Summer 83rd, 515 AV There was power in ritual. Branimir understood that without knowing it. Had he known, his mind would have prodded and probed at his understanding of the topic until it had been robbed of its charms. But ignorant of the simple fact as he was, he was fully equipped to enjoy his pipe among the greenery and the brighter hues of Lapis Park. He'd taken a ridiculously tiny amount of Sywart from the pouch in his lap and gently nudged it in place at the bottom of the pipe bowl. You treat the first pinch gently, as if it was a child, Branimir recalled his father saying. The second, bigger pinch, he carefully and methodically flattened with his finger, firm but caring, as if it was a woman. He had always wondered at that expression, in various ways he never had the stomach to think through to their prospective ends. Finally, Branimir took a third, equally big helping of pipeweed and pressed it flat near the top of the bowl. Now, the last pinch you handle as if it was a man. A rival if you will. As firm and forceful as is necessary. Though force was hardly a physical thing to the young man, he'd clearly understood what his father had meant. Ritual thus commenced, Branimir went in search of a lantern to light a splint off of. Lighting the tobacco in the bowl and gently sucking in the smoke were as much part of the ritual as the furrowed brow as he wondered if the level of resistance was acceptable. But that he'd only know once he'd seen whether the topmost layer of pipeweed turned into an ashen cover under which the rest of the weed would slowly char away... or not. The only way to find out was to keep suckling on the stem and gently compress the ash building up on top of the pipeweed. Pipes were not made for impatient people. Whichever God had sparked their Invention was possessed of both good sense and Humor as well. Certainly, there were weeds and herbs said to induce one state or another. But the truly relaxing thing about that pipe was the ritual of preparing and Smoking it. Because there was power in ritual. It was something that Branimir knew without understanding it on a conscious level. All he knew was that he desired it. Here, in Lapis park, sat on a bench between lawns and exhibits about to be lit up with the colors of sunset, or what they made of them. Other than the pipe, the young man had come equipped with an almost blank book and the charcoal pen that so often left his gloves dusty as if with ash, or his fingers stained pewter. Branimir had come here to draw, in quiet and seclusion. But Branimir drew nothing that could be seen in Lapis Park. The Images would come from his head. Even in his first days, the boy who would be an architect had noticed how around Riverfall, form seldomly seemed to follow function. If Akalak built all this they were certainly artists as well as warriors, but architecture was more than art bereft of function. Indeed, Branimir thought, it was the one discipline that strove to create a perfect marriage of artfulness and usefulness. Form and function elevated to the highest degree. Akalaks, it seemed to him, tended to fall to extremes rather than seek balance. Big foreboding edifices for defense mixed with painfully detailed artworks rising from the ground, and in between they squeezed as much green as they could afford to. If, the Boy had reasoned on one of his very first outings, if they could look at their city with his eyes they would cringe at this imbalance. But those architect's eyes had also very quickly gleaned how all of this could be blended. His architect's brain had quickly given birth to a very simple but effective housing style that would be perfect for this city. Or maybe that was born of his longing for the vanished Eypharian cities of old. Branimir did not enjoy this line of thinking, but when he examined his Imagination, the buildings he dreamt up bore some resemblance to the boxy Eypharian structures with their ornately detailed patios and entrances. The only way to confirm or deny such suspicions however was to put them to paper. Sketching or drawing things served Branimir well before in turning an abstract into a real thing. Maybe it would again. And that was why he had come here tonight. Drawing on his pipe, Branimir placed the book in his lap as his mind sought out his thoughts on those Riverfall Houses he would build. Had to build, now that he had thought of them, if he was honest. It was hard if not impossible for the young man to leave things in the inferior state he found them in if he could help it at all. Moreso if he made them real. |