Date: November 20, 2001 (Aether: April 1, 3909)
Place: Palisade and Border - Haven
Cast: Babadur, Khadija, Saadiya, Shihab (emits)
Scene: Clan Messala has a new leader, but some of its members are not too pleased, and they try to take their vengeance on the new warlord's mahisi in an unexpected ambush.

Palisade and Border - Haven:
      Stone pervades the northwest edge of the city, starting from the ground up. The road is paved in all manner of rocks and pebbles, forming a subtle mosaic pattern of shapes and colors. The buildings are predominantly stone as well, with a few exceptions toward the southern end of the street, where wooden structures cling stubbornly like the ever-present weeds struggling up through cracks in the cobblestones. But stone is the overpowering element, just as those who shape and craft it dominate this section of the city. The ringing of hammers and the whiff of smoke in the air are familiar features, growing more pronounced as you head east. Here at the edge though, there is still diversity, and the occasional splash of green from some private garden nestled amid this wilderness of stone proves that it is not entirely Varati territory after all.

The weather is clear. Amazingly, astonishingly, wondrously so, for the past week has seen little beyond rain and the most penetrating of winds. But with the temperature bolstered by a recent arrival of warmth and a more substantial slice of spring, the denizens of Haven have begun to emerge with greater frequency. Empyreans, Varati, mongrels, halfbreeds, even the occasional Sylvan and Atlantean can be seen along the streets. But this close to the Atesh-Gah, the density of Khalid's followers and those who serve them is substantial. Thus one would think little on yet another pair of Varati venturing from the south, a well-attired woman and her guard, laden with purchases from the Rialto.

Yet this female, veiled, lightly scented in jasmine, with her painted hands and colorful sari, shows soon to be a woman of substance. A kshatri, from the look of the gem sparkling in her forehead and the quality of gold in her bracelets. No airs accompany her, however, and while the subdued wealth she (or her husband or master or father) wields may arrest the occasional glance, so quiet a presence is unobtrusive at best. Likely the same cannot be said for the man at her side.

The male Varati strides solidly along with the female, and his steps are paced to the female walk. His eyes search the surroundings, settling upon all with equal suspicion (perhaps the suspicion seems a bit more equal when applied to Empyreans). One hand rests lightly upon his belted scimitar, but another carries a package, which he glances at with mild annoyance leaking past his stoic visage. Soft mutterings occasionally escape his lips, but only the female would be likely to hear such commentary as he seems to cast out.

The streets of Haven are rarely home to complete peace given the uneasy proximity of race to race. This day is no exception, for it is here, on a street normally well-patrolled by the elite Agni-Haidar that the quiet is broken with the first skirmish in a battle of unknown proportions begins. There have been rumors and rumors in the scented halls of Atesh-Gah that Shihab ibn'Husam Messala sits upon shaky ground even though the Amir-al has confirmed him in the position he took by right of arms and proof in battle. This is never enough for some, especially those who would test his mettle. Or those who seek to place blame for his predecessor's mysteriously convenient disappearance upon him.

On stealthy feet, with dishonorable intent, three men break from the places in which they wait, moving to block the paths of those from Clan Messala. The Warlord's newly-made mahisi and her trusted escort for such is this woman of substance and such is the man with her. Faces hid behind masks of silk and wool, their height enough to make them Varati or a mix thereof. This is all that can be seen before blades are drawn. No bloodcurdling cries are hurled in challenge, for such would draw the Agni-Haidar quickly to the scene. Instead, they hurl themselves forward at woman and man in a silence so profound it is as if their tongues had been removed.

The street clears quickly of casual traffic. Some hasten away, others watch from doorways quickly procured with rounded eyes. No one interferes with this challenge, for such it would seem to be. No one rushes to find the ever vigilant warriors who patrol leaving one Varati male to meet the blades of three. Their purpose not only to cut him down, but the veiled beauty he protects as well. It is fortunate they do not move as one for there would be little left. Each seeks to attain the glory for himself, and they become almost more of a hindrance to each other than a help. Two blades flash, narrowly missing masked allies. Their recovery time is slow. The third aims straight and true for the hapless escort, Babadur.

It is at this moment that a lone and humble woman travels along the street, unaware of the danger, her mind preoccupied with the shopping she just completed in the Rialto. A basket is on her arm, and her head is down while she mentally calculates the price of bread versus how many loaves she received. Did she get cheated? She is so lost in thought that it isn't until she's well along the street that she happens to glance up and catch sight of a trio of figures rushing forward to attack another pair.

The basket falls from slack hands, loaves of bread flung forgotten into the dirt, and Saadiya watches in horror.

Babadur drops his package in an instant even as his sword flicks out with as much speed as he possesses, fast enough at the very least to defend his companion from any harm. Quickly he steps between the mahisi and these vile attackers, who have not the honor to show their faces or declare their true colors! A furious, inchoate bellow of anger rises from the kshatri warrior as he raises his unarmed limb to clout an evil one if indeed an opportunity presents itself.

But the package has made this action not the well-rehearsed one it must otherwise have been, and thus the blow of the third slices across the unarmed limb without resistance, though Babadur does not pause a single moment, charging into the group, swinging his scimitar with enough force to smite it out of the hand of his attacker, clouting him with a fist the size of a small ham, and knocking him into one of the less agile of his enemies. His eyes glow with fanatic fervor and again he bellows, not caring if he draws attention...

The scimitar swings again, testing its own sharpness against another attacker's ribs and making the hissing sound of victory. Unfortunately it is not quite victorious enough, as the desire to kill his enemies competes with the bloody rill rushing down his wounded arm. He seems not to care, continuing his offense, and using his size to great effect. A wounded bull would be no more dangerous.

The fact that she stumbles backwards, admittedly without grace, will perhaps be a fortunate happenstance on recollection, for Khadija trips on the hasty backward movement and, perhaps, in the blood at her feet. Landing on her posterior on the pavement thus removes her immediately from the danger of the scimitars slicing through air and flesh above her. But as she makes her unexpected and inelegant retreat, the concubine releases a shrieking scream of alarm, to request help and proclaim to any nearby that something horrible is transpiring. It is the universal cry for help from a woman.

Khadija's piercing scream is enough to cause those watching to cover their ears were it not outwailed by Babadur's own yells. The cacophony is surely enough to bring the Agni-Haidar to the street, and these dishonorable ruffians realize this. Wounded, limping, nearly falling over each other, they turn tail and flee splitting into three separate directions before the Black Guard can put an end to them for true. They are not, it would seem, fanatically dedicated enough to commit to their own worthless demise. Throughout the attempted assassinations, no penetration of their disguise was successful.

The ironshod feet of the Agni-Haidar on patrol sound not bare moments later. Destiny, for this moment, favors the cowardly ones for not even a blood trail marks their exit once they are out of sight. The pointing fingers of those in the crowd, which go in more directions than the ones taken by the attackers, just add to the confusion as people step out of their watching positions tentatively keeping well out of the Guard's way. As the Messala clansman is still standing, the Agni-Haidar opt for picking up the trail of those who would dare this in the streets so near Atesh-Gah.

Oddly, it is with Khadija's screams that Saadiya snaps out of the paralysis that had held her. While chaos ensues, and men and women run hither and yon, excitedly telling their version of what they saw, the humble Varati woman collects herself, hauls in a fortifying breath, and then wades forward toward the pair who'd been attacked. She leans down, soft, smooth brown hands settling upon Khadija's shoulders as she asks the woman, "Are you hurt?"

Still bleeding, with disappointment at the lack of bodies in the streets, Babadur snarls at anyone who comes ere too close to those of Messala. He glances at the woman leaning toward the mahisi and scowls... and blinks a bit, looking at his arm. Satisfied no one else approaches, he replaces his scimitar, pulls his sash and begins a fumbling attempt to staunch his own wound... and wavers slightly. He seems satisfied that the woman is not an assassin of any sort, though at this point he would most likely be satisfied that the dog poking its head from an alley is a duck.

With nerves appreciably on edge, Khadija screams again when Saadiya comes closer and touches, but hurriedly she realizes the error and, with reasonable grace, stammers, "No, I am...I am fine, thank you, Imphada," before her eyes fall on the man who was guarding her. "Babadur, you bleed?"

The word 'bleed' catches Saadiya's attention, after she has satisfied herself that Khadija is, as she says, fine. Dark eyes lift to fix on the behemoth of a man who'd been guarding the fallen imphada, and then, heart in her throat, the humble vaisya woman approaches. "Imphadi," she manages, striving for calm, "you are wounded. Will you allow me to help you?"

Babadur dispenses with formalities, as he retains at least enough sense to ask the obvious. "Are you a healer?" He looks at her suspiciously, but without the energy to pursue such thoughts much farther. It is all he can do to remain standing, but he holds his arm out without further ado, pulling the pulling the sash off his arm to display the bloody wound.

Khadija is no healer, judging from the rapidity with which the color leaves what can be seen of her features. "Amir-al..." she breathes in a half-prayer, moving closer like a moth drawn to flame. "I am so sorry, Babadur, that you have suffered this...."

"I am a healer," Saadiya confirms, and while the Black Guard chase down the perpetrators and various witnesses stand gabbling over what they saw, excited voices rising to fever pitch, she gathers calm around her like a shroud, until it radiates from her much like the webs of magic she wields.

Tentatively, she lifts her hands toward Babadur's wounded arm, glancing once up at his face for confirmation. "I cannot mend you," she tells him quietly, "but I can ease your pain. If you will allow it."

Babadur furrows his brow at her statement, as if to consider such things are almost within his grasp. "I allow it," he says brusquely, though he does not allow any sign of other than such things are beneath his notice to penetrate the mask he has retained so firmly upon his features.

Standing unsteadily, Khadija moves nearer to this vaisya woman and her own guard, worry written across her countenance for poor Babadur. She even dares to rest her hand on the uninjured arm of this man, clearly owing her safety to his quick action. He shall be a hero when her master hears of such later!

With the man's assent given, Saadiya lays her hands upon him, her fingers cool against that massive, muscled arm. She closes her eyes, swallows, and then lets the magic free.

It is nothing awesome to watch. Sluggishly, the wound stops bleeding, but there is no miraculous re-knitting of flesh. For Babadur alone would the effects be felt. It is like cool, clear water upon a burn; snow smothering flame. Pain lessens, recedes, numbs, and though the injury will still need care and attention from one more skilled than she, the hurt is no more.

"I am sorry," Saadiya pants, letting her hands slide free. "I can do no more. But if you will let me tend to you, I can bind your wound and apply a poultice, and it will soon be as good as before."

Babadur looks almost disappointed at the part "where it will soon be as good as before", but the look is fleeting. He nods, accepting her aid as if accepting the shining the sun, and as clearly a bloody sash wound about with a single hand would not be the most graceful of bindings.

"I cannot know how to thank you," Khadija is saying as she looks at the woman's handiwork. "The Sirdar shall be grateful, I am certain, for this kindness." Then she reaches into a pouch for coins, it would seem, as a more formal and materialistic way to offer appreciation.

"Please, imphada," Saadiya protests as Khadija reaches into her pouch. "It is through Ushas and Atar that my gift flows. It is an homage to them that I use it, and nothing to be rewarded with coin." She smooths her sari, mentally and literally composing herself, and then she nods with her chin toward the distant gates of Atesh-Gah.

"I think, imphadi, that what you need now is rest. If you will allow me, I will see to your injury in comfort." Those dark eyes fix on Khadija, and though her manner is diffident, her tone is firm. "And you, imphada -- today has been an ordeal. You must be exhausted from it. Allow me to see to your well-being; it is the wish of Ushas."

Babadur's eyes flicker at the mention of Atar and His holy mother. "As God wills, so it shall be done." He turns and starts toward the home of his Clan in the city of Haven, ignoring now the curious stares that seem to be trailing back to their usual activities, babbling slowly dying down to a more normal level of muttering. He pauses to check on the mahisi and the Ushasti, making an almost successful attempt to appear alert. His size alone succeeds fairly well at the menacing part without any trying, and folk part before him like waves breaking at the bow of a ship.

"Babadur, a moment, please," calls the mahisi, wearily, as she stands before this woman of Ushas, gratitude and wonder in Khadija's gaze. "If you will see to me, that is well, but tell me of your name, that I may give it to my master? He shall, I am certain, desire to thank you for your kindness."

Babadur halts from courtesy to his mahisi.

"Saadiya Nimat al'Ghanim," the woman replies smoothly, with a bow of her head. "But ask your questions in the comfort of Atesh-Gah. I fear it is not safe here, and I will gladly answer anything else you may wish to know when we are all out of danger." She withdraws momentarily to retrieve her fallen basket -- the bread-loaves are a lost cause -- and then she motions onward toward Atesh-Gah, diffidently waiting until the kshatri woman and her bodyguard have gone ahead of her.

Again, Babadur's eyes flicker, this at the wisdom of the Ushasti's words. His eyes flicker down to the cursed package, now somewhat trampled by feet of various sizes. Stoic resignation is writ largely upon his face, but with no shudra conveniently about, retrieves it from its place upon the street (and if God were just, it would have had a place amongst the fallen), and continues.

FIN  

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