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Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

The white-washed adobe home was warm, cozy, fueled by a cheery fire. Low, cushioned lounge chairs surrounded the space, the floors adorned with rugs of warm reds, browns, and golds. The scent of incense filled the air. A middle-aged man with a round face and a kind smile coaxed his violin to sing with the bow, a light, cheery melody. The sweet notes pulled a smile to his lips as he eyed his family -- his wife swaying in place on her seat opposite him while threading a new tapestry as his daughter sang along, her voice low from being out of practice but still melodious.

This was a childhood memory of Miria's manifest into a dream, though she wasn't a child here. Though her parents looked and acted the age she remembered them as a girl, she was a woman, her current self, her dark hair now glinting in the warm firelight, swept back into a loose bun that rested at the nape of her neck. Her russet skin was smooth, unscathed by the unforgiving years of travel in the desert, her brown eyes bright with a light unfazed by sorrow and struggle. She wore a beautiful yellow sari draped over her shoulder with a matching top and petticoats, her sandaled feet smooth and uncalloused, her demeanor cheery and carefree. She could carry on like this forever, spending the night away with her family.

Tamal was with her, sitting behind her, his strong arms wrapped around her waist. She could feel his body against her back, lean and firm, and his chin resting on her shoulder. Such an embraced stirred within her memories of his touch, her body warming in anticipation for later. His breath tickled the nape of her neck, his snow-white hair caressing her cheek, and she could occasionally hear the flicker of one of his long jackal ears. Tamal was the household servant, the jinni slave, not much older than her; he was a boy when he first began to serve. In Miria's real past, she and Tamal hadn't become lovers or even friends until after her family's death. In this dream, however, not only were they lovers, but it was a union accepted by the family without the slightest concern. Tamal kept Miria, this dream version of her with her head in the clouds, grounded and focused, while she hoped to show him how bright life could be beyond the daily toils of jinni life. They were perfect for each other, or so Miria believed at that moment, reliving the blissful, ignorant perspective of a young woman. Oh, if the real world was so accepting, so carefree....

"I'm going to get some water," Miria whispered, reluctantly sliding from Tamal's embrace as she rose to her feet. She glanced behind her, enraptured by his gentle smile and those bright amber eyes gazing up at her with such tenderness.

She disappeared into the kitchen, inwardly giddy of Tamal's smile, eager to return to his arms, the sounds of her father's playing and her mother's laughter soothing to the soul. When she did return, however, her world changed in a blink of an eye.

Suddenly, she was normal, gritty Miria, older Miria, body cloaked for travel, the light in her eyes gone, her hair brittle from the dry air and heat. She stared into her family's main room, her mother and father replaced by two bodies, blood splattered on the walls, along the floor, everywhere. Dread and despair washed over her, for this scene was all too familiar, all too wanted. She did not want to relive the sight of her dead family all over again, a high, long wail escaping her as though seeing it for the very first time. She dropped to her knees, her gaze resting on what she knew she would find -- Tamal hovering over her father's body, blood on his hands, his shirt, his face....

Unlike the first time and unlike the subsequent dreams, Tamal did not raise a mask of sorrow to her with a carefully rehearsed explanation of what happened. No... this time, the truth was written all over his face, a much starker contrast than the fresh blood against his pale features. His eyes were filled with hate, his mouth curved in a sneer of pure malice, and he slowly rose to his feet, a predatory demeanor to his every movement.

Miria caught herself through her renewed despair, remembering that she had been through this already. She knew what Tamal had done, knew that he was dangerous, and knew that her family's ashes had been scattered to the four winds long ago. The dagger she always kept concealed near her body was gone; she glanced around the room for any sort of weapon to use, trying hard not to look at the motionless bodies on the floor.

"He had it coming," Tamal growled, his voice low, throaty, heady with madness. "The things you never knew about... the things he did to me... and the way she just turned the other cheek... your precious father, your loving mother... they had it coming."

As Tamal spat out the words, Miria rose to her feet, willing her body not to tremble, commanding herself to be strong. How could she be strong in the face of such an atrocity, in the wake of such a malicious gaze?

"And you, living your perfect life, ignorant to the darkness, will know what suffering is. You will join them!" With a roar, Tamal rushed forward.

