Date: February 17, 1999
Place: Throne Room - Atesh-Gah - Haven
Cast: Adham, Anubis (@emitting Imam), Arslan, Drisana, Hepzibah, Kiral, Kovar, Rabi, Rory, Shahar, Suri, Vayu, Zuhayr
Scene: Kiral, Foreign Minister of the Varati, and Shahar, Shakir of Clan Khalida, are joined together in matrimony.

Throne Room - Atesh-Gah - Haven:
      This massive rectangular area seem to rise forever; white polished marble catching the light that enters through the spacious windows on either side of the room and reflecting it throughout to dispel all shadow or gloom. The walls themselves are a work of art; the top half being the aforementioned stone, broken at mid-point by a border lovingly carved into an intricate design. Housed within the near foot-wide space is a pattern of interwoven bands of gold. The bottom half of the wall is sky-blue marble shot through with graceful swirls of cloudy white, once again giving way to pale marble for the few inches nearest the floor. Sturdy seats of golden-varnished wood, covered in cushions and upholstery of shimmering royal blue, are placed in orderly fashion at the sides of the room. Those who await the God-King's attention may rest as he attends matters of state.
      Dwarfing all is the raised dais of solid marble, upon which looms the throne of the God-King. A testimony to the art and craft of the Varati people, it practically shimmers in the resplendent light of the chamber, the same satiny hues of the royal blue upholstery surrounded by a detailed filigree of gold. There are two doorways in the room; the first, at the furthest end of the hall from the throne, leads to the foyer. The second is to the left of the dais.

Wedding scene:
      A long table draped with thick red wool has been set up before the throne, surrounded by four stone bowls which are held up by wisps of iron so slender they seem like decoration hardly able to carry their burden. Fires burn in these bowls, casting a merry, warm glow about them. Two larger braziers have been set up on either side of the throne and four Agni-Haidar are standing guard, two on either side, as if their God and Master were present in physical fact.
      There is a circle of tallow and rice, colored blue and red, drawn upon the bare stone floor before the altar, and one of the ephemeral iron stands has been set up within it. Its bowl, however, is sitting on the center of the altar, along with the other wedding regalia: a flint, a brass wick-float in the shape of the many-rayed sun, two oil-soaked wicks, a smaller bowl with kindling. On the left side of the altar are finely carved wooden stands inlaid with onyx, turquoise, brass, ivory, and twists of ruby so pure they must be Shaped -- ready to receive the bride-price.

"Well, I would not know of such things, but yes, it is good that it seems to be finally over." Kiral quiets down as more people begin to file into the throne room. He stands near Arslan and his guards. For this day, the Foreign Minister has none of the guards assigned to him by the Amir-al. Rather 'naked' all in all, one might say. A kite in the wind. His grey eyes wander over those who have entered and he dips his chin in a nod to Adham.

The priest arrives just before Shahar: a tall, slender man dressed in red so rich one might have thought have been dipped in the race's lifeblood. The edges are embroidered with pure gold, an abstract patterning of geometry which frame, in regular ranks, bright sunbursts. The weave of the cloth and the pattern bespeak of his rank as Imam of the Atarvani. He moves between the altar and throne, sinking down on his knees to pay homage to the chair of the God-King. Gracefully, he touches his forehead to his hands on the ground and prays for a silent moment before rising and, after taking three steps back, moving around to the front of the altar to face the congregation.

The women have separated themselves from the men and are quietly conversing together on one side of the hall. One woman has nothing to say: Rabi, dressed in her fine silks, bows her head in greeting to the women as they move past her, but of course remains silent. Drisana is at her side and Rabi's hand rests gently on the girl's shoulder.

Oh my. An Imam of the Atarvani. Vayu's moved back nearer the door now, away from the side of the room, and goodness does he watch that Imam with wide and very bright eyes. Then he sighs, and folds up his hands before him, as though his joy at seeing the Imam would best be left until after the ceremony.

Shahar enters with an odd attendant, the quiet and flower-laden Rory. Tall, dignified kshatri men encircle her, with two Agni-Haidar leading the procession -- like the other men, her brothers. Behind the bride, whose white-shrouded figure seems awash in solitude, appear servants of the family bearing coinage and silks: part of the bride-price. The eldest of the men stops near the circle and awaits Shahar's approach; the rest of the brothers fan out behind. The bride herself has eyes downcast in a modest, maidenly manner.

