as disconnected, distant from the community. He was always alien however, ever since he arrived at Yeruut, perhaps it was because he was a naturally quiet man?

Nevertheless, Khulyani stayed loyal and understanding. “Something bothering you, my love?” she asked, as she sat on the warm grass beside him. He glanced up momentarily, with depressed eyes staring into the abyss past her. “I am just tired.” he answered, adding “my love” after a brief pause, as if he forgot to say his script. Modi took her hand, held it in his and kissed it. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Me neither.” Khulyani fired back, whipping her hand away.. “Little Bany kept me up, you were deep asleep though, with your snoring.” she mocked him, with an annoyed tone. She rolled his eyes away from him, resting her chin on her fist while watching Bankala pull the dry savanna grass from the ground, in boredom. The child glanced up at her and gave an admiring smile, a glimpse of renewed eyes glistening from his eyes; suddenly Khulyani was pacified in her love for her child, emblematic of her unbowing faith.

Finally, the chattering of hundreds of communal people’s seized, as they all turned their heads toward the crevesting hill. Bells rang in a piercing echo, cutting through the damp morning air. Over it came their communal Seeress, leader and modern-day prophet, the second coming of Yeruut, Nadawwi-Yeruut. Surrounded by acolytes of the oasis, dressed in torn garbs and robes made of thick material, they rang small bells to announce her approachment. She was eunuch, formerly a man who had taken on a womanly form and was deemed as such. Nadawwi had gained significant followers from the downtrodden of the countryside with this mythical status and it only continued to grow. She was considered a chosen divine of god, to avenge the Yeruut legacy and lead the world to enlightenment. She was short and plumb, with skin as smooth and seamless as ebony. She wore the most fabulous of robes, trimmed with light golds and greens, displaying elaborate patterns of writing. Her braids were clean and twinned with perfection, her eyes a piercing bright blue, indicating that she was from the Gombakori region, making her even holier in Yeruut follower’s eyes.

Nadawwi walked to the center of the Oasis, placing her feet within the shallow shores, lifting her arms in rejoice as the bells rang louder and louder. The followers onlooking, began the clap in unison with a steady rhythm, Nadawwi’s monks began their hummings and religious mumblings. With the collapse of her arms to her sides, chanting, clapping and ringing ceased as quickly as it began. “My children!” she hollered for all to hear. “The wrathful demon! The Igomlaku! Seeks to silence our truth!” the crowd murmured in disgruntled disposition, Khulyani joined them, murmuring slurs. She caught a glance of Modi, who stared into space unappeased by Nadawwi-Yeruut’s cries.

“Our paradise, our oasis, is under threat from these delusional politicians and seer’s who say our trade, our way of life is somehow detrimental to the Yen faith! When all along, all along they were the ones following a false, wrathful prophet who had built his empire with blood, staining Walaqa’s peaceful name. He died in a bed surrounded by gold indulgences! While Yeruut died in submerged in this very Oasis, touched by god!” Nadawwi paused, looking out to every one of her followers. “You are the true, enlightened ‘lifae. Those who dwell in city’s, hiding from their true form, consume the drug of propaganda, yet they blame us for problem’s which they created! For our community to thrive! For our very way of life to thrive! We must flee this unholy land to a new home, a place which I was born and have yet to return, Pulaw’u Khemath!”

The Yeruuti’s stood in outstanding applause, cheering on the proclamation with a ravenous devotion to each of her lies.

---

As the crowd shuffled back out into the village to commence their morning chores - after the surprise sermon that invigorated their communal vitality - Modi was pulled to the side, stumbling in his tiredness with baggy eyes, by the Monk’s of Yeruut to meet with Nadawwi herself. He was accustomed to such an invitation and so was Khulyani, yet as she watched him disappear into the Seer’s adobe hobble, she still wondered what discrete business the two shared.

Modi entered, awakened by the ambiguous incense smell which hung in the air. At the center of the room sat Nadawwi, smoking a long pipe, plopped upon a luxurious satin pillow over a central rug. Beside her was a low wooden table, with already-poured coffee. She gestured for him to sit, releasing a plume of smoke from her mouth. He sat down, weary of all else but the coffee, which his hand rushed to. Nadawwi made an offering, her emotion remaining stoic, gesturing the pipe. Modi shook his head, continuing to sip on his beverage in quiet.
“Is the job keeping you up?” the Seeress broke the calm with a piercing inquiry.
Modi, shook his head while continuing to sip. Finally he spoke; “No; I know what I must do.”
“Remember.” Nadawwi parroted from many times before. “The killing you do prevents the bloodshed of thousands. Something which Mesfin relished in. You kill one man, and you subdue his whole army.”

“What significance do children bear in this fight!” Modi suddenly snapped, his split-second shift from mellow to abruptly raging was psychotic, and even took Nadawwi-Yeruut back. “I-I am sorry Mother Yeruut, please forgive my sin. I lost my center.” he begged, in a measured tone while refusing eye contact.

Nadawwi sighed, looking back to grab an ornate wooden bowl, topped with an elaborate lid. She brought it to Modi’s attention, then lifted the lid, revealing three white pills sitting at the bottom. Modi’s eyes went ablaze in desperate excitement, his body tightened with a rush, yet he tried to keep his composure. “The Journey has taken hold of you. God must be trying to communicate with you, as you are not independent from this earpiece yet.” Nadawwi explained, smirking devilishly. Modi could feel her cross-wired intent, however he did not care, his overwhelming addiction had taken hold. He knew it was this unholy substance, and not God. After this experience, he was sure he was an atheist, yet the white tablets lured him, Modi’s mouth salivating.