Miria's resolve shattered; where was the strong woman she thought she had become? She screamed in alarm, turned to run away, and bumped into Curdle. The impact sent her stumbling back directly against the charging Tamal...

...who dissipated around her like a broken cloud of smoke, disappearing into thin air like mist chased away by the morning sun. Miria fell back, her gaze widening in surprise when she took on the familiar form. It was the old jinni from Renna, though he wasn't old at all now. She shouldn't be able to recognize him, so altered his visage was by youth, but somehow she knew and remembered.

"Y-you!" She glanced around warily, her heart thudding against her chest as she looked for Tamal. He was nowhere in sight. The bodies, too, had disappeared, along with the blood, but Miria's fear lingered like smoke trapped in a room, slow to fade. "W-what... why....?" Try as she might, Miria could not find the words, fragmented questions tumbling in her mind, lost in the fog of her fear. What did he want? Why was he here? How was he here? Did he have anything to do with Tamal?

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

Yaaaaay, you updated! :D

Though I still have work, I am done with classes for the summer, so I should be replying a lot faster.

Now to decide what sort of dream Miria would be having, and how Curdle would fit into said dream *rubs hands together* This shall be fun :3

Vanish Into Light

My post ended kinda abruptly, so if you need more material to work with for your response, let me know and I'll continue *nod*

Vanish Into Light

Chamera had given Jeron a courteous warning before touching him. Any anxiety, fear, and humiliation he expected upon Chamera's care froze in the wake of that one simple line. Not even Maura had thought to pay heed to his personal space in such a way. Though he never minded with Maura, Chamera's compassion for the situation touched him. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had did anything so kind to him. Of course, Chamera had rescued him when she didn't need to, but she had still regarded him with fear, still saw him as some sort of monster, still expected that he would betray her great risk and sacrifice in a way appropriate for a Drow.

This situation, however, was wholly different. There was a softness to her tone that one would never use towards someone they feared. The mere presence of the statement meant that she was aware of how uncomfortable Jeron felt about the this situation, and instead of ignoring it or belittling his reaction, she chose to acknowledge and respect his situation. Respect. That was something Jeron thought he would never receive. Though he wasn't foolish enough to assume that Chamera now respected him, he at least appreciated her capability to respect the moment. It would be a moment he would cherish.

Jeron nodded only once, a brief and awkward gesture, though it felt good to actually give consent to something without using force or fear.

The pulp against his wounds stung; Jeron concentrated on drawing in his breath slowly through his nose to keep from making a sound. It was supposed to hurt; it meant that Chamera had chewed the weed enough for the juices to be effective. For once, the pain didn't force upon him the horrific memories of his earlier experiences in captivity. For once he did not tremble in dread of the next lash of pain, wondering if it would be the last thing he'd think and feel. This pain was born of the necessity and promise of healing, so he would endure it and more knowing that it meant he would feel better and stronger in the morning.

Jeron could tell by the pressure of Chamera's fingers against his wounds that she was trying to be careful. It reminded him of those carefree evenings as a child, when Maura would tend to him in a similar manner.

"You need to stop falling off trees, silly. Soon you'll be one big, walking bruise." He could still remember Maura's soft giggle and the warmth of her hands as she pushed her healing magic into his bruised limbs. He never told her that he had gotten his bruises from his mother, afraid of Maura's reaction towards him if she found out that he was so vile of a child that his own mother needed to beat him. As they got older, he knew that Maura knew what was really happening, but she would still smile, touch his bruised skin with glowing fingertips, and tease him about falling off trees.

Jeron squeezed his eyes shut, controlling his breathing to hold back more than just the pain now. He felt very, very grateful that Chamera said nothing throughout the ordeal.

It occurred to Jeron that he should probably do something thoughtful for Chamera in return, but what? He had nothing to give her, nothing kind to say to her... His mind still mulled over the slim possibilities when she offered to bandage him up. He blinked, embarrassed that he had been caught off guard, and glanced warily over his shoulder towards her. "N-no, I'm fine," he muttered before gingerly tugging his tunic back down over his body. He probably should take up her offer, but he didn't want to be exposed longer than necessary. He did, however, manage to pause long enough to murmur a very soft "Thank you," not caring if Chamera heard him or not.

