Roleplayer Guild - Forum Roleplaying Games

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis

The stranger sat below the palm tree which stood in the courtyard and spoke not a word to her no matter what she said. He took some water and some sweet meats, yet never taking off his wrap or speaking to her. She teased and tempted, trying as best she could to get him to say some words. Then in a fit of temper, she stomped her foot and cried out, "Curse of the Shifting Sands on you then you dog! I'd rather have given the dead roses at the gate your water than have fed it to you"

At this, the stranger nodded and in a voice rich as chocolate, returned with "As you say, so it will be done Lady." and he rose and emptied the rest of his glass on the brown earth then mounted his steed and rode away.

When Fasimar was let out, she spoke to her sister kindly saying, "You must not have heard my cries, for somehow the bar fell over the door blocking me in. I see though, that our visitor has left."

"Yes, and he emptied the rest of our water onto the brown earth at the gate. So you will have to go to the village and get more," rejoined her sister.

The eldest daughter took up the pail and left by way of the front gate. And as she passed, she spied a shadow at the base of the stones there. She bent down in curiosity thinking, "someone has dropped something for the water has long since soaked into the ground." And there, above the roots of the plant, she found a small gem, black as blood and with the warmth of the sun. She picked it up and put it in her pocket then continued on her way.

The next week, at the first of the week, the two sisters sat at noon on their stoop. Matil swearing up and down at a small puppy her elder sister had just rescued and who insisted on attempting to be her friend, and Fasimar silent and working on her younger's shifts. While Fasimar leaned forward to gather up the straying pup, Matil spied a blood colored stallion making it's way sure and carefully up the path to their home. Not willing to frighten off her suitor, she called for her sister to go into the house and put the babe into his bed in the cellar. Fasimar, who had seen their visitor's approach yet did not wish to make for harsh words, rose and without a word left into the cellar's depths. When the door had closed behind her, Matil slipped in and dropped the lock-bar.

This time, the stranger was garbed in a silver turban and the silk which covered his face was whiter than waterfalls. On the edges, was embroidered slight intertwined roses, peach and so light they seemed to not be there until one saw closer. His steed was dressed in silver with camel skin over the high backing of his saddle and white silver wire was wrapped into the braid of his bridle which was bleached white rope.

When he came, Matil met him at the gate and offered him some water and some sweetmeats (the last of which were given them by her sister's husband days before) under the shade of the palm tree. There, she attempted to speak to him and yet he said not a word. She had thought before that he must be dumb and therefore did not try too hard. Yet this time, she desired to see his face. So she teased and tempted, trying as best she could to get him to reveal his face to her. Then in a fit of temper, she stomped her foot and cried out, "Curse of the Shifting Sands on you then you pig! I'd rather have given the dead roses at the gate your water than have fed it to you"

At this, the stranger nodded and in a voice light as the spring rains, returned with, "As you say, so it will be done Lady." and he rose and emptied the rest of his glass on the brown earth then mounted his steed and rode away.

When Fasimar was found to be locked in the cellar, she spoke to her sister kindly saying, "You must not have heard my cries, for somehow the bar fell over the door blocking me in. I see though, that our visitor has left."

"Yes, and he emptied the rest of our water onto the brown earth at the gate. So you will have to go to the village and get more," Matil growled. And being in a foul temper, took advantage of their close quarters and hit Fasimar in the brow with her open hand.

The eldest daughter took up the pail and left by way of the front gate. And as she passed, she spied a shine at the base of the stones there. She bent down in curiosity thinking, "someone has dropped something for the water has long since soaked into the ground." And there, above the roots of the plant, she found a small gem, clear as water and hard as ice, like a dew drop. She picked it up and put it in her pocket with the darker, then continued on her way.

