Under the Simple Stars [Closed]

[Jimanistan]

It was not unusual for people to be unnerved by Verdon's eyes. His secretary, for the first several weeks of her employment, had refused to look directly into them. It was once a common trait among the Elaithi, the eyes, one which apparantly originated with Verick the Half-Man, son of Vallo the Guardian, both legendary figures from the Aethalaya Aethemont, and subsequent folktales and myths. It was widely believed to be an indicator of the Elaithi's percieved ability for foresight, the capacity to pierce the misty veil of time and see the future.

He had always thought that a silly thing, though, all the same he enjoyed the common belief, which lingered into the Modern era. He was too distracted at that moment, however, to consider ancient occular beliefs. As Saraid leaned against his leg, he smiled again, down at her. He was considering reaching down and running his fingers through her hair.

Aeno had thought much about Saraid in all the time since they had met, though very little of that thought had been particularly serious. Remembering her peculiar mismatched eyes, or trying to recall what she had felt like, or something like that. His was a very Jimani outlook, rather lustful with other, more emotional feelings taking the backseat. Depending upon whom one asked, traditional concepts of monogomous love were either obsolete but 'cute' ideas, or the absolute ideals to which one must adhere. The latter opinion was generally held by the religious, among whom was Verdon, though he sometimes strayed from that line of thought.

What she said confused him slightly, as he was still a bit on the weary side. He had never been here, and so, after all, how could be be back? After a moment of silence, he decided she was being figurative. Another thing he like of English, the ambiguity of it all.

"Oh," He said, his smile widening slightly, before his face reverted back to the way it was, his muscles tired of holding his lips in such a way. "thank you, Saraid... It's good to be back. This has been going quite well, so far...." He finished, in a tone that could have suggested that he was loathing the possibility of cutting the trip short because of an escalation of tensions with the Leocardian government.

Aleesa giggled slightly. 'Pretty' was a term she had never really heard applied to a chess piece. Granted, the pieces were rather well made, and were probably quite expensive, but all the same, it was an odd thing to say...Barbola, of course.

"I guess it does look like that..." She said, glancing around the room briefly. She noticed Verdon and the Priestess, and thought nothing of their closeness. Being a Jimani, and a young girl to boot, she found it to be nothing of interest. She looked back at the acolyte, whom she had been more or less paired with from the outset. She still had nearly nothing to speak to her about.

"Do you like music?" She asked vaguely in clumsy English, scratching her head. It still itched from the long-term wearing of the beret.

[Assuran]

It was funny, Saraid thought dimly, how very distinct his eyes were. And her own. He'd been the first person she'd ever seen who had totally green eyes. Ilari LeSangstra, in all her portraits, had green eyes. But she wasn't a person, not now. A mythical figure, preserved on oil and canvas, whose bones were turning to dust in the vaults underneath the University. No, she wasn't a person. She was just Ilari LeSangstra, and she was wasn't relevant.

He was, though. She could feel a tiny pulse beating against her temple. It was his. She could tell. And he had the eyes. Those bewitching green eyes. They had been in the back of her mind ever since she'd left Jimanistan. Remembering the most beautiful parts of the trip to tell her goddess in her nightly vigils--those had been first on her list. And she couldn't look at them, for fear of losing her nerve--oh, Lady Luck was just too kind, wasn't she?

She couldn't help but shiver a little bit when he said her name, though. It sounded different when he said it. Not better, not worse, just...different.

"So far," she agreed, shifting her balance a little. Saraid hadn't heard the snap in his voice, being too preoccupied with simply being. Her position was surprisingly comfortable, for one who had become accustomed to being at the top of the ranks. "It's only just begun, so perhaps it will get better."

Danjela sniffed. Clearly, Aleesa hadn't heard of the Sharessian training. Find beauty in strange things... oh how she had hated that. Frogs sitting in pools were not pretty, no matter what the priestess said. The chess piece had an elegant form, though. She liked it, so why couldn't it be pretty?

"Music? Of course," she said, brightening slightly. "We have our own temple musicians. They play lyres and tamborines and stuff. It's kind of medieval."

[Jimanistan]

The Jimani man brought his his hand down to rest on the Assuranian's opposite shoulder, reaching across the back of her head. He decided that to be a gesture that was affectionate, without being very conspicuous, rather like the solumn meeting of the soles of the feet, a long-abandoned Jimani traditional gesture of fidelity.

He was no longer tired, now, in fact he was very much awake. The Seer once told him something very spiritual and trancendental about being awake, though at the moment Aeno could summon neither the will nor the mental clarity to remember what that thing was.