His stomach growling, Jeron decided he could be "kind" by finding something to eat. It was too dark to look for berries, he was too weak to hunt, it was too dangerous to search for water. Perhaps he could find some mushrooms to go along with the edible weeds and moss he had found. It did not occur to him that Chamera could have food in her infinite bag of holding, not at all used to asking anyone for anything or expecting anyone else to make his life easier in any way. So, he began to forage, brushing aside fallen leaves in search of anything to eat. It was not long before his aimless searching brought him near the human, Chamera's companion. He paused his search, in a crouched position as he lifted his gaze to examine the man more closely. Out of habit, he tugged at his cowl to ensure that his head was properly covered as he scowled, his eyes narrowed. The man's skin was deathly pale, his breathing shallow; Jeron wondered if he would survive the night. The half-drow wanted him to survive so he could learn magic, but this man seemed to be a dear friend to Chamera. However, there was nothing Jeron could think to do to help this man, not accustomed to helping others in this way.

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

I've had temporary side-characters end up spinning their own permanent subplots in an RP before, so you may see more of my jinni girl and the cocky boy :3 We'll see how it plays out! I wanted to explore the irony of everyone's lives pretty much dependent on a slave, mwaha.

Ooh, meeting Miria in the dream world! Fascinating!

We could either have this be a dream... or a nightmare, hahaha! Either way, it's a great opportunity to see a side of Miria that no one will see. If it's the nightmare, she'll be experiencing the death of her family once more, or a point of awful betrayal.

If it's just a normal dream, it'll be a happy moment with her family or a tender moment with her former lover. Miria immerses herself in the present and pushes forward to the future, but dreaming/quiet time is typically when she dwells on the past; she has to be careful not to do this too often. That said, if Curdle makes an appearance in her dreams, she will definitely realize it; she dreams up the past pretty much all the time, so it would be a striking change for her.

Hope that helps :) If not, we can chit-chat about it some more. I like plotting :)

And take your time with the post; it's always well worth the wait :)

Vanish Into Light

Your last post was damn good! Character development time, YUSH! And I absolutely loved the way Chamera sneered at those icky weeds... and to put them in her mouth, oh noes! *giggles*

Will respond soon ^^

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

Whew! That took a while for me to post!

To be honest, I wasn't sure what to write, lol. I had vague ideas, but nothing solid. Your writing in your last post was absolutely gorgeous (why I gave it a thumbs up :) ), and I struggled to match that. I also didn't want something too short, especially with such a long wait. All these things combined lead up to the delay. Blah.

the jinni girl was thought up on a whim as I was writing the post. Her look somewhat resembles Katy Perry's doe look in her Extraterrestrial video, except she has deer ears :p And she looks younger, haha. And she has normal feet. Anyhow, the reference pic is below. I have no definite plans for her or the boy yet, but it was fun to write them :)

Now I'm ready for Curdle to make his grand re-entrance, mwahaha!

Thanks for your patience :)

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

Miria could never really pinpoint why she found travel so exciting. Growing up, she didn't travel and didn't see the need to in her young adult years. It wasn't until after her family had died that she traveled, mainly out of necessity, and she assumed she would hate every mile of it with every passing day. The open horizon, however, with its silent promise of hope and change, was ever-enticing. She distrusted the city walls, unable to anticipate what was around the corner, unable to gauge a person's intentions by the invisible pressures city dwelling held. The dangers in a city were all internal, driven by money, politics, and stature, and no one person reacted to these things quite the same way.

The dangers of the open desert, however, were external. The caravan only survived so long as the jinni that paved their way also survived. Bandits lurked in the rolling shadows of every sand dune, the heat of the merciless sun like a vulture waiting for someone to grow too foolish or too cocky. Even the vastness of the desert was a danger; one could wander aimlessly for days and not find so much as a rock to distinguish one sand dune from another, and natural sustenance was a rare occurrence. These external dangers, however, were what formed truces between enemies, what turned a caravan into a community, what forced people to work together. Without each other, the caravan would erode, and no one wanted to die the slow, suffering way of the desert. Only while traveling did Miria not worry about her wares being stolen; where would the thief go alone without a caravan leader to guide him? She did not worry about being mistreated by the caravan leader; she had paid for his protection, and maintaining a good reputation was his livelihood. A person was not burdened by money or politics or status; the desert made every intention transparent for the sake of survival in this harsh land. Ironically, this was when Miria could truly relax.