Days passed and then one day at the beginning of the new moon, Matil looked up as dawn touched the tops of the mountains and noted a flash at the base of the mountain. She left her older sister to finish the makings of her breakfast and went to the gate to watch the stranger ride up the path toward their door. He wore all yellow silk and the silk the covered his face was embroidered with gold flowers that glinted but otherwise were lost in the fabric to one not close enough to see them. His blood colored steed was covered in a goldenrod colored blanket and the saddle was adorned with gold trappings. The rope bridle glinted, having been braided with gold wire mixed in with the yellow grasses. When she saw his clothing than she knew him to be richer than she had ever seen any man and ran in to tell her sister.

"Sister! He is coming again. Quickly, run to the cellar and grab the sweetmeats. I hid some under the wine flask for fear you would eat the last of them."

Fasimar did as she was bid. But this time, she stopped just inside of the door and heard her sister close the bar over it and leave out the front door to meet with the handsome stranger. And when Matil returned, her face stormy and black, she said again, "You must not have heard my cries, for somehow the bar fell over the door blocking me in. I see though, that our visitor has left."

"Yes, and he emptied the rest of our water onto the brown earth at the gate. So you will have to go to the village and get more," Matil grumbled in response. For this time she had tried to be allowed to touch his horse and the gold in the bridle. And no matter how she teased and tempted, trying as best she could to get him to take her up onto his horse, he only sat silently, drinking his water. Until, in a fit of temper, she stomped her foot and cried out,"Curse of the Shifting Sands on you then you stupid cow! I'd rather have given the dead roses at the gate your water than have fed it to you"

At this, the stranger nodded and in a voice cold as the winter hearth, replied to her "As you say, so it will be done Lady." and he rose and emptied the rest of his glass on the brown earth then mounted his steed and rode away.

When Fasimar stole past the gate, carrying the water bucket from which to draw from the well with, she gazed down at the rose bush and the ground at the base of the stones there. Not seeing anything, she was about to pass by. Yet, she realized until now, there was always something there. And so, she knelt to see what might have been lost this time as the stranger passed the gate. Still seeing nothing, she reached past the roots of the rose and dug her fingers along the dust of the ground, searching. And there, under a brittle fallen leaf, sat a small gold button set at the center with a diamond and smooth to touch as swan down. She picked it up and put it in her pocket before continuing on her way.


When dawn fell the next day, the stranger had left the land and began to travel back toward his own across the shifting sands. He had traveled alone as he had not wished to be known as the man he was. The city in which he lived, was set far to the north of the mountains, deep in the sands and nearest to the sister river of the well which was known to go to the depths of the earth. He knew that his stones had been discovered and felt it was unlikely that the raven haired woman had been the one to find them. So he would return home and wait for what must transpire.

~~

She breathed softly and looked down at her hands, then back at the Caliph’s vizier, the man whose home she had graced now for a week or more by way of her adventures, the traveling unspoken. "And so begins the tale that goes on to this day. I have knowledge of the three that Fasimar holds in her purse and hides from all, as well as her identity, and I wish her best." Wish myself best, ah Matil! If only you’d done differently by me, perhaps we might have found our way from our small cottage. Even as she considered it, her heart longed for the small garden plot and the scent of jasmine wafting upwards as it must have been doing then.

The Vizier clapped his hands and looked at his companions. "Surely a story teller would be worthy of a token or two. I’ve kept her many a day and she as always, entertaining. Sheherazade cannot boast so great a talent."

The woman, her veil covering the brunt of her face as it had all her life, bowed low, touching brow to the rug beneath her knees in silent humble thanks for the boast, but she would not consider it so herself. She remained prone until her face was no longer flushed with pleasure. Not that any could know for she had been in the sun so long in this adventure, her skin hid such displays of emotion. Her mother, flowers be strewn for her, would have cried in horror at seeing such skin so marred.

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis

One of the guests in the audience stood up as the applause dimmed. He was Zebul, son of Vilzkar, and one of the most learned men in the Caliphate. He had also made himself an enemy of the Vizier and the advice he gave to the Caliph, and was especially critical of his hedonistic nature. So he made an attempt to confront him at every turn. That was what was known of him. So Zebul raised his chin to the Vizier and his tale-teller, and then spoke the way a man might to a group of children.