"How are you?" He asked, right out of the wild blue yonder. It was a simple thing, to ask how one was, but he did not recall ever asking the priestess before. He shrugged it off (figuratively, of course), deciding that much of the time he had spent with the woman had been devoted to more interesting things than that.

"Oh, our music is like that, sometimes..." Aleesa said, thinking they may have finally found a topic of mutual interest. "Electrical instruments aren't popular like in Siberskiy or other places..."

[Assuran]

She jumped less when she felt his hand on her shoulder than she had when he'd called her by name. If her acolyte hadn't noticed by now, she felt fairly safe in continuing her current intimacy with the President of Jimanistan. How absurd that sounded, she realised, with a little smile. Like something out of a bad romance novel. The priestess and the president. Had she been an author of any sort, it would have been her privilege--nay, her duty--to tell such a story to the public and reap the benefits. But, as the aformentioned priestess, her only prerogative at the moment was to sit there and enjoy it.

"Hm?" It took a moment for his voice to cut through the mental fog. Once she heard it, the question wasn't earthshaking, and that was what surprised her. Saraid was still operating along the mental lines of a cliche plot; according to her knowledge of trashy novels, he should have asked her some profound question about life, love, lust and existentialism. It was a good thing he didn't, really. She wasn't prepared to answer such an inquiry.

"I'm fine," she said calmly. "Been busy, you know. Temple duties and whatnot. Writing letters. The usual." She rested her arm on his knee, then rested her chin on her arm. Her eyes trailed upward to his collar, as she found herself still unable to look at him in the face. "What about you?"

"They play electronic instruments in Kirkall," Danjela said, wrinkling her nose and taking a bite of her bread and cheese. "It's weird. The music sounds like gears crashing and expensive items being crushed. Of course, Kirkall's the Factory-City, so I guess it's okay. I like our music better, though. It sounds like real music."

[Jimanistan]

Verdon smiled, considering the question in turn. How was he, really? He rarely thought about his personal well-being, as he was generally too busy to be idle, and to really think. Snapping the knuckles of his other hand against their corresponding palm, He shook his head.

"Well, I've been worse." He said thoughtfully. "Running a country tends to be harder than they make it sound... Though I guess it would be harder, if the provinces weren't so autonomous..." he shrugged his shoulder. Aeno had always attempted to be humble, though it was a difficult thing to do as president. "It is also a bit tedious, after the first few months..."

He glanced down at her as she began to raise her head. He looked at her eyes for a few seconds, finding them absolutely fascinating. He recalled that she had once told him that members of the 'Lestrongsa' family had them.

Aleesa nodded. "The fiddle is very popular in Jimanistan... It is the main instrument in most music." She said. She would have repeated her earlier motion, but did not, recalling the strange noise the Assuranian had made upon seeing it.

[Assuran]

OoC:
Sorry about the short post. I ran out of inspiration for this one about halfway through.

IC:
Saraid dropped her eyes a bit lower to rest on his lapel. She was still uncomfortable with the thought of his eyes on hers; in practice, it was simply unnerving. Nothing else about him had given her that same reaction, which was terribly inconvenient. Lack of eye contact was frowned upon in Assuran. It seemed like a fairly universal thing, and the priestess wondered uneasily if the same was true for his country. Goddamn awkward situations.

"Autonomous provinces," she repeated, as though in a daze. Truth be told, she was starting to get pleasantly sleepy. "Northshore tried to become autonomous once, I think." Her eyes fluttered shut for a brief second, and she relaxed a little more. "I wouldn't really know. Alexander could tell you. He's better at national history. I can tell you all about the gods, but that's about it..."

"Fiddle?" Danjela looked confused for a moment. "Like a violin, yeah? Or a viola?" Not knowing about Aleesa's thought processes regarding the incident, she mirrored the exact motion the other girl had made moments before. "That thing. It shows up a lot here. I don't like it quite as much as the bells or the lyre, but it's all right."

[Jimanistan]

Verdon was idly wondering if his eyes really were so unnerving. Saraid seemed to think so. She did not say so, of course, even even imply it, but she did not have to. He could tell by the way she avoided eye contact.

He glanced at her, nodding. He was still intrigued by the Assurani pantheon, and was quite interested to hear more about it. "Might I ask you about your gods, then?" He inquired with a wry smile. She had said little of her religion, really. He imagined being the priestess of something would either cause it to be monotonous or all-consuming of your existence. He decided it must be the former in Saraid's case, as it certainly did not seem to be the latter.

"Yes, that, a violin." Aleesa said, finding it comical that the girl had mimicked her ealier motion. It was, notably, one of the first times any semblence of a smile had crossed her face the entire night.