Currently, she hummed softly along to a slow, bright tune crooned by two women towards the front of the caravan. Her cart lurched and swayed on the firm yet uneven sand, and her body swayed in contented ease with the motions. Like everyone else, her body was shrouded from head to foot to protect her skin from the blistering sun and to retain her body's moisture, but her face was clearly visible, a soft smile playing on Miria's lips and teasing the corners of her eyes in the form of laugh lines. To her left, a father and son on an ox cart were arguing over some previous bet between battling beetles, and she inwardly chuckled over their light-hearted banter. To her right, a boy no older than 17, from her guess, was talking her ear off while riding on a mule. Raha didn't seem to notice; the donkey liked travel as much as Miria did. She always assumed that Raha thought it a welcomed change of pace from munching on straw in a stable all day in the city.

"It was no contest," the boy boasted, too bashful to look Miria in the eye, but his voice burst with the unrestrained confidence of an adolescent. "The jinni simply couldn't keep up with me. I overpowered him in that fight, and he had magic on his side."

Miria nodded, her smile rehearsed, but said nothing. Between the boy's haggard robes and the stiff, uneasy gate in which his mule moved--the same way Raha would move around a stranger--the kid must be a runaway or the victim of some unfortunate circumstance. No nosy mother or stuffy father came to claim him, and he didn't seem to know how to stop talking as though she was the last person on earth, simply because she smiled at him. She doubted the truth of his story, that he had won a fight against a jinni, but if it was true it would only be due to some hidden fact, such as that he battled a shackled and weakened slave under the watchful eye of a master. Whatever the real story was, Miria paid it no mind. She could put up with the boy's chatter today, though she could see it getting tiring after a while. She hoped that her silence would eventually force him to move on to someone else in the caravan. Right now, she would allow him to try to impress her with his tall tales.

"Do you own a jinni?" the boy asked.

Miria lifted an eyebrow as her humming died away, sending him a sideways glance. "No one is bound to me, and I intend to keep it that way," she said.

"I wouldn't mind owning a jinni someday. It would be nice for me to order someone around for a change."

"Or you could live by your own means, answering to no one, burdened by no one."

"You mean, live on my own? I'm doing it now. It's not impressive. Besides, men with jinni are powerful, and I want to be powerful. Take our caravan leader, for instance; he's got a jinni paving our way for us."

Beyond the line of trodding oxen and mules and bobbing heads, a jinni girl lead the way. She was slight of frame, with long dark hair piled in a messy bun behind her, long deer-like ears bent back along her head. Square-shaped birthmarks of brown, white, and grey dotted her tanned skin around startling blue eyes, along her forehead, and against her cheeks. She was barefoot, on tip-toe, but she moved with the assurance of someone that did not have feet scorched by the sun-baked sand. Her pace was swift enough for the carts to move at a comfortable pace, though she looked not the slightest out of breath. She held her arms out on either side of her, like a bird yearning to take flight, and the sand firmed to a concrete hardness in the wake of her steps. This hardened sand made cart travel easy, and the makeshift road returned to loose sand only after the steps of the last person in the caravan line. Immediately behind the jinni was the caravan leader, comfortable and proud on horseback, fully armed in case bandits decided to show themselves. Attached to the horse was a chain connecting the beast to the metal collar around the jinni girl's neck. Unlike everyone else, the jinni girl wasn't shrouded -- thin, flowing robes framed her body like a toga, baring her arms, shoulders, and parts of her legs. Despite her seeming hardiness to the harsh desert environment, she looked like a creature not quite suited for the desert; her features were too soft, too dark, her movements too delicate, like a doe caught in a barren wasteland. Her entire life would be spent pacing the desert sands in this way, though she was needed too badly for anyone in the caravan to question the quality of her life.

"I would think it more powerful to be able to survive this world alone," Miria murmured quietly, reminded of the urn in her cart and the jinni that had left it there. It would be days before they reached the next town; Miria was anxious to get rid of the thing.

"Nothing good comes of being alone," was the teen boy's reply.