"To those who think these tales enlightening or entertaining, I say this:
Tales are meant for attaining wisdom and discipline;
for understanding words of insight;

for acquiring a disciplined and prudent life,
doing what is right and just and fair;

for giving prudence to the simple,
knowledge and discretion to the young-

let the wise listen and add to their learning,
and let the discerning get guidance-

for understanding proverbs and parables,
the sayings and riddles of the wise."

When he finished the poem, the Vizier stood up and pointed a hairy finger at the man, and the scholar smirked with the same general malice of hunters who succeed in ensnaring a fierce grizzly bear. "Would you condemn your humble subject, Zebul, for reciting from the Book that serves as the foundation for our master's caliphate?"

Although the Vizier was ready to condemn the man to death, he immediately backed down so not to appear heretical. Several of the imams in the audience nodded sagely at this and turned their attention, in unison, to Zebul, who had by this point assumed center stage. He folded his hands and spoke, looking at the female storyteller, almost as if to tell her that it was nothing personal.

"What might we draw from your story? What wisdom does it impart? That cursing in a fit of rage will bring you good tidings? For is it not written, good men of the court: 'May those who curse you be cursed and those who bless you be blessed'?" When Zebul spoke, he most often spoke in the form of a question, for that was how he lived his life. "We can not accept these as truths. They are the imaginings of a young girl, and nothing more." He raised a finger to his chin, and glanced upwards towards the ceiling, as if to tell the entire world he was thinking. He hardly needed to announce it.

"Unless you would care to continue the story?" he asked, enjoying his little charade quite thoroughly. His belly jostled back and forth as he sat down. He'd done what he had set out to do: humiliate the Vizier. Now all he needed to do was have the woman back down and go away.

__________________
~ "Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree."

~ "The best way to fight the devil, if not with holy scripture, is to jeer at him - for he can not stand to be scorned."

~ "An atheist is just a person God hasn't met yet."

The girl, head bowed in the tale teller’s seat, a pillow to the side of the gathering, was no fool. She was caught in crossfire between two powerful men. For whatever reason, the Vizier had asked her remain in more than a gathering of friends. What had he expected? One does not ask the adder into one’s tent and then complain when it bites you.

Without lifting gaze, she bowed her head down, brow touching the fine rug covering the sand.

"There is no continuance to the story, O lord. For the story continue, we must look into the time which no tale may track until tracks have been laid. The future is like the shifting sands surrounding us when in the storm's midst. What might we see but the sands from which we hide our faces?"

The Vizier coughed a deep warning. His attempts to show his guests his own self-importance had been affected greatly by the usual sharp tongue of Zebul. Meaning to speak to it, he gathered about his much older thoughts while he sipped from his cup of yoghurt. The girl, however, was not finished - a trait he’d come to find annoying, yet found that it served him well in this instance.

"O permit me, Heaven’s Kindness, to ask please, how it was that Matil gained anything? Her words, callous and unkind, benefited only the one she attempted to harm, for not once were those gifts given into her hands. Her scorn of the rider led only to his scorn in return. I am not wise, O Gentleness, to know of this, so I ask only as a tale bearer who must look upon her tales if they are stupidity or wisdom which may benefit as all tales must. I ask for your teaching upon this Humble Person, O Wisdom, who is without such direction and whom is, unlike the Wise which surround her, but a woman with no more to offer than her tales."

Always asking for more than she should have, the Vizier chuckled at her audacity. She would get kicked but it was best that this time, her brazen acts were not the thorn in his side.

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis

Zebul thought over the woman's words carefully. He certainly hadn't expected that response. He had made an assumption, one that betrayed him - that the woman was reciting from some withering old tome she didn't truly understand. He didn't expect her to be able to refute his claims, and yet, she easily did so. But not once in the old scholar's life had he been rendered speechless, and this time was no different.