OOC: No problem, I'm feeling the same way about my last few of posts.

[Assuran]

OoC:
Ahahaha, don't worry. Scene ADD. We can skip to morning right after Saraid's explanation.
Also, sorry for the length of this post. I just got really absorbed in it.

IC:
Saraid had known that question was coming. It wasn't the deep, sappy question she had been expecting, but it was actually one she was prepared for.

"Well," she began, with a deep breath, "In the beginning, there was nothing. Just a primordial chaos, ruled over by a being of infinite might. This is the way the Christians' story starts too, as you know, but ours is different in that AO, the Overgod, is not a being of ultimate good. He is simply the ultimate of being, if that makes any sense..."

Her voice took on the tone of one who had recited this story many times. "He had a daughter and a son, Mielikki and Silvanus, the twin gods of nature and the creators of the Prime Material. Neither of them were good or evil, strictly speaking; the former was simply the goddess of things that created and the latter was the god of things that consumed. They had their differences--there's no big "fall" story, but rather, a series of petty little arguments that led to grudges. The grudges of Gods are dangerous things." Her voice lowered dramatically. "Every time they exchanged a cruel word or fought through their minions--sham battles, they called them--a little shred of darkness would accumulate somewhere on the Great Wheel. Soon, all the planes were dotted with the tiny shadows of the Twins' petty rages. Tiny, but powerful."

Now, back in this timeless age, there were beings called Baatorians. Natives of the Nine Hells, they were horrifying to look upon--even Silvanus, the god who delighted in all things of the hunt and the slaughter, refused to lay his eyes on them. Their origins are still unknown. Even the clerics of Oghma, the All-Knowing Clergy, haven't yet found anything documenting their creation. They're just there. They only appear in the stories at the time of the God-Molding, and they rarely show up afterwards.

But these Baatorians, despite being hideous, were insidiously clever. Some say they were the first evil in the multiverse. When a scrap of Silvanus's petty anger fell, writhing, in their midst, they realised what could be done with the horrible substance. They didn't know how much more was out there, but in all of the stories about them, the Baatorians were never noted for impatience. And so they sat for eons, watching the Twins feud. They devised strange ways of predicting the next shadowfall--the proper name for the breaking-off of the shards of anger--and carefully collected them in whispering, twitching bundles.

Once they had enough, they molded the first pile into the shape of a man. Men had already been created by this time, but there are too many differing accounts of it, and that's not part of my story. The Baatorians took this man, and with their dark magics, breathed life into him.

'We will call him Bane,' they said. 'And we will give him godhood.'

They bound their shadow-man, and took him to Nessus, the pit of the Nine Hells. And there they threw him into the Serpent's Coil, the deepest trench in all the planes, where rested the acid-filled remains of Asmodeus, the great, primordial serpent. Bane writhed in pain, but with his screams, there came a sort of filling. For Asmodeus's essence was still contained within that stinking river. The serpent had given the Dark God his physical might and his alien mindset.

The Baatorians were delighted with their creation. How could they not be? Creating their own god had been as easy as waiting for it to happen.

Centuries later, they had enough shadowstuff to do it again. This time, they crafted a tall, slender elf. And they called him Mask, for Asmodeus had given him his deadly cunning and smooth eloquence.

Their third creation, another shadow-man, they called Hoar. He was to be their god of suffering, to whom they might pray before beginning torture. Asmodeus was supposed to give him all the terrifying, maddening memories of the Chaos Before.

But something went very, very wrong.

The creation of the Baatorians' dark gods had not gone unnoticed. Mielikki, the maintainer of the planar balance--her father had since retreated to watching--had felt the shift towards the nexus of the Great Wheel after the creation of Bane. She had seen the creation of Mask, and she would not let it happen a third time.

In the guise of a snake-maiden--what most people would call a medusa, I suppose--the goddess lifted Hoar out of his torment. The Baatorians were furious, disbelieving that the Great Snake would send a servant to betray them at a time like this. They gave chase. Their feet, now tainted with the irrelevent furies of the gods, thundered across the planes, completely destroying what was once the paradisal plane of Arcadia and turning it into the Barrens of Doom and Despair. But Mielikki was a goddess, and faster than them all.

Even goddesses tire, though. At the border of the Gates of the Moon, she grew weary. The Baatorians howled at her heels, and Hoar was of no help.

Silvanus had seen what he had started. And it was he who came to her defense, chasing the Baatorian hordes back to their Hells by taking the form of a great elemental storm.

The frightened shadow-man was taken into the Twins' domain. And the gods saw that he was no longer a man, but his god-essence had not yet been given to him. Without this, he would dissolve into pure chaos. The twins looked at him for a moment.