Nadawwi observed this, and dropped one into Modi’s coffee, stirring it with spoon and beckoning him to drink it. “Take one last journey, in Tulluu Umuraa, before our community takes this last pilgrimage.”

Reluctantly, Modi grasped the cup with great internal deliberation. Finally, his internal monologue collapsed and Modi kicked back the last bit of coffee he had, stained with the intense taste of the foreign substance that overpowered even the bitterness of the coffee. Almost immediately, the drug kicked in and the world glowed with a heavenly hue, it was as if he could see an entire spectrum of color’s he had never witnessed before. Nadawwi, illuminated brighter than anything else in the room, her form changed to that of a man, Yeruut himself.

Yeruut’s eyes glowed with a beckoning and evil intensity, yet hypnotized Modi into an undying focus. The room suddenly began to collapse into wisp of smoke that gave way to infinitely black foreground; soon the world was black nothingness and before Modi gravitated Yeruut, who he perceived as God. “Go, do my bidding, as God commands it. Your path is laden with blood before you, but greatness is always paved this way. The death of a few could save millions. You must prepare for the calamity. Save as many as you can, cast out the non-believers. Now go, prepare our community, go to Kopiona Poi.”

---

August 22nd, 1956
The docks of Kopiona Poi

Despite everything that was happening, with a seemingly unending sea of boats unceasingly sailing past one another and the screams of seabirds flying in droves ahead as they search for a meal by some unlucky fisherman, the most overwhelming aspect was how exceedingly colorful it was. An enormous stone archway has welcomed the vessel into the harbor, carvings of merfolk illustrating intricate stories and poses, iridescent shells imprinted into the rock making the entire gateway shine brightly. As they approach closer to the docks, the sound of waves and rushing water is replaced by gaggles of voices and the ambience of bustle, countless indistinguishable languages melding together as the port roars with life. The scent of fish and the salty water is replaced as aromas waft throughout the docks, countless street vendors peddling spiced goods that almost mask the pungent smell of fishing vessels at every corner, with even their catches being filled with various bright colors. The city of Kopiona Poi stood before them, a vibrant center of colors and voices, the midday sun indicating that the ship had arrived at the peak of life for the maritime hub.

The Tuluran vessel wasn’t the only one of its designs, a few more trade ships standing out deeper down the shipyard flying similar colors.


“~I hate the smell~.” Lelisa cringed, upon her feet making final landfall. “~We couldn’t have taken a plane?~” Lelisa was Modi’s partner in crime, she was perhaps more brutal than him when it came to getting things done. Quick and dirty, but she was just as reclusive and suspiciously so. Modi understood however, the reclusion became part of this job. She as much as him realized they were running a drug empire, not a sanctimonious community of peace-loving hippies. Though efficient and good at her job, Lelisa always had an air of repugnance about what they were doing. She was short, but led the way with a stride of daring machismo, pushing anyone out of the way with her very presence.

Modi followed, observing their surroundings and searching for their contact; he had never been abroad and knowing this was a bustling port city he didn’t know what to expect, but they fit in swell with the international crowd.

“~Pardon! Pardon, ah, Children of Yeruut?~” A shrill voice rings out, choppy wenare a direct call to them as crowds seem to disperse with an uncharacteristically quiet fashion, leaving only two figures to approach them, clad in shades of red. A slight-framed, almost miniscule figure seemed to be the more eager of the duo, eyes alight as he quickly looked down from a small, leatherbound journal and back to the duo, lips moving silently as if reading from the paper. At his side, a much taller, more built monk silently scanned over them, eyes glazed over yet still piercing, a rather unusual combination. The crowd seemed to disperse around them, if not for the more imposing figure giving an irritated huff whenever another got too close, eyes alight with something akin to shock over fear, many simply pausing to look over the taller, heavily clothed worshipper. The more lithe, and certainly more hospitable, of the two was shirtless, an enormous red-stained tattoo detailing his entire chest in intricate floral twists, making what seemed to be a symbol that decorated the entirety of his flesh. He gave a toothy smile, before speaking once more. “Salam Sejahtera! ~Thank you so much for coming! I am Bhikkhuni Mawar Sukhon, and this is my companion, Nakkha Sura Piripi Sovann Makara!~” He leans in, mirth twinkling in his eyes with a homely grin, “~Quite a mouthful if you ask me. I’m quite pleased to hear to see you’ve both arrived safely.~”

Lelisa and Modi glanced at each other with a questionable disposition over these circumstances. This wasn't their usual contacts, except for this Nakkha fella. Leslisa particularly kept a close eye on him, eyeing the man which stood like a giant before her. Modi, was brooding as usual and looked down upon Mawar. Though, his eyes raised as he was impressed at the thoroughness of Mawar's Wenare. "Salam, ~I am Modi." He said, plainly. "This is Lelisa. Our trip was okay…~" the two followed on as they were led.

“~Ah, I do hope one of you can understand Tsurushiman or Oshi. We’ll be having company.~”