"Ah," he breathed, standing up once more as he spoke. "The humble woman speaks truth. Behaviour befitting one of your servants, O Great Vizier." The sarcasm in his voice would've been detectable from space, with a broken magnifying glass. Zebul was pleased: the woman had more or less invited him to speak, which would allow him another chance to strike at the Vizier's ego. It was like attacking a metal giant - easy to hit, but only vulnerable in a few places. He would have to be careful with his words. He did not desire to be smashed into tiny pieces today.

"As you have answered my rhetoric both gracefully and cleverly, I feel it only fair that I do the same. I shall answer your story with a story of my own." The imams, who had become Zebul's greatest supporters that night, clapped almost giddily at this. The foreign emissaries from Byzantium joined in politely, as was their custom, and the rest of the room followed suit. Zebul bowed humbly, but was merely using a common technique of the aristocrats of those days - feigned modesty. With a twirl of his mustache, he began to speak.

This is the story of Balaam and the donkey.

Thousands of years ago there lived Balaam. This was before the arrival of your prophet and when water still flowed through the riverbeds of Arabia. There was no Caliphate in those years of past, only scattered tribes and meager kingdoms. Balaam was a man who was well-versed in divination, magic, and other sorceries. After manipulating the forgotten deities of those pagan tribes like puppets on a string, his fame was enlarged sevenfold (for seven is the number of completeness). All knew him and all admired him, even those as far off as the distant court of Sheba. It was then that the king of Moab called on Balaam to serve him.

For a people had come out of a land to the west. They were feasting on the crops of Moab's neighbours, and this made the king of Moab nervous. The king of Moab was called Balak. Though these people meant Balak no harm, he was a vain and petty man. He desired not only the crops of his neigbours but the women of these invading people. So he prepared to make war against these people, and sent out a summons for the diviner known as Balaam. The summons spread all throughout the land. Once again, Balaam's fame was enlarged sevenfold (for seven is the number of completeness). All knew him and all admired him, even those as far off as the distant temple in Ephesus.

"Wait, O Glorious King!" said Balaam. "First, I shall speak to their God." This was the common practice of the day and Balaam was certain to adhere to it. So he prepared a sacrifice and called this people's God to him. This people's God was much different than any he had ever dealt with before: but the diviner, in his own self-importance, could see nothing but the entrails before him. So he called out to the deity: "Look, a vast horde of people has arrived from Egypt, and they cover the face of the earth. Come and curse these people for me. Then perhaps I will be able to stand up to them and drive them from the land."

But God warned Balaam. He told him, "Do not go against my people, for they are surely blessed. All who stand against them will forever be cursed." Balaam heeded the word of their God for a time, but his greed and lust for power was too great. The king of Moab, who was Balak, convinced Balaam to accompany the Moabites in their expedition against these people. It was then that Balak revealed the identity of those who had come from Egypt. They were known as the Hebrews, and they followed Hoshea of Ephraim.

Balaam saddled his donkey, and set off towards the Jewish encampment. The road was calm and peaceful, populated by few travelers. However, it was a long road, one that stretched for many kilometers in either direction. The sorcerer had passed by seventy trees before his donkey stopped in her tracks. No matter how hard he begged, the donkey would not move. So removing his rod, he beat the donkey.

After being beaten, the donkey relented and moved further down the road, although dragging its feet. The road was quiet enough, although a storm gathered above the false prophet's head. Balaam passed by another seventy trees before his donkey stopped again. No matter how hard he pleaded, the donkey did not fidget. So removing his rod, he beat the donkey.

Vocalising its complaint, the donkey kicked up dirt and groaned as it continued down the road. By this time, rain had been called over Balaam's head, and he grew increasingly frustrated with his stupid donkey. Balaam had passed by seventy trees when the donkey's feet planted themselves to the ground, and it lay as if to go to sleep. He tried and tried, but the donkey refused to move. So he removed his rod, and prepared to beat that pack animal.

"What have I done to you that deserves your beating three times?" the donkey asked, having suddenly gained the ability to speak.

"You have made me look like a fool!" Balaam exclaimed. "Had I a sword, I would kill you!"

"But I am the very same donkey you nurtured since I was young. Have I ever done such a thing before?"

