Dry Eyes (Self-Mod/Open-- Depending)

[Eshatoh]

509 A.V. -- Winter, The 14th day

Above his tent, the wind whistled through its perpetual dance, and Eshatoh listened to it idly as his mind roved across the events of the day. It was a well-worn routine, something he had developed years ago to try to keep thoughts of his parents at bay. It didn’t work, but he persevered in it anyways. Not a few times, he had discovered implications that would have completely escaped him without this time of reflection.

The first hour or so of the day had been spent in packing up. It wouldn’t have even taken that long if Nauri and his wife could only learn to control their child. Hopefully the Wahali would talk to them about it tomorrow. The tribe couldn't afford to let one family hold back everybody else.

The rest of the day had, of course, been spent in traveling towards the next oasis. It was towards this that Eshatoh's thoughts drifted. Their route this year had differed from previous years significantly, and he was doing his best to memorize every inch of the terrain. With the seemingly endless monotony of the desert, it was no easy task.

At least he was free to roam where he would. Not one of the forward scouts today, Eshatoh had had no further duties than hunting and reporting any irregular activities if he happened to see something. A few hours before dinner, he had spotted a Benshiran tent, allowing the Suli to take a break from their forced march. Needless to say, many Chaktawe had thanked him quite profusely.

The Chaktawe had stopped their wanderings for the day in order to share news and food with the Benshira as was often the custom. For the rest of the evening a festive atmosphere pervaded the entire camp. As a people, the Benshira were undeniably more disposed towards enjoying music and dancing, and thus were better at both, but this isn't to say that the Chaktawe had merely stood aside and watched. If anything this made the Chaktawe throw themselves into the evening with all the more reckless abandon, for they knew that after tonight this would end and they would need to return to solemnly struggling to survive.

The Wayhali and other leading leading Chaktawe, meanwhile, were in earnest discussion with the leading men of the Benshira Tent. Eshatoh had drifted between the two worlds, drawn alternately to the joy of the music and beauty of the Benshira girls and then back to the heavy matters of dealing with Eypharians and trades the tribe needed to make for survival. In either setting he was welcomed, though not included in the discussions. He was relegated to watching and listening along with the other men not yet of sufficient standing to speak.

Those tidbits of information he had picked up both from simple gossip amid the music and the talk of the leaders, he now processed. It all confirmed what he already knew: Things were hard in the desert but not insurmountably so. The Benshira and Chaktawe would keep on living because they must.

But there were some who weren’t still living. Inevitably, Eshatoh’s mind began traitorously reminiscing about his parents. He remembered the gentle brushing of lips against his brow as he drifted off to sleep. The seemingly random times his parents would both burst out laughing simultaneously. Annoying and inexplicable at the time, it now seemed nothing but endearing. Even the nights when his parents had forced him to sleep outside he now regarded with a deep sense of loss.

Sighing, Eshatoh rolled out of his bedroll and wrapped his cloak around himself. It was going to be one of those nights; he could already tell. So he gave in to the compulsion he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist in the end and picked up his father’s bone flute. Then, he quietly slipped out of his tent and into the shadows, moving efficiently and silently towards the edge of the combined encampment. Along the way, he began practicing the fingerings for the songs he would play. His eyes stayed dry.

[Eshatoh]

The Benshira had camped about a quarter mile from a strangely solitary Keerdash tree in a valley invisible from the camp. Eshatoh had noticed it on the way in, and it was there that his feet carried him now. Its isolated nature perfectly mirrored the way he felt at that moment and, indeed, on many nights of sleepless eyes.

Sighling, he fell to the ground with his back against the tree and looked at the stars and moon. Constant twinkling lights—some called them the guideposts of the gods. They never changed. All other things seemed to.

His parents were gone. It was a simple fact but only part of him accepted it. The other part clung to their memory and spent entire nights doing nothing but wishing for the time he had spent with them back. Tonight was one of those nights.

So he began his routine, gently playing minor scale notes in ascending and descending chords. Although it had no tune to it, the whole effect was mournfully soothing. Lidding his eyes halfway, Eshatoh tried to concentrate on the notes—tried to stop thinking—tried to keep his eyes dry.

[Malia]

Ahnatep undoubtedly was a fascinating city, but Malia had only stayed there for a few days. She had remembered that she didn’t like huge crowds, loud noises and fast movement. Instead she loved the slow flow of nature where she didn’t need to pretend to be someone else, didn’t need to talk to random people at the street. While travelling she only did what she wanted, and that was its own special magic.

Suddenly she heard a distant noise. The enchanting sound of a flute was so unusual out there … It must have been a hallucination. She had to constantly watch out to detect eventual dangers hidden in the environment; her mind was all on edge. But when she continued walking, the sound grew louder and louder and visible silhouettes against the midnight blue sky turned out to be tents. Of course, the scene attracted Malia’s interest.

A few human tribes were known to roam the desert … Benshiras, Drykas, Chaktawe? Malia didn’t know any of these very well, but she was always eager to explore and learn of foreign cultures.

Brushing strands of her jet-black hair back over her shoulder, she carefully approached the camp. To someone who watched the desert she would appear as a pale figure with delicate limbs and a slim body – showing the opposite of nearly every quality a desert nomad had to possess. Every person would ask what such a girl was doing out there, but that wouldn’t let the figure disappear.

Instead she carefully circled the camp, detecting a single person a few hundred meters away, but still hesitated to approach him or her. After all, she didn’t know who these people were, if their intentions were honest or dangerous, whether they would welcome a stranger or not. Even if said stranger turned out to be a Nuit … No, she decided, too dangerous.

Making as little noise as possible, she took a few steps and remained invisible in front of the dark silhouettes of the tents. Then she froze, listening to the beautiful sounds – still no real melody – and enjoying the feeling of peaceful invisible beauty echoing over the rough and unpredictable planes.

[Eshatoh]

After about ten minutes spent with his hands slowly caressing the mournful minor notes out of his flute, Eshatoh stopped. He was much calmer now and mostly focused on the music. Now would be as good of a time as any to start playing an actual song.

On a whim he chose one. It was entitled simply "The Spinning Song," a melody his father had written for a game the children played. It was a rather simple song to go with the simple game, the rules of which stated that you had to spin as fast as you could, and the last one standing won. The song was equally simple, at least in its sound, and involved quick trills ascending up the G scale.

Actually playing it was a bit harder as the fingering involved quick repeated switches most of which the trill hole couldn't be used for, and it wasn't a song Eshatoh practiced regularly. At first he missed at least one note in each ascension, but finally in exasperation he slowed it down to practice, and the memories overtook him.

They were camped at an oasis near the coast in Northwestern Eyktol, and had remained there a few days. It was a fairly well-known and popular spot, but, strangely, the Chaktawe had been the only sentients visiting it for the week they had stayed. While other people had been scarce, animals definitely hadn't, and the Chaktawe had enjoyed a rare time of plenty.

Because of this the children of the tribe had enjoyed a break with even less duties than their usual allocation. They had the entire time just playing games. Some parents had disapproved and found busy-work for their children to do, but others, like Eshatoh's father, had found themselves with as little to do as the children and so had joined them in their fun and games.

On one of the last days of the tribes stay, Eshatoh, then called Nehaupar, had been playing the Spinning Game with a group of other children when Prakne, Nehaupar's father, had happened upon them. With nothing better to do, Prakne had sat down cross-legged in the sand, keenly watching his son at his play.

Nehaupar didn't even notice, so dizzy was he. He was one of the last two standing and was absolutely intent on winning. Sadly, that didn't happen, as a series of bright happy trills interrupted his concentration and he fell to the ground at the exact same moment as his opponent. His father had composed a song perfectly suited to the game, and for the rest of his life children clamored for him to play it for them.

At some point in the memory, Eshatoh had stopped playing his flute. Instead, he sat with the comforting weight of the keerdash tree at his back, staring at the stars—watching the world revolve through dry eyes.

[Malia]

While listening to the first song the person produced Malia forgot everything she didn’t know about him. It was insignificant, all that counted was the music and the images it produced. Images of a fast, spinning movement, of happiness and cheerful days in the sun. She almost saw Eshatoh’s memories, transmitted through the mere sound.

Suddenly the melody stopped. Silence was filling the air, silence and tension. Again Malia asked herself whether she should approach the person or not. He seemed to be lost in his own important thoughts, and she didn’t want to shock him by disturbing that moment of silence.

However, while she usually was patient to a fault, there was one thing that intrigued her: foreign cultures and mindsets. On the one hand she was eager to speak with that guy, to find out why he was sitting there, what kind of problem he pondered on – on the other hand she feared that an approaching Nuit could possibly frighten or even enrage him. After all, she didn’t know anything about how his people viewed the undead.

But although she knew what she was and how some people reacted to that, she couldn’t help but show herself to him. After about ten minutes, her silhouette left the tents and got visible enough for him to realize what she was. Almost without any noise, she halted in front of him. Silence was still dominating the atmosphere while Malia gave him time to get used to her and tried to find the right words at the same time. Pitch-black eyes were staring into his.

Eventually she sat down. “Greetings. My name is Malia. I mean no harm and I hope neither do you.” Then she waited, curiously inspecting his appearance and observing his reaction.

[Eshatoh]

Even with the motion-sensing freckles on his fingers, Eshatoh didn’t detect the Nuit’s approach, so entranced by the eternal dance of the heavens and his own dark thoughts. Even as she stood before him in plain sight, it took Eshatoh a moment to recognize that he had a visitor. Even the realization couldn’t pull Eshatoh’s thoughts from the pit of memories they had wandered into.

Eshatoh lay on the ground beneath his father’s tent, quietly crying beneath his blanket. Seconds before he had been surrounded by Tsana, and as he awoke, one had been chewing on his leg as the rest slowly closed in around him. He knew it was just a dream, but it seemed so real and frightening.

And then his mother was above him, quietly making clucking noises in her throat and brushing the hair away from his face. Softly, gently, she had comforted her son, “It was only a dream, little one. Just a web of shadows. Come now, Makutsi wouldn’t want you wasting her gift on a spinning of your imagination. Come now, my son…” She continued this gentle rolling speech as Eshatoh hesitantly stopped crying and then slowly drifted back to sleep.

Eshatoh finally took notice of his visitor as she dropped to the ground and started speaking, “Greetings. My name is Malia. I mean no harm and I hope neither do you,” she said as he began studying her. Black eyes met black eyes and even under the shelter of moonlight, Eshatoh knew what he was looking at.

Courteously, he greeted her, “May Eywaat grant your travels wings, and Makutsi shower you with blessings.” For what was a Chaktawe without his courtesy, even to one such as her? “I am Eshatoh. Tell me, spawn of Uldr’s dark magic, have you come to make me join them?” The words came out in a flat monotone, completely devoid of emotions. It matched entirely his face. He knew that he was ignoring entirely the thing’s own words, but could an undead creature be trusted? Weren’t they all after nothing more than taking your life from you to fill some sort of void in their own? That’s what every story he had ever heard said, anyways, and faced with the strangely misshapen face of the perhaps once beautiful girl in front of him, he was inclined to believe those stories.

In his dark mood, he didn’t make any move to defend himself, though a razor sharp knife was thrust through his belt within easy reach. With the melancholy that had overtaken him, he cared very little whether he died or stayed alive. At that moment, neither option seemed more appealing than the other.

[Malia]

OOCI'm sorry! Changed the last two posts.

When the person eventually recognized her and started returning her greetings in his own manner of speech, Malia immediately knew what he saw in her. A creature lesser than human, a hollow shell searching for a soul that could fill her. A myth, protagonist of many fairytales, antagonist of many other, she supposed. She had come across people with similar beliefs before, so it wasn’t difficult for her to notice the first symptoms.

Partly amused, partly annoyed, she replied: “I haven’t come to the desert to satisfy some primitive and senseless thirst for revenge, if it’s that what you mean. Instead I am a sentient and cultivated being just as you are. Well, at least I know that I have not yet gone mad.” Allowing herself to show a slight grin, she enjoyed the black humor that was conveyed in her voice.

Although she assumed that the Chaktawe – as his dark fingertips indicated – were a tribe with many fairytales and deep religious beliefs, she simply didn’t understand how someone could seriously see her as a threat. Nuit didn’t even possess enough power to kill humans with bare hands, let alone the far more enduring and strong desert tribes. It was a ridiculous idea: Her coming to perform the Daek-Nuit at him! Yes, she almost laughed about that.

However, she behaved herself and stayed calm. Apart from that misconception, Eshatoh really intrigued her. His expression or rather the lack thereof matched her own, his eyes were as empty as hers. What had happened to him? Having never met someone who was so detached from the world around him, she was interested in what kind of story he carried with him. However, first she had to persuade him that she by no means wanted to kill him.

Remembering the beautiful sound he had just produced and eyeing his flute, she stated: “What you played was very beautiful. I never really enjoyed music, but at such a lonely place it makes me feel connected to you, your tribe, your culture … Is it common for Chaktawe to play instruments?”

[Eshatoh]

“Primitive… Revenge… Sentient… Cultivated…” All of these were words that Eshatoh didn’t understand, speaking in the common tongue as they were. It wasn’t any lack of fluency on his part that caused this. On the contrary, most Suli were very fluent in common, learning from the Eypharians. The Chaktawe just didn’t have much use for those particular words. However, even without understanding every word of her speech, Malia’s sharp tone was clear enough for him to realize his mistake. His assumption had been rather silly to begin with. After all, did the undead from the stories ever even bother to greet their victims before consuming them? No, this Malia was definitely of another breed. What breed was that, though, and where had they come from? For the first time, a glint of curiosity and interest began to show in his eyes.

Before he could apologize or ask a question, though, his guest spoke again. “What you played was very beautiful. I never really enjoyed music, but at such a lonely place it makes me feel connected to you, your tribe, your culture… Is it common for Chaktawe to play instruments?”

Those were words that Eshatoh understood except for perhaps “culture,” but the music Eshatoh had played made him feel connected. The connection he felt, though, was to something completely different. The notes he had played and even the flute he had blown across were connections to memories—memories that it was unhealthy for him to dwell on as often as he did. This undead had broken him out of the spell of gloom that he had been under simply by existing and awakening his curiousity, and Eshatoh wasn’t going to squander that gift by immediately delving into a topic so tied to the source of his sadness. After all, talking about something couldn’t make it go away or even feel better, could it? Wasn’t that why the Chaktawe were so quiet in the suffering the Valterrian had caused them? Or had they discovered something that Eshatoh had yet to learn?

After a long pause as he thought her words through, Eshatoh carefully replied, “Among my people, when two sit to talk, first they share food and water. I have no food with me, but my skin still holds a little water.” The custom wasn’t nearly as ritualistic as Eshatoh’s words made it seem, and it certainly wasn’t a prerequisite to conversation, but he needed a moment to collect his thoughts and decide what to tell Malia. Carefully, he untied the skin from its place at his waist and held it out to her.

[Malia]

The Chaktawe still seemed a bit lost in thought, and Malia could understand that. After all, she had been in this state for countless times herself, hiding in her small apartment in Syliras or strolling through the wilderness outside the city, isolating herself from her Master in previous centuries. She needed time away from the crowd. Tanroa was very generous with the Nuit, true, but also incredibly cruel for detaching them from the rest of Mizahar’s population. There was nobody who really understood the Nuits’ inner conflict. With the centuries, however, Malia had grown fond with discovering people who could at least partly understand her. Those were the only mortals she actually enjoyed talking with.

Eshatoh seemed to be one of them, although she still couldn’t tell for sure. The start had been odd, but he seemed to regret that since he hadn’t run away or attacked her yet.

Instead, he spoke again, polite, but by no means hollow phrases. Considering the situation, his offer was a proof that he trusted her and saw her as a person. A proof that he had thought his behavior over and came to the conclusion that it had been wrong. Good, good, Malia thought. Although this one still had to learn quite a few things, he already knew how to apologize. Suddenly the corners of her lips pointed upward – a relieved smile started to form.

However, then she thought about his offer. Drink, for a Nuit? Apparently the Chaktawe hadn’t had much contact with Nuit before, not recently anyway. What should she do? Still hesitating, she took the skin. That was a beginning, although she did nothing more but staring at the soft ground then. After a while she lightly shook her head and placed the skin in front of him. “I really respect your offer, but I’m afraid I’m not able to return it. Undead neither drink nor eat. Water must be very precious in the desert, so please save it for yourself.”

As some kind of apologize, she held her right hand out instead. “I can offer a handshake instead, though. Where I live, people who meet shake hands to indicate that they won’t harm each other.” Curiously eyeing the Chaktawe, she wondered whether she would accept her gesture. Exchanging customs seemed to be a first step of peaceful interaction, after all.

[Eshatoh]

OOCSo sorry for the long delay. Life's been hectic since the New Year.

Eshatoh watched Malia’s reaction without even really seeing it. He was still pondering how to answer her question. He could give her the short answer and simply say that music wasn’t a large part of most Chaktawe’s life, and that his enjoyment of it was a strange quirk, but that wasn’t completely true besides the fact that it would be discourteous to treat someone in such short manner.

Meanwhile, Malia had taken the water skin but, oddly enough, wasn’t drinking from it. Instead, she was staring at the sand they sat on, apparently as lost in thought as Eshatoh. He wondered again what her story was, and then she gave him another piece of it, however small. “I really respect your offer, but I’m afraid I’m not able to return it. Undead neither drink nor eat. Water must be very precious in the desert, so please save it for yourself. I can offer a handshake instead, though. Where I live, people who meet shake hands to indicate that they won’t harm each other.”

What exactly were the undead? What did that term even mean? He had always associated it with the soulless creatures of fables and often, to be honest, hadn’t even credited the existence of these things known as undead. No water… What was she?

Hesitantly, he took her hand gently, and after carefully shaking it from side to side for the barest moment he released. Her skin had a cold clammy feel that startled him into releasing before he probably should have, and he regretted it almost immediately afterward. Contact with anyone outside of the Chaktawe tribes was extremely rare for him—even more so when the person he was in contact with didn’t even come from the dessert—and it showed.

Apologetically, he gave a small half-smile. It was an expression that never reached his eyes. It was in the moments after that handshake that Eshatoh realized how awkward this was becoming. “I… I…” he began, trying to salvage the conversation. It trailed off into nothing as Eshatoh realized that he had nothing to say.

Calming himself, he shut his eyes and refocused on the situation at hand. It was really no different than hunting—no, that was a terrible analogy. The truth was that conversation was unlike anything Eshatoh had done before, sad as that seemed. Thinking back, he had isolated himself from conversation even among the youths of his own… No, he had to stay focused on the situation.

Eyes still closed, Eshatoh began blowing across his flute almost subconsciously.A melody slowly emerged, one of Eshatoh's own making. It was slow, thoughtful, and meditative, completely matching the mood he was himself trying to attain. Realizing what he was doing, Eshatoh chose to the let the melody continue, and it stretched on for about thirty seconds before coming to a dead stop in the middle of a note.

Somehow, the music had helped Eshatoh come to a decision, one he couldn't rationalize or explain. Maybe this girl, this undead, wouldn't even want to hear, but maybe, just maybe, telling her would somehow help with the pain. It ran contrary to his every instinct, but tonight seemed like a night for impulse. In fact with his strange visitor, the night didn't seem altogether real.

He looked up from the sand he had been staring at into Malia's eyes and said in the same flat monotone he had used earlier, "I'll answer your question if you like, but I must warn you, it touches on nearly my entire life and in a way on the history of my people, too. It will be a long story, and I'm in no way a good story teller. Do you still want to hear?" His eyes stared into hers, trying to cut through the death-like glaze and read what the person underneath was thinking. His dry eyes stared into her dead ones.

OOCIt really will be a long story. I'm using this as a kind of intro for my character. I plan on breaking it up into several smaller posts so that Malia can react and ask questions if she likes. Sound good?