Silvanus said then, 'No longer will you be Hoar. You are to be called Assuran, and you will be the god of poetic justice, for it is by your hand that my sister and I are reconciled.'

Assuran accepted his role, and from that day forth, he was always hunted by his brothers.

But the Twins and their newly-formed god had far more work to do. The Baatorians' twisted creations had very nearly broken the fragile planar balance, and the three set about repairing it by creating gods of their own. From the stuff of the Prime Material, Silvanus raised the Four Elemental Children. Their names are Aerdrie Faeyna, goddess of air, Kossuth, god of fire, Chauntea, goddess of earth, and Deep Sashelas, god of water. From Mechanus, the plane of Law, Mielikki raised Oghma, the god of knowledge, and Siamorphe, the goddess of law and government. Sharess, my goddess, was raised from the four rivers of Brightwater. Sharindlar and Lathander were created from moonbeams and sunlight, respectively, while Kelemvor, the god of the dead, was once a rotting corpse. The other two major gods in our pantheon, Tyr and the Red Knight, were not so much raised as rescued from each other. They're lovers now, but when they were human, they were bitter enemies.

The creation of gods of so many good things slowly but surely balanced out the evil created by the Baatorians eons ago. Bane and Mask are not worshipped in this country, from what I know, but they are always in the dark things of our world. Assurani Polytheism is the religion centred around this story, and, while all the sects further their own goals, the ultimate aim of our religion is to prevent another God-Molding and keep the planar balance intact."

She stopped for a moment, then smiled insolently. "I really hope that answered your question, because I'm not telling one of the longer stories."

Danjela nodded again, at something of a loss for anything to say. She had unconsciously been listening to the priestess's story, and the priestess's stories always made her somewhat drowsy. They were so damn long...

"Yup. A violin," she said, not noticing Aleesa's smile. "You said it was popular in Jimanistan?" To tell the truth, she really could care less.

[Jimanistan]

OOC: Sounds good to me, ha.

Verdon nodded slowly. The story ran more or less like any archtypical mythology, that which, with minor changes in detail, could belong to any land or people. It bore resembelences, in places, to the stories of the Elder Age in the Aethelaya Aethemont, and even to the cosmological myths related to the dualistic Tyromi religion. It even bore a few superficial similarities to Pastafarianism, an eccentric religion popular in the south of Jimanistan.

The origin of some of the gods, however, seemed original, if not rather silly, to Verdon. He was careful not to laugh at the concept of a deity arising from a corpse, however, fearing that might offend Saraid, who was after all a priestess of that religion.

Aeno did chuckle, however, at her last statement. He had sat through religious lectures before, but never one taught by a woman he had slept with. The idea amused him. "Yes," He said, with another laugh. "that answered my question... Quite thoroughly."

Aleesa nodded. "Yes... We use it for everything, along with the flanto." She said, referring to the traditional Otromon instrument, which had over the years become ubiquitous in Jimani music. It annoyed her so, with its twangy sound.

[Assuran]

OoC:
I promise that my next reply will be faster. Scheduling conflicts, natch.

IC:
To Saraid, who had only the Christian myths to compare her own story to, the tale of the God-Molding seemed quite original. She hadn't heard the Jimani stories--the book she had stolen from her brother had been too long and tedious, and she had skipped right over the mythical section to try and learn more about the people. His people. She shook her head once, quickly. She was becoming drowsy again. It was too late for this...

It seemed like she had only blinked, but in between that space of shutting and opening her eyes, several things had changed. First of all, the small windows in and near the ceiling were letting in the greyish light of melting fog. Second, the fire in the fireplace had gone out and the tray of food was gone, with only a half-glass of wine left on the table.. Saraid supposed it had been done by one of the employees of the Headquarters. The glass was strange, though. She hadn't seen Verdon take any of the wine.

That was the third thing she noticed. The president wasn't in the room. The priestess herself had apparently shifted to stretching out on the couch, instead of putting her head on the seat and the rest of herself on the floor. That was fine. But her head was no longer in Verdon's lap, being supported instead by two smaller cushions.

Crafty, she thought somewhat groggily, not really sure who she was supposed to be refering to. Very crafty.

While the priestess had moved from the floor to a couch, her acolyte had shifted the other way 'round. Danjela was still asleep, sprawled out on the thick rug under the chess table. She had finally, miraculously, coerced Aleesa into trying to teach her how to play chess. The game was difficult. Terribly difficult, in fact. Danjela had hated it, finally giving up and going to sulk in the shadows of the table's underside.

