Raid

Homestead

Sleep is important.
*sagely nod*

Homestead

(ShonHarris, I like the idea, but I'm not the GM, so...sorry, can't help you!)

But general note...I apologize if I took too many liberties in my last post to get everyone moving and onto Spera. Also, I apologize for the lack of character interactions. I figured that once people are actually on the ground, that will pick up.

Homestead

“Miraj, what did he say?” Uday asks; he is the eldest man to have come from the Pakistan suburbadome. His face full of deep lines and gray hairs. Parts of his beard is stained yellow from the tobacco he smokes. He doesn’t roll his ghutra up like the younger men. The white linen turns red with every flash of the emergency lights.
“Grab your pack, brother,” Miraj commands in Urdu, “We must leave.”

Hamir nods and grips the stained straps. They all opted to bring their wooden-backed bags that had to be cleaned like all of their other items before permitted onto the ship as to limit cross contamination between biospheres. The canvas is recycled rice bags, the Arabic and Hindi writing only partly visible from years of use. But if these packs have withstood thousands of kilometers of hiking, being trampled by goats, and thrown down at the hearth of a home once finally returning to families after months of herding—these patched packs would continue to serve them well on Spera. And it would be all we have, Miraj thinks as he ushers his friends along, following arrows and signs. Uday hesitates outside of the emergency drop-ship and shouts, “Our musahallah!” His pointed gray eyes straining between the hallway leading deeper into the ship and the inside of the emergency vehicle. Hamir pushes him in, grumbling about priorities. They stumble around the few people in the drop ship, but collect themselves. A buzz of anxiety keeps everyone fidgeting in the plastic seats.

Miraj clutches his bag to his chest, feeling the outline of his oud. He traces his fingers along the strings, imagining the cool, ridges as he plays. He tries not think of the prayer rugs in the cargo hold. But a dark creeping thought freezes in his mind: how will they even know which direction to face in this new world? How will they, as Muslims, be able to perform their prayers without knowing where Mecca is in relation to Spera? Curling his toes, Miraj focuses on how his feet are still slimy from stepping in Hamir’s puke. The physical discomfort distracts him from the pain in his heart of not being able to properly worship God. As the last stragglers slip into the drop-ship, the shuttles shutters as the door closes and a woman’s voice comes over the intercom. Her words mix in his mind until he is sure she is reciting one of Rumi’s poems. And in the dark as the drop ship disconnects from the Bright Hope and slips into the gravitational pull of Spera, he pretends the voice is reciting Rumi and that it’s his wife, whispering her favorite verses into the soft ear of their newborn daughter. The drop ship rocks as it enters the atmosphere. Gasps and cries crawl out of people’s throats.

“You are nothing but him,” Miraj quotes, fingers stiff and white as he clutches his bag.

Hamir squeezes his forearm and says in Arabic, “There is no God but God.”

“And Muhammad is—”

A roar of air and heat and screams. And for that moment, Miraj wishes he tried to go get his musahallah so that he wouldn’t have to be in this hell.

Homestead

I'm traveling today and I won't be able to type up a response until later tonight. I apologize for the delay.

A Crown of Bones

Fun stuff. And who knows, people might join later or characters might be added...right?

Homestead

Erm...so I'm waiting for Marx to respond at this point, but I'm assuming that we're not going to make it down to the cargo hold to get the other stuff based on the other posts so far--unless, ya know, we want our characters to die.

But, a thought: is the main ship going to land SOMEWHERE on the planet? So would it be a trip/part of the plot to go finding it?

Homestead

His hands were pressed against the grating of the floor outside of his cyro-chamber and he repeated, “La hawla wa la quw’wata illa bill’ah. La hawla wa la quw’wata illa bill’ah.” Beside Miraj, Hamir threw up, staining the white pants of his kurta-pajama. His friend looked at Miraj and smiled, bile dripping out of the side of his mouth. “Assalamu ‘Alaikum,” Hamir said, his voice blending in with the red of the lights and the cold metal of their surroundings.

Miraj huffed and stumbled as he stood, his feet catching on the long hem of his thobe. “Wa ‘alaikumus salam,” he replied, gasping the forearm of his fellow brother of the Faith. They swayed against one another watching the rush around them, like a stampede of GMA.

Switching to Urdu, Hamir said, “What’s happening? We haven’t landed.” He wiped the bile away, but it smeared into his beard, instead.

“No, my friend, we have not. But it seems we will have to.” Miraj closed his eyes. The red lights nauseated him. The mix of languages nauseated him. His nose stung and he felt his mouth water. He swallowed whatever was still in his stomach after thirty years and said, “God willing.”

“In sha’allah,” Hamir repeated in Arabic, reaching below his chamber to get his pack. He was younger than Miraj, but Hamir still had a family on Earth. A family who went on without him. He was probably a grandfather by now. A shutter ripped through the ship and a groan. Miraj reached into his own bag to pull out his red and white checkered ghutra. The chamber was clearing and the wild rush before left the disoriented, the skeptical, and others behind to puzzle over what was happening. The jarring consonants of English made Miraj look to the man across him. He was tall but leaned to the side and, like everyone else, seemed to be trying to balance the instinct to run with the logic that there was no where to run.

Miraj pushed off Hamir and staggered forward, but misstepped as another tremor passed along the ship. His feet ended up in puke and it squelched up between his bare toes. Hamir said something in Urdu to Uday, another herder from the Indus Valley suburbadome, who lurched out of his cyro-chamber and began spluttering out a jumble of Qu’ran verses.

Clasping the man on the shoulder, Miraj forced out the hard sounds of English, annunciating to afford miscommunication. “You know where the cargo is?” Everyone had important things in the cargo; Miraj knew objectively some things could be ranked, but subjectively… “I will come, but only if you know where it is. We must be fast.”

He shouted to Uday and Hamir to come help. “You show us the way and we will follow,” Miraj said in English again.

Uday shook his head and said in Urdu, “What about Ghassan?”

“He’s not here.” Hamir frowned, adjusting his ghutra to be rolled up and tied back like Miraj’s.

Turning back to the English-speaking man, Miraj repeated instead, “We must be fast. Will you show us?” His toes bunched against the textured floor of the ship to prevent slipping. The stale air reminded him of days of heavy smog outside of the suburbadomes before the herds reached the mountains. Uday whispered more verses in Arabic, the fast twining of vowels and their meaning was lost in jarring red. The shadows of the empty cyro-chambers gaped. Miraj shuddered at the sight of those with bodies still inside. Would they wake up? Would they want to wake up?

A Crown of Bones

Cap't Kiwi, finally a fellow Gorgonite! Also, I've been compiling a list of stories and creatures in reference to European marshes/lochs/wet lands that I'd be happy to share if you ever see a need for them (my character is a junkie when it comes to the tales of the seas and swamps of Gorgon).

Elyane, I pretty much did the same thing. No shame, my friend. Also, way to use the join the realm generator. ;) mark of approval.

A Crown of Bones

Free Faller,
Heh, sounds like a good way to end the day, but don't be disappointed if it doesn't happen every night! ;p

A Crown of Bones

Free Faller,
Thanks (right?). I figured her story was realistic to a place of complete turmoil and for a woman in her position (okay, I could have made her marry someone else and blah-blah-blah, but where's the fun in that?).