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SPRING 1 520 AV
Maore’s arrival into spring was without fanfare. Long since past the ability to shift with the seasons, she had maintained the form of her spring ‘seeming’ for as long as living memory and had stagnated. She no longer celebrated the day of her return from the sea--if she’d even remembered the date she would have still refused to acknowledge it. She couldn’t even remember the season but with her special brand of contempt for the first of the year, being the season when she’d finally given up on Syna, assured her that it was in spring that she’d pulled herself out of the sea and onto a bed of black rock far, far away.
She was awakened by the daily shifting into her divine seeming, roused from a dreamless sleep by the persistent ache of her damaged horn and the little tingle of change that heralded her misfortune. She roused slowly thereafter; the other slave sharing the cluttered room with her was still asleep, though not for much longer, and Maore had no desire to hasten her awakening and subjecting herself to the ceaseless chattering of a gossipy little human.
For a long time, Maore stared at the ceiling of the shared bedroom, discomforted by the lack of stars as usual since her arrival in Ravok but capable of pretending to be able to see them, if even only for a moment. She could pretend the shuttered windows rattling in the breeze was but the gentle creak of a wagon or the whisper of tall grass. She could pretend her bed was on the ground, a layer away from the earth, not perched upstairs in the household of an affluent family.
Maore could pretend a lot of things and convince herself that these things were still possible. She was a consummate liar in this regard but the only thing being fooled was herself--and not even very well; Maore was a realist at heart, a bit of a nihilist in development, and she knew she was deceiving herself. Maybe. Sometimes the lies were convincing enough that she could fool herself into a moment of peace.
“Up, up, up!” Banging at the door roused Maore’s companion from her rest and the ethaefal exhaled her irritation in a soft, breathy hiss. She sat up as the other did and grimaced a ‘good morning’, unwilling to waste her voice on such a silly little thing. Whoever was banging at the door moved on and Maore waved a pale hand at her sister-slave, indicating she could relieve herself first. For Maore’s part, she simply went about changing out of her clothes knowing that the need to relieve her own bladder would be forgotten in short order. In this body, so long as she refrained from actual food, she had no human needs to satisfy nor relieve, and that was simply something she could lord over all of her fellow slaves when they succumbed to the base instincts of their fragile selves.
When the other was done, Maore had already run a comb through her hair and braided it around the remaining whole horn: out of sight, out of mind, and it couldn’t be pulled on by greedy little child hands if it didn’t dangle down her back so temptingly.
Maore made a silent gesture with her hand, a Pavi motion that enthused about what the day might bring. Unfortunately it was a sentiment that her slave-sister didn’t understand and shame on Maore for convincing herself otherwise when the girl sometimes got the gist out of other sign language. She rolled her wrist instead, a dismissive flick of her hand, and left the room as the girl went about preparing for the day herself.
It wasn’t long after beginning her morning routine of fixing bedding that Ennoia found her. He spoke out to announce his arrival and the ethaefal finished her folding before facing him, like he’d taught her to. Although she hated to do it, she also inclined her head respectfully.
“I have had clothing brought to your room for today,” he said as she straightened up, examining his nails with an air of confidence that he’d failed to share with her during their long days in her black cell. “Change and then meet me downstairs.” He paused. She blinked at him. With a smile he fluttered his hand. “Go.”
It must have been about ten chimes later that Maore was ready and waiting for her keeper at the front door of his family estate. She was not the only slave in attendance; it seemed that some of Ennoia’s siblings and cousins had their personal slaves dressed in clothing fit to be seen in and she smoothly joined the group of them, idling among their meaningless, unintelligible chatter. She didn’t try to participate knowing that their dialogue was beyond her comprehension, but she did try to catch what she could from the sidelines, something that did turn out to be a useless venture, as Ennoia arrived soon after with a few of the people Maore recognized as his siblings and she stepped forward to join him.
“Good, you’re here,” Ennoia said when she arrived at his side. He fixed the leather gauntlet on his right arm and fussed over the collar of his shirt. “Get me my overcoat, Ciraaci.”
Maore did immediately, finding his among the few still hanging at the door and bringing it to her master. She took his gestures to indicate she ought to help him into it and, with great patience befitting her once devoutly received role as a scion of Syna, Maore draped his coat over his shoulders and helped his arms into the sleeves. He did up the buttons on his own and she donned the cloak that he’d had left in her room.
Then, they were off.
The trip was fairly silent for Maore; Ennoia was chattering with his siblings about something far, far beyond her ability to care and she was taken by drinking in the sight of Ravok on the first day of a new year. There was a lot going on here that she had never seen before among the citizens.
First of all, they weren’t the only group from the Nitrozian household headed in this direction, and Maore’s sister-slave she shared a room with wasn’t the only slave she recognized from their home. Secondly, there were many more humans headed towards the tallest building in the centre of the city, faces from around the Merchant’s Ring that Maore had seen before once or twice while out with her keeper or on an errand on his behalf.
“Ennoia,” Maore whispered when there was a break in his conversation, using the sound of her own voice to ignore the way the canals sounded under their feet as they crossed a bridge. If she pretended her heart wasn’t thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings, she could pretend she wasn’t stuck on a floating collection of flotsam. Ennoia tilted his head to indicate she had his attention. “What is this? Where are we going?” As taught, she didn’t gesture while she used her Pavi, keeping her hands tight in the cloth of her cloak, bunching it at her waist to muffle the instinct to do so.
“Worship,” Ennoia answered. The word was in Common and she had to step closer to catch it properly. “Today is Rhysol’s day.” He then looked away, dismissing Maore and returning to his conversation. Maore stepped a respectful distance from him, looking away thoughtfully as she digested the words. She had no context for what ‘worship’ might mean but she did understand that if it had to do with Rhysol then it was important and it made sense why there would be people gathering for this in a city that actively revered the god.
They continued on their way towards the city centre and the looming Temple of the Black Sun.
Maore wouldn't deny the eager light in her heart to see what ‘worship’ might mean when it came to the God of Lies.
1358
Maore’s arrival into spring was without fanfare. Long since past the ability to shift with the seasons, she had maintained the form of her spring ‘seeming’ for as long as living memory and had stagnated. She no longer celebrated the day of her return from the sea--if she’d even remembered the date she would have still refused to acknowledge it. She couldn’t even remember the season but with her special brand of contempt for the first of the year, being the season when she’d finally given up on Syna, assured her that it was in spring that she’d pulled herself out of the sea and onto a bed of black rock far, far away.
She was awakened by the daily shifting into her divine seeming, roused from a dreamless sleep by the persistent ache of her damaged horn and the little tingle of change that heralded her misfortune. She roused slowly thereafter; the other slave sharing the cluttered room with her was still asleep, though not for much longer, and Maore had no desire to hasten her awakening and subjecting herself to the ceaseless chattering of a gossipy little human.
For a long time, Maore stared at the ceiling of the shared bedroom, discomforted by the lack of stars as usual since her arrival in Ravok but capable of pretending to be able to see them, if even only for a moment. She could pretend the shuttered windows rattling in the breeze was but the gentle creak of a wagon or the whisper of tall grass. She could pretend her bed was on the ground, a layer away from the earth, not perched upstairs in the household of an affluent family.
Maore could pretend a lot of things and convince herself that these things were still possible. She was a consummate liar in this regard but the only thing being fooled was herself--and not even very well; Maore was a realist at heart, a bit of a nihilist in development, and she knew she was deceiving herself. Maybe. Sometimes the lies were convincing enough that she could fool herself into a moment of peace.
“Up, up, up!” Banging at the door roused Maore’s companion from her rest and the ethaefal exhaled her irritation in a soft, breathy hiss. She sat up as the other did and grimaced a ‘good morning’, unwilling to waste her voice on such a silly little thing. Whoever was banging at the door moved on and Maore waved a pale hand at her sister-slave, indicating she could relieve herself first. For Maore’s part, she simply went about changing out of her clothes knowing that the need to relieve her own bladder would be forgotten in short order. In this body, so long as she refrained from actual food, she had no human needs to satisfy nor relieve, and that was simply something she could lord over all of her fellow slaves when they succumbed to the base instincts of their fragile selves.
When the other was done, Maore had already run a comb through her hair and braided it around the remaining whole horn: out of sight, out of mind, and it couldn’t be pulled on by greedy little child hands if it didn’t dangle down her back so temptingly.
Maore made a silent gesture with her hand, a Pavi motion that enthused about what the day might bring. Unfortunately it was a sentiment that her slave-sister didn’t understand and shame on Maore for convincing herself otherwise when the girl sometimes got the gist out of other sign language. She rolled her wrist instead, a dismissive flick of her hand, and left the room as the girl went about preparing for the day herself.
x
It wasn’t long after beginning her morning routine of fixing bedding that Ennoia found her. He spoke out to announce his arrival and the ethaefal finished her folding before facing him, like he’d taught her to. Although she hated to do it, she also inclined her head respectfully.
“I have had clothing brought to your room for today,” he said as she straightened up, examining his nails with an air of confidence that he’d failed to share with her during their long days in her black cell. “Change and then meet me downstairs.” He paused. She blinked at him. With a smile he fluttered his hand. “Go.”
x
It must have been about ten chimes later that Maore was ready and waiting for her keeper at the front door of his family estate. She was not the only slave in attendance; it seemed that some of Ennoia’s siblings and cousins had their personal slaves dressed in clothing fit to be seen in and she smoothly joined the group of them, idling among their meaningless, unintelligible chatter. She didn’t try to participate knowing that their dialogue was beyond her comprehension, but she did try to catch what she could from the sidelines, something that did turn out to be a useless venture, as Ennoia arrived soon after with a few of the people Maore recognized as his siblings and she stepped forward to join him.
“Good, you’re here,” Ennoia said when she arrived at his side. He fixed the leather gauntlet on his right arm and fussed over the collar of his shirt. “Get me my overcoat, Ciraaci.”
Maore did immediately, finding his among the few still hanging at the door and bringing it to her master. She took his gestures to indicate she ought to help him into it and, with great patience befitting her once devoutly received role as a scion of Syna, Maore draped his coat over his shoulders and helped his arms into the sleeves. He did up the buttons on his own and she donned the cloak that he’d had left in her room.
Then, they were off.
The trip was fairly silent for Maore; Ennoia was chattering with his siblings about something far, far beyond her ability to care and she was taken by drinking in the sight of Ravok on the first day of a new year. There was a lot going on here that she had never seen before among the citizens.
First of all, they weren’t the only group from the Nitrozian household headed in this direction, and Maore’s sister-slave she shared a room with wasn’t the only slave she recognized from their home. Secondly, there were many more humans headed towards the tallest building in the centre of the city, faces from around the Merchant’s Ring that Maore had seen before once or twice while out with her keeper or on an errand on his behalf.
“Ennoia,” Maore whispered when there was a break in his conversation, using the sound of her own voice to ignore the way the canals sounded under their feet as they crossed a bridge. If she pretended her heart wasn’t thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings, she could pretend she wasn’t stuck on a floating collection of flotsam. Ennoia tilted his head to indicate she had his attention. “What is this? Where are we going?” As taught, she didn’t gesture while she used her Pavi, keeping her hands tight in the cloth of her cloak, bunching it at her waist to muffle the instinct to do so.
“Worship,” Ennoia answered. The word was in Common and she had to step closer to catch it properly. “Today is Rhysol’s day.” He then looked away, dismissing Maore and returning to his conversation. Maore stepped a respectful distance from him, looking away thoughtfully as she digested the words. She had no context for what ‘worship’ might mean but she did understand that if it had to do with Rhysol then it was important and it made sense why there would be people gathering for this in a city that actively revered the god.
They continued on their way towards the city centre and the looming Temple of the Black Sun.
Maore wouldn't deny the eager light in her heart to see what ‘worship’ might mean when it came to the God of Lies.
1358
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