The Chessboard (Izdihar & Ifran)

[Ifran]

56th Spring, A.V. Though the Festival of Makutsi was long since over in the Garden of Concubines, Spring was a season full of parties and this fête at the Eastwinder residence was not special, though it was lavish. They all were, of course. This one was no exception, though they all tried to be exceptional. It was late enough in the evening that many of the guests were glowing with drink or dimmed by drugs, and the breezes from the desert carried only a faint memory of the day's heat. Ifran stood alone on the balcony, smelling jasmine and a melange of other smells common to the aristocratic gardens of Ahnatep. Looking down, he could see the cultivated oasis where his mother had played as a child, now lit with a pattern of lamps casting wells of light on its paths. Night birds sang. Night flowers bloomed. Ahnatep remained a ruined paradise, but even in ruins it was great. The sweat from the close-quartered heat of the party had long since dried on his skin, but he enjoyed the party noises filtered out through the open doors and windows as opposed to being among them. He stood under the stars regarding the night and, gods help him, couldn't help but stand in an aesthetically pleasing pose. Once trained, grace was wont to remain.

[Izdihar]

Izdihar of the West Winds had crystal-dusted eyes cast towards the stars as she stopped in the balcony doorway, the interior light spilling around her elegant frame like a halo. The noble daughter was familiar, shining face within this glittering pantheon of Ahnatep, an artful socialite with a windchime laugh and a personality that drew men and woman both to her like moths fighting for the flame. People said she was kind, of all things, with a mixture of fondness and pity. Kindness, after all, did not get one very far in Ahnatep. However, for it and her beauty, it and her lineage, it and her wit, she was exalted and adored and only the terribly gauche dared recollected the disgrace of her deceased father and vanished aunt to her face. After all, one did not insult a member of one of the Houses of the Four Winds, not without a care for their throat. "Hullo," she greeted, fragile chin tilting down and her regard settling upon the noble bearing of Ifran of the North Winds. Of course she recognized him on sight, but that in no way implied that they truly knew one another. It was simply one of the many skills of a courtier. The breeze ruffled thick, heavy curls that had been painted into a glittering, golden cast this night, smattered with glints of amethyst and celadon. She had disdained, apparently, the typical henna for something bolder, brighter, and managed to pull it off gloriously. It was offset by the scattering of sand fine crystals swirling into a few speckled bracelets, glittering earbobs, and a wealth of bare skin. Ivory foam silk, crushable and fitted, flared below the knees. She smiled at Ifran's back, perfectly still and patient.

[Ifran]

He turned at the greeting, the voice familiar, but needing the face to connect it with a name. Hers was a face that was difficult to forget. At these parties most faces were painted as much if not moreso than upon the stage, and he paid her the compliment of taking in her entire appearance, an appreciative smile slowly manifesting itself. "Izdihar," he greeted her, the subtle syllables of her name dancing in his mouth. "Welcome to my kingdom," he said whimsically, his three right arms indicating the darkness where no one else could be seen to lay claim to the night. "Are you enjoying yourself?" Of course, he was not the host, and his mother was a Northwinder by long marriage, but he felt a certain level of bond to the maternal side of his family.

[Izdihar]

Smile bloomed beneath Ifran's complimentary gaze, oasis eyes shining. They always shone, glittering like diamonds un-silenced by shadow; but bright lights could blind. The perfect stillness in which she had held herself broke fluidly as she stepped deeper onto the balcony, taking in the night he introduced with the gesturing of hands. "I always enjoy the East Winds' festivities," a note like laughter, shimmering soft, as she whirled in order to lightly wilt back against the balcony railings, two of her hands sliding down the cool, eggplant colored marble. "They are almost as entertaining as those of the North," and an eyebrow flicked up in punctuation of her jest. The verbal nuances of their language allowed for terribly many layers, and this was a woman who enjoyed peeling the lot of them back. The result was a refreshing shock of bluntness, or what Eypharians would take as such even if hardly any other, lesser race might. A tilt of her head, dramatically peering back towards the door and into the humming, musical interior. "Weary of your worshippers?" She inquired of the artist.

[Ifran]

Ifran laughed for her compliments, and how none of them were veiled. When he spoke, everything was measured and exact, but when he laughed, often it danced with the wildness of the dust devil, mischievously playing with laundry on the line. They were an ancient race, the Eypharians, their veins full of water from a dead river, burning sand, and crumbling ruins, but they were desert creatures as much as the Benshira slaves, and they also contained the anger of the sandstorm. But for tonight, it was only laughter. "One party is much like the next," he said, keeping within the basic mode. If they were to be blunt, so they would be. "Admirers have their charms, and sometimes the admired wearies of its pedestal. Not to worry, though. I am vain and by tomorrow I will require my usual lion's share of the world's regard to function properly. And you? Enjoying the party but seeking refuge without."

[Izdihar]

"Do try to leave some of the admiration for the rest of us, Ifran," she murmured, smile spilling into a cupid smirk. Leaning indolently against the balcony railing, she stretched out a leg with ballerina grace to delicate point a bejeweled slipper. A teacup shoulder lifted, glitter glazing the dim, as she confessed, "Well, perhaps I was lying and am not enjoying this party as much as I might. I weary of Ozik's courtship and do not care to dance, thank you ever so much."

[Ifran]

"A marriage to Ozik would not lead you back upon the path to your former glory," he agreed, in line with her precedent of bluntness. "If I were you, I would be trying to work the mirage market out from under its current management. The mirage must flow." It was perhaps a little dangerous to let on that he thought about strategy when all he was supposed to think about was vocal health and ticket sales, but they had acknowledged between the two of them that the party was boring for all the good food, good music, and other good entertainments. Some things paled on the palate after enough repetition.

[Izdihar]

The mirage must flow. Those words sparked amusement in the refreshing color of her eyes and she tilted her head curiously. Her gaze was direct, punctuating the directness of their conversation. Only they were Eypharians, and what could be considered frank for them was not often the case with other, lesser beings. High Arumenic, the ancient language of river children, was crafted of many layers. Not unlike an onion, to peel one layer back was to reveal yet another, intricately patterned shell. "Why might I be unsatisfied with the present management of the mirage business, Ifran? My family does an excellent job, don't you think? Besides, it can be so dirty." She wrinkled a pert little nose, but humor twinkled in a soft laugh, directed at herself. "Ozik thinks all I am good for is socializing," she admitted. "It's refreshing to discover a worthy male of the Four Winds who does more than merely admire the Painted Faces."

[Ifran]

"Certainly, one must keep one's hands clean," he agreed in an ironic undermode, four of his hands spread open for her perusal while the other two were balled in fists behind his back: secrets. "I must agree with Ozik, however, that you are indeed good for socializing," he said, frank admiration in the basic mode. The lack of undertones, though, could mean anything. Of course, he didn't comment on her own compliment. He wasn't some Southwinder or a Benshiran monkey. "As to current management," he finally said, as if grudgingly, "playing chess with family means one knows the pieces better." He himself had been gauging his grandfather, Sadiki, for years trying to determine the best opening move into securing a position for himself as heir to the Noble House.

[Izdihar]

"Yes, but then the board is writ upon your skin," she mused, a touch of irony quieting the line of her smile. "And so what moves you will must be willed terribly, not being played on marble or gold. No?" She studied the four palms of his on display, then lifted her eyes back to his face. Her fingertips drummed an absent beat against the balcony railing, those of two other hands clasped behind her back. "We are born with many hands so as to be capable of many things," she agreed with his implication that one must keep their eye on the hands lying in wait, not those extended.