There is something fluid about the way the Imam moves -- he is not the solid, stony figure of the typical Varati. Rather, a deep inner serenity has pervaded him so deeply that he almost seems a dancer. He folds his hands before him, the sleeves of his robes slipping down to cover his fingers, and watches as the bride and her party approach.

The Pasha seems, as usual, unmoved by any of the entrants, including the Imam. But this surprises few, for most know the Pasha to be a man that would even speak his mind to the Khaliph and the Amir-al himself.

Guests mill, among them one Hadad, bedecked in the finest outfit he could scrounge up. Almost gaudy in his finery, the man beneath the clothing still wears it with pride, dignity making up for what his garments lack. And his breathing stops at sight of the bride.

Well, Kiral seems fairly cowed by the presence of the Imam. He forces himself to stand a bit straighter, at attention, as he scans the crowds once more. "Um, hm," he mumbles to himself. "Well...." he attempts to search for some words to speak to Arslan, then finally gives up by saying, "I guess I should be moving on now." He starts forward towards the altar. Only a few steps, however.

Laden? Rory is positively swamped. The naraki woman, in fact, could just be one gigantic bouquet herself, if it weren't for the brief peeks of veil and bright, lightning-stricken eyes that peer widely through the buttersoft petals. Unable to keep the array within her grasp, graceful flutterings of blossoms trail behind her.

Hepzibah is a quiet figure to the side, amethyst eyes watching with gentle good wishes over the edge of her violet veil. There is a soft whisper of cloth as she eases back a step to remain in the background.

The Pasha's eyes dart towards one of his guards. The guard returns the glance with a nod, and then moves to take Kiral's old place. His face is as stony as the Pasha's, and positively encourages people to move away from him.

Once in place, the Nayaka of Behzad doesn't move, arms folded over his armored chest, cloak hiding most his form. Back resting lightly against the wall behind him, the man's oddly colored eyes watch the proceedings, and he himself remains utterly silent.

The Imam unfolds his hands and, as the bride's family places its coffers of coins and bolts of cloth on the stands to the left of the altar, he inclines his head towards Kiral. He gestures, the motion framed by the slow sway of heavy red cloth, inviting the groom to enter the circle.

As she awaits the start of the ceremony and the end of her independence and unmarried state, Shahar maintains a demure, head-bowed posture and slants -- briefly -- her gaze toward Kiral. Then she again lowers her eyes and stands ready for the Imam's directions.

Kovar slips in at the very back of the crowd and hangs there, looking about curiously. Unlike hiding a needle in a haystack, the large smith does tend to stand out a bit. Clean body and clean clothes, he looks the picture of, well, a clean smith. It's the best he can do on his salary.

Hrm. Kiral looks to the left, then to right. Eventually he spies Shahar and his mouth widens just a tad. In satisfaction, perhaps? In any case, finally he looks forward and moves towards the circle. Careful not to disturb anything, he steps into it and holds his place.

There are others of the Agni-Haidar in attendance, of course, among them Zuhayr. All are at exceptional contrast today, silver shining brightly against depthless black, golden-pommeled falcares polished to a high-gloss shine. The ceremony is expected to do all who witness it honor, and no man wishes to be found lacking.

Hadad shifts about, almost knocking into a guard in his keen-eyed urgency to get a fairer view of the ceremony. Stubby legs working, he quickly backs away, distracted by the gleaming weaponry.

All the finery! All the prestige! Kaimakams, Nayaka, Shakirs... all who surround him, bedecked in finery and gold, appear as glorious birds with one ugly chick standing squarely in their middle; even the Atarvani wear finery to shame Vayu. But he stands with defiant chin and a half-smile of pleasure as he watches the filtering and shifting of the people within; his shoulders are squared with more pride, it seems, than any who stand near him. Yet the pride does not appear to be his in nature, as if his body were a vessel for the unearthly. His expression and manner of movement is consummately at peace and filled with humility. An odd duality in him.

The priest spreads his hands, palms upwards. "In the name of the Neverending Fire, the Divine Flame, Khalid Atar, blessings be to you, to your families--" the orientation of his hands change, palms out towards the attendants as if to pass along the received blessings to them "--that we come together to see this man accept into his household this woman as wife." He lowers his arms and turns towards the bride's family. "Lais Al-Jehan Khalida, what bring you to bear as gift of your household towards the household of Kiral?"

The warm evening light filters softly into the chamber from the windows set high up. The slanted beams cast a golden glow over all within as the sun makes ready to set on another day. Not even a single cloud dares to sully the occasion.

Lais, the eldest brother of the collection of