[Jimanistan]

Verdon himself had awakened a short time prior to Saraid, having gone to bed after she dozed off. He found it mildly amusing that she had simply fallen asleep without so much as a word. He had figured that he would be the one to fall asleep, not her. Between jetlag and the day which had been fairly eventful, in its own right, he had been quite tired at that point.

He stepped out of the room that had been provided for him, combing his short brown hair idly. It had a tendency to stay flat, anyway, but a politician had to look presentable, even in a country where vanity was a cultural sin. He was already dressed, having showered a short time before. Aeno was wearing another rather standard-looking suit, this one however without a tie. He never cared for the invention of the necktie, and had nothing but contempt for whoever had thought to invent it.

He had something around his neck, however. He vaguely recalled that he might be visiting temples that day, and so he had taken up his arge. It was a a pendent resting on the end of a iron chain about his neck, a wheel (bearing vague similarity to representations of the Bhuddist Wheel of Dharma) crafted of silver, a well-made thing, perhaps two-thirds the size of a man's fist. It was traditional for an Aethelayan to wear it, should they enter a place of worship, either that which is of their faith or of another.

The rest of his entourage was nowhere to be seen, presumably still sleeping, or in some stage of preperation for the day ahead, out of sight. Verdon stuffed the vomb in his pocket, glancing at Saraid with a wry smile.

"Sleep well?" He asked, speaking rather informally towards her. He had noticed that he had done so towards her. Naturally, he had spoken to the other Assuranians in a somewhat stiffer way, in English without contractions and slang terms, and so on. He would like to think he was not cold towards them, however.

[Assuran]

She let out a little squeaking noise when she saw him. Had this been a romantic comedy, she would have fumbled about for a moment, babbling about her unready state, before falling off the couch in a disheveled heap. Saraid, however, was well acquainted with the tropes of such things--the library of the temple of Sharess was stocked with hundreds of fictional texts on the subject. She started, but only enough to sit up quickly. Falling off the couch would leave bruises, after all.

"Good morning," she said, by way of beginning to answer his question. "Decently enough, thank you." She pressed the fingers of one hand against her temple and began absentmindedly rubbing in circles to eliminate the grogginess-induced headache that was starting to creep up. "I hope you slept well too...the beds in the Headquarters are supposed to be some of the best in Herondale." She grimaced a little bit. Her efforts were failing to stave off the headache. "But then again, the committee members will say anything to praise this building. They're inordinately proud of it. It's lovely, I suppose. A bit gaudy for my tastes, though."

Her thoughts were interrupted by a thud from a little ways across the room, followed by a stream of decidedly unattractive language.

Danjela had apparently woken up, and not in the best of tempers. Sleeping on a rug, followed by banging one's head upon attempting to switch to a sitting position, tended to have that effect. Saraid threw a warning look in her acolyte's direction, which was promply disregarded. Hell hath no fury like a small, disgruntled child.

[Jimanistan]

OOC: Sorry once again for a delayed response, I've had a bit of trouble thinking of something to write.


Verdon chuckled. "Well, I did sleep well." And indeed he had. The bed was quite nice, especially after a series of problems regarding fumigation, which rendered him without his own back in Verdemont for something around a week. Things like that caused him to hate the poor communication and planning usually associated with the Jimani government. Nothing worked any more than half the time, other than the trains.

How they love the accursed trains...

It is not to say that Aeno hated trains, per se. It was just the cultural fixation on them that seemed so prevalent in his homeland. Trains, Free Riders, and mountains were easily the three most obvious cultural symbols in the country, though not neccesarily in that order.

"It is a nice building." He agreed, a bit blandly. And so it was. He might have continued to talk idly about whatever architectural merits the structure had. Well, he might have, but he too was interrupted by that loud thud. He glanced over at Danjela, frowning slightly.

"Are you alright?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. He was not sure if that was the first time he had spoken to the girl, but it might have been. He had, understandably, been more interested in Saraid for the better part of the prior evening.

In the meanwhile, Gregory stepped forth from one of the four rooms, having been making use of its bathroom. He was combing his hair, and it seemed that the Jimani people, if they had no interest in any other sort of personal grooming, did care about their hair. And indeed, they did.

"Bon Orin." He announced in Tyromisi, flavored by his accent and his ever-present meekness. He removed his eyeglasses, polishing them with a cloth, before setting them back to rest on the bridge of his nose. He was holding a copy of the Tyromisi translated-edition of Crime and Punishment beneath his arm, which was subtitled Crimen ei Crimen. It was a fine book of red leather, looking rather old, lettered in gold, with an intricate pattern matching the letter-head running along the covers and the spine.