Vanish Into Light

Jeron held his breath as Chamera examined the scroll, his gaze glued to the parchment as she carefully stretched it open once more. What secrets did this strange scroll hold? How would Chamera discover them? He certainly felt envious at the half-elf's ability to try to decipher the scroll. If he had even a portion of her skill, he wouldn't need her help. Perhaps the remains of Elminster's tower contained more secrets waiting to be discovered by one with a magical bent. With more power, he could have escaped the Zhentarim by his own hand, could have picked the tower clean of its secrets, could be uninjured and well on his way to wherever those secrets led him next, to real power.

He was not yet sure if he regretted meeting Chamera and her companion. If Jeron was more powerful, he wouldn't have needed the pair at all, would have been content to leave them at that dark town, though Chamera had been almost suspiciously kind to him. Almost. He did not miss her guarded apprehension towards him in all of her actions nor the tension in her gaze every time she looked at him. He assumed that she had to remind herself that he wasn't a monster every time she caught sight of his dark skin or silvery hair. It would amuse him to have someone fear him despite the notion that she could probably take him in a fair fight should it happen, but he was so sick of being feared. In the end, he was very lucky to have met someone like her, though he wished the circumstances would have allowed him not to meet her at all.

That's when Jeron exhaled, shoulders slumping forward in the slightest of gestures. Her answer disappointed him. How much magic did she know, anyway? Would she at all be a suitable instructor of magic when they were ready? That's when his gaze shifted to the human resting against the tree. Jeron narrowed his eyes as he stooped down to pick up the scroll, a deep scowl lining his face as he hastily stuffed it in his bag. If anyone was going to teach him about magic, it would be that man, though he had a feeling the human would be less conducive to the idea of assisting a half-drow than Chamera was. Jeron wanted the man awake in order to gain his power, otherwise he'd rather leave him for dead. Once the human awoke, Jeron would have to keep his distance until--

Chamera's question threw Jeron off guard. He turned his head to look at her, blinking rapidly in surprise, both eyebrows raised. "No," was his immediate, instinctual response, followed by the urge to scoot back a few feet, away from the fire. He immediately regretted it; the air's evening chill felt uncomfortable without the warmth of the flames, and after all they had just been through, all that Chamera had seen of him already, he was being quite foolish.

Jeron knew he needed to tend to his wounds; falling ill was a matter of life and death to him. He also knew he could not tend to them alone, as much as he wished it. The very idea of having Chamera, or anyone else, touch him in any manner made his stomach twist in knots and his mouth go dry, but to refuse help when it was offered was too dangerous a decision to ignore.

"I-I mean yes," he snapped, his fear coming out in a snide tone. Didn't he just touch her a moment ago? It was on his own terms -- him touching her. This was entirely different.

With a sigh, he shoved a hand into his bag and pulled out a fist-ful of the weed he used to tend to Chamera's wounds. He dropped these plants on the ground, not bothering to wait for her to simply take them from him. "Chew that up as finely as you can," he remarked gruffly as he turned around. "Don't swallow it. Smooth it on my wounds -- make sure you cover every area of open skin. Don't worry about being gentle; I will be in pain regardless." With his back facing her, he gingerly attempted to pull his tunic over his head, as much as he would dare. The fabric had stuck to the skin of his open wounds; he hissed in pain as he peeled the shirt away. He didn't take it off completely -- instead it bunched across his shoulders, forcing him to hunch over. It was an awkward position, but Jeron refused to reveal more of his skin, even though Chamera had seen much of his body already. Open gashes lay across a collection of scars all over his back; this was not the first time he had been beaten in this manner. "Make it quick," he snapped, hoping his body wasn't trembling too noticeably, biting down on his bottom lip to keep his panic in check. If he had learned anything while growing up in this world, it was that nothing good came out of exposing any part or amount of his skin to anyone. It was impossible not to think that something bad was about to happen to him, his mind beginning to run through possible escape scenarios.

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

*is confused*

So, I was gonna get my post done during lunch today, but... I'm assuming that because it is past Wednesday at noon that I can write NPCs? (not sure what you mean by "add-on".) I've only got one such person in mind, enough for filler and to help us get to know Miria a little better, but nothing solid. If you'd like me to go to no NPCs, that's fine.