"No," admitted Balaam. "You have not."

It was then that the Lord God chose to open Balaam's eyes, and the angel of the Lord stood before the prophet. Immediately, Balaam fell to the ground, for surely, he was about to die. But the angel of the Lord instead chose to speak. "Why did you beat your donkey three times?" it asked. "I have blocked your way because you are stubbornly resisting me. If it were not for your donkey, I would have killed you by now and spared the poor creature."

Balaam confessed his sins to the Lord. "I have sinned. I didn't realize you were standing in the road to block my way. I will return home if you are against my going."

*****************************
Zebul smirked as he finished his story. "So it was that the simple donkey could see what the 'wise' prophet could not. Wisdom is a loan that can be taken away just as easily as it is granted. If you do not invest it wisely, you may end up having to pay it back with interest." He took a deep bow, much heavier than the one at the beginning of the story, and sat back down, to show that he had finished speaking. The audience's reaction was mixed. The imams, who once had only moments before been Zebul's most ardent supporters, looked at each other and could only clap modestly. The Byzantine emissaries applauded and laughed, as did the leaders of the mercantile guilds and the servants who walked amongst the walls of the court.

Overall, they were pleased with the story, but Zebul knew that such humiliation could only be tolerated for so long. The Vizier must have been making plans to eliminate the scholar. Shi'ite.

__________________
~ "Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree."

~ "The best way to fight the devil, if not with holy scripture, is to jeer at him - for he can not stand to be scorned."

~ "An atheist is just a person God hasn't met yet."

She knew this story, for she had heard it before from a traveling man who told tales which were more teaching tales than the ones she told. She had told him none of her own. He had not needed her tales as he was not a tale teller, but a man of wisdom with the ability to read and know what such tales meant.

He had told her many a story and she had enjoyed them muchly. He had spoken to her of forgiveness and a perfection which she knew from experience, that mankind could never, would never achieve. He left her with the words in her heart where they had remained, buried in stories she could not bring herself to pass along.

It frightened her, the Vizier’s guest’s words and the beginning of his tale, for she knew what the outcome would be and that he was twisting her into a weapon once again. She had not meant for it. But she had none to blame but herself. Her father used to say she never knew when to quiet her tongue.

The tale spinner remained on the pillow beyond the men, where she watched the faces of the others as they came to realize the insult so thinly veiled. This man was far braver than she would have guessed to say such things to the Caliph’s Vizier. But he did not seem to mind enemies. Truth be told, he seemed to enjoy the creation of them, his skillful tongue shaping them out of the minds and bodies which surrounded him.

Having learned wisdom herself and not wishing to take the part of the ass, she sat still so as not to garner too much attention.

The Vizier, a man with a portly body of his own, fought the red which threatened to suffuse his face. His jaw champed like a stallion’s and his nostrils flared. He huffed as a camel does in annoyance and then lifted his chin and chuckled.

"So! We have two tale tellers in my house today." He clapped his hands twice and servants appeared once more with drinks. "Anyone else wish to regale us? Tales from the bazaar, told cleverly." His voice deepend, became a rumbling purr as his eyes sought the scholar’s and narrowed almost imperceptibly, "..so very cleverly."

But he did nothing for now. Zebul was a guest in his home, as such, was to be treated well. While the tale teller had been a thorn, this scholar had oft times proven to be a dagger in the back. Perhaps it was high time he dealt with the man.

"And so, as I have monopolized this story teller of mine, perhaps it is time for her to move to another home. I gift her tales to you, O Honored Guest. May her tales prove to add to your fount of wisdom which she claims you have and teach her her place."

Having passed off the "donkey" to the man who truly stood with the Angel’s hovering sword over his head (or at least, the promise of that sword in his hosts’ eyes), the Vizier hummed in pleasure and called for dancing girls as a means to another entertainment. "For we have had our surfeit of stories."

But it was understood then that the tale teller would leave and as such commands had been given, she discretely removed herself from the company. She had no doubts that the scholar would release her once they left for his home so she had to be prepared for travel once again. In her mind, she considered her next destination. Rarely was she without one. Should the scholar demand it, she must again, consider how best to get out of his forced invitation. The man was no keeper of story tellers, that much was plain. But neither was the Vizier any longer.

Not having noticed the tale teller leaving, the Vizier called for pipes and allowed those around him to discover the next topic of discussion. He kept his eyes heavily lidded and leant back upon his cushions while keeping a hidden eye upon the scholar.

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis

(( Sorry for taking so long to post this, haven't been able to get the time until just now. ))

The night went by slowly, but Zebul dared not leave the safety of the court until the celebration had worn thin. Every once and a while, he'd become involved in a discussion involving the stars or various mathematical theories - but for the most part, he remained silent as his mind spoke for him. He had been granted the storyteller, and now he had to decide how best to handle the situation he'd gotten himself into.

He had won a victory that night, although a nagging voice told him that it was a Pyrrhic one. He had to quiet that voice with a quick mental slap as he calmed down. He had to be calm to sort through his thoughts, to organise them like they were files in drawers. The Vizier essentially admitted defeat in presenting the girl to him, but that defeat would not go unavenged. As soon as the old laws of hospitality were no longer in effect, the Vizier would send his goons to deal with him.

What a terrifying thought. As the night finished, Zebul left the court in a hurry. He planned on going to his home, taking his necessities with him, and fleeing far from the Caliphate, perhaps to Byzantium. He would only go for a short duration, long enough for the Vizier to forget about him and move on to some other target. He'd have to move quickly - there's no rest for the wicked, after all.

It was then that he noticed the storyteller following him. "Oh, you," he said, running a single finger along his chin. He'd forgotten all about her in the midst of his troubles. So, what to do with her? First, he told her of his plan. "I plan on leaving the Caliphate before it is too late: the Vizier's wrath is not something that I plan on feeling any time soon. You can, of course, come along should you wish, although otherwise you are free to do as your wish. I have no need of a teller of tales."

He took a few steps, then glanced back. "A companion would be greatly appreciated, though," he finally added, walking forward into the night whatever her decision was.

__________________
~ "Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree."

~ "The best way to fight the devil, if not with holy scripture, is to jeer at him - for he can not stand to be scorned."

~ "An atheist is just a person God hasn't met yet."

[No worries, eh? I figured life had gotten as busy for you as it seems to have for everyone else of late.]

The morning light had not yet broke when the gathering ceased. The Vizier’s guests had, more than likely, fallen to rest here and there within the dwelling. The tale teller waited, her dark eyes certain of what they were about to see and eventually did.

She fell into step behind him as he left without her. He was but a scholar and, she suspected, not so far from home that he would have needed a camel or horse. It was not difficult to catch up to him. On foot, older than she, and a rather corpulent, she was merely a desert fox to his buffalo.

It took him a time or two, as he was in an abstracted mood which could be understood, to recognize her presence. When he did, she merely bowed her head and tucked her hands into her sleeves, remaining some steps behind as befits a servant.

"It but shows your wisdom, O Heaven’s Kindness, that you should find a place which you are free of the jealousy of the Vizier. Truthfully, he was not happy with your words."

It was cheeky, actually, for her to state such things. There was a hint of deadly humor in her words which she attempted to draw the venom from with a deep bow while she walked. "I had felt it sure that you, O Wisdom, would not have need of me. But if I knew where you were planning to go, and you did not mind a companion, then most assuredly, I would appreciate one to travel with."

She did not have a guard and on those few times when she had not procured a "master" in a manner of speaking, she was forced to move by way of subterfuge. It was an uncomfortable act and a dangerous one, for if she were found out, she would have quickly been stoned to death. It was, to be sure, in her best of interests to follow him. "I shall pay for my own meals and care for your camels as well as your meals if you would let me go with you under the status of servant, O Kindest of Wisdoms."

To have gone on alone, was a fate she wished to not follow. "Perhaps until such time as another has need of my tales. I shall not regale you with any, however. This I promise."

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis