Chambers of the God-King - Atesh-Gah - Haven:
     The word 'sumptuous' would be a marked understatement for this room. It is divided into two semi-circles, and one may note the resemblance to the infinity symbol. Red jade composes the walls, ceilings and floor--an extremely rare and gorgeous jade whose crimson surface almost glows with a brightness of its own. Light and warmth are provided by perfumed oil lamps cunningly hidden in gold shells as large as urns, their sides cut into delicate filigree. A huge divan swathed in satin and piled with pillows dominates the first half of the room; and before it stands a long, low table, top with gold. Three armchairs complement the divan, each cloaked in matching satin. Within easy range of the seats is an ivory cabinet holding crystal wine decanters. The floor has been softened by several layers of rugs, the uppermost casting a solid sweep of crimson against the predominant blue of the furniture and the canary drapes that cover the windows.
     The second half of the room serves as sleeping chambers. A massive, four-poster bed engulfs the center of the room, covered with silks, satins and pillows of the finest material. An ornate washstand and basin fill one niche of the room, while an inset tub occupies the other. Both rooms are lined with tapestries on the walls that depict the god-king in all his immortal glory.

Upon entering the room, Khalid murmurs to the guards stationed outside of his chamber. "We are not to be disturbed." The commander of the Agni-Haidar sets off a sharp salute, as the doors are closed. Turning back to you, he smiles a little and motions, "Please sit as you would, Damaris."

Damaris steps into the room with only the slightest of hesitations, her nostrils flickering at the fragrant smell from the oil lamps. Her already-light steps fall silently on the rugs as she follows you further into the room, investigating closely the sumptuous fineries and artifacts. She flexes her wings once more at your words, murmuring, "My thanks, Khalid," and selects a chair near the divan.

"Your choice of pleasures, Damaris?" Khalid redirects his own steps towards the cabinet and he captures an ebony tray, upon which to set a variety of objects. First to be assembled is a pair of crystal glasses and a decanter of ambrosia.

Damaris smoothes the pale folds of her toga against the rich satin of the chair, and leans forward a bit to see what you've got prepared. She chuckles. "Ambrosia will be fine, Khalid. I already treated myself to the Varati red at breakfast." As you make the tray, her gaze returns to the second half of the room, squinting a bit to make out the tapestries.

Damaris smiles slightly. "I'd find it eerie to be surrounded by representations of myself...I'd probably present such tapestries to my family, so they think I'm always watching them." She chuckles.

"Anything else?" Khalid delivers a bowl of fruits to the ensemble, before glancing over his shoulder towards you. His lips are still curved into that faint smile of his.

Damaris shakes her head slightly. "Nothing else, Khalid. Except talk." She smiles.

Blue eyes take in the tapestries before Khalid murmurs, "Appearances, Damaris. Appearances must always be upheld." He crosses the brief distance between his current position and the divan, before he sets the tray upon the table. "It also reminds me of things I should never forget." Interestingly enough, upon the tray is a small 'folder' of sorts.

Damaris seems to find nothing unusual in the sight of the god-king of the Varati serving her, a woman, but as you set down the tray she takes the duty of pouring ambrosia into both goblets. Her eyes flicker to the folder. "Ah, you do have much to discuss," she murmurs as she pours, having taken the folder to be filled with notes. She holds a goblet out to you. "What must you never forget, Khalid?"

Taking the goblet from your hands, Khalid's gaze matches your own as he whispers, "My past. My past, Damaris. The road was long and hard and there were sacrifices made by myself and others I can never forget." He settles into the divan, with a brief flap of his wings, before he motions to the folder. "Please. Have a look." His offhand goes to the hilt of his main blade, which he draws from his sash and sets aside. Soon follows both the dagger and whip.

Damaris murmurs, "The most grueling pasts lead to the most honor-worthy futures." Her eyes flicker to your hand as you disarm yourself, her attention pausing momentarily on the whip--a hint of fear, perhaps? What type of man is she dealing with? Her eyes return to yours, then perhaps with a mental shrug she takes a sip of ambrosia and flips open the folder carefully.

"You do not like the whip, do you?" Khalid's eyes track your own facial expression with acute interest as he raises the glass to his lips. He takes a slow, languid sip as he murmurs, "Perhaps they do. As long as one is not entrenched in the past. I must balance my passions." There is an emphasis on the last word as he speaks. Glancing, yet again to the folder, he queries, "What do you think?"

Within the folder are several sets of charcoal drawings. Each of them are done fairly well, and each of them are of you. Taken of your times within Haven, they portray you in various activities on the streets of the city or within the Pantheon. But perhaps the most striking of them all is one of you on the wyvern queen, held by Khalid, with this graceful if determined expression upon your face. Apparently done in secret by someone during your first encounter with the god-king.

Damaris takes another drink of ambrosia as she flips slowly, steadily through the skilled charcoals. She makes no comment for a long while, not answering you, not looking at you as she examines her own presence in the drawings. Her grip on her goblet remains light, and no flush rises to her cheeks--but perhaps she struggles to maintain the calm facade, collecting her thoughts. "You've kept one artist busy," is all she can come up with at first. She turns her grey eyes finally up to yours. "The one of the wyvern is lovely. He...or she...captured the creature well. He captured me well, too...so many times. Why, Khalid?" Her tone is not angry or petulant, or even disturbed--but quietly intense.

There is no immediate response to the question posed of the Varati god-king. Instead, Khalid attempts to compose his thoughts as he draws heavily of the ambrosia, finishing off a good two-thirds of the light, fruity drink. Setting down the crystal, he turns his regard upon you and when he speaks, it is with great animation and vigor, "I am old, Damaris. So very old. Older than sin, younger than creation. And in the millennia that pass, I have seen so very many things. But few things ever truly strike me; few things ever truly draw me to them. My mother, rising in the morning, never fails to capture my awe. My father, shining in his glory, always enraptures me. But few mortals." Brushing back some hair from his forehead, he pauses for a moment. "I first saw you when you were a child. I am not sure who was escorting you--perhaps your mother. It was on the streets of Haven. I believe you were being shown the city, to further your education. I was struck immediately, however, by your glorious silver hair. And your large, innocent and ever-so-thoughtful grey eyes." He allows himself an inward smile. "You had a quiet strength and from that day, my attentions you always had."

Damaris watches you, entranced, as you speak--her pupils widening in her grey eyes, her expression bordering on that of a doe caught in the light of torches, but not quite. Your words startle, but do not inspire fear. She finishes off her own goblet of ambrosia, and reaches habitually for the decanter, splashing more into her goblet but letting it sit on the table. "It...would have been my Aunt Beryl I was with; Mother preferred the cloud-pale comforts of the Civitas Dei. But Beryl; she taught me to appreciate people of all races, to listen to them and their learning..." she smiles faintly at you. "She was right; I've learned much from you already, Khalid," she murmurs on an aside. "Anyway, that is why there are so many drawings of me walking through the streets, rather than soaring remotely overhead. It is why I avoid being heavily guarded." Her voice trails off, and she leans over to trail a finger thoughtfully along the rim of her goblet. "I...am constantly stunned by the illogic of immortality on earth, but I believe in yours, Khalid. Why do you even bother with mortals? What keeps you going?"

"I watched you grow, from child to young lady to woman. What I see before me is mortality at its finest--my mother's flesh and blood rival. The rising of the moon upon the troubled skies. You are a light that dares pierce the darkness." Khalid speaks, for a few moments, as if he has not heard your own reply. But then he listens and he listens with grave intensity; blue eyes close as he follows your words, the pattern of your voice, with untroubled attention. Finally, he murmurs, "There are so many reasons, Damaris. So many. The war is here. And it is upon us. And it involves mortals--I do not lie." He inhales deeply, as if breathing in the fierce perfumes of the oils, "And because mortality is so very beautiful to me, at times. It is a bright flame, for it burns so briefly."

Damaris turns away, gazing at the tapestries pensively. "I feel futile sometimes, when I think of your immortality. Those who argue against the peace ask me why it matters to you; they say, 'All Khalid Atar has to do is wait. The Empyreans are mortal.' All I can do is say that I don't know, and then I go and ponder my own eventual demise. I'm nearly halfway there, you know. And what will I have done that counts in a world that goes on?" she sighs, picking up her goblet again. "Do we sadden you ever, Khalid? When our flames burn out?"

The question appears to have hit Khalid harder than perhaps you would have expected. The god-king almost flinches, as you speak. Great, ebony wings extend as he draws himself out of the divan. Turning away from you, he whispers, "Yes, Damaris. Yes, you sadden me."

Damaris gazes at you as you turn away, her goblet pausing on its way to her lips as you flinch. She lowers it again to her lap, cradling it in her palms, nodding slowly. Her own voice is very soft, almost choked as she admits, "Your sadness is a comfort to me. It means that we do matter. Despite the grand doings of the gods, we matter." She looks again at the charcoals slightly strewn from the portfolio, and gazes intently at herself for a long moment--at her character, her eyes. Then she quietly closes the folder.

Pacing across the carpets, Khalid finds himself before his own tapestries. He extends a finger as he traces the outline of someone portrayed upon the cloth. Slender black brows are furrowed, tight and troubled, as he cants his head once more, to regard you, "It is unfortunate that you only find comfort in my sadness, Damaris." There is almost a trace of bitterness in his tone, yet it is not directed at you, best that you can tell.

Damaris settles back in her chair, studying you as you study the fine woven images. "We all want to be mourned, Khalid. To be remembered," she says quietly. "Life is worthwhile if you know you've made a difference in another's life. But...the question is the purpose of mortal existence in its entirety. We build stones up, we knock the buildings down, we plant fields here and there, we have babies and kill our peers. Little changes, but what does it matter to time aeternam?" She shrugs slightly. "But we matter," she repeats, "to those who exist in aeternam."

Damaris smiles slightly. "And that is enough purpose, for me, for now."

Brushing aside your previous statements, Khalid's body pivots so that he fully faces you. His scrutiny is intense and unyielding as he questions, "Have you ever loved, Damaris? A man? No, I understand you will not marry. And I understand why. But have you loved. In a physical sense? In an emotional sense? In a spiritual sense?" The Varati god-king's words are almost fierce in nature.

Damaris' eyes widen, and her back straightens out of the chair, her wings flexing in surprise at these seemingly irrelevant questions that assault her. She closes her eyes as you fire the inquiries at her, her expression immobile as a marble statue of a Greek goddess. "I have loved," is all she says, slowly, before opening her eyes to stare at you. She specifies no more, and her tone becomes weary. "Do not think you are the first to throw these questions at me, and I know you will not be the last. But why do the answers matter to you, Khalid?"

"I wished to see your mortality." The words are spoken almost immediately, but they are not spoken unkindly. Truth be told, there is a softness, a gentleness to his speech. The flames of Khalid's eyes diminish, a bit, upon your answer. At least the fierceness does, though his appreciation for you does not dwindle in the least. Stepping forward until he is once more before you, he murmurs, "I am sorry, Damaris. For such troubling discussion. Perhaps I should let you leave?" He offers his hand to you.

Damaris brushes aside the apology physically with a slight shake of her head and a murmur, "No apologies, Khalid. I prefer frankness to obsequiousness, always. More expedient." She has been staring at the tapestries again, as if to escape the encounter, but at her words she looks up to you, smiling faintly, her ruffled feathers smoothed in the figurative sense. "I shall leave now, if only to think--as troubling discussions are the most worthy of it. But..." she takes your hand steadily as she rises, and holds in momentarily in hers as she looks into your eyes. "Tell me, if you mean that you have never loved...in which case it is I who will be saddened for you." Her words are quiet, but huskily intense now.

Khalid takes your hand in his own and holds it longer than necessary. Holding your gaze steadily, his long, fine fingers gently stroke the smooth softness of your skin. Then he raises your hand to his slightly parted lips and places a tender kiss upon your knuckles as he murmurs, "I have never loved that which I could have." It is all that is said as he leads you to the door.

Damaris watches the kiss, a faint hint of a smile brushing her own lips but quickly gone. A smile of physical pleasure, perhaps, or of understanding. But she says nothing to your last words, merely accompanies you to the door of your chambers, her toga flowing with soft silken sounds behind her.

Damaris departs the king's sumptuous chambers and emerges into the hall beyond.

FIN  

[ Home | News | Staff | Players | Links | Gallery | Logs | Library | Updates | Mail ]
[ Connect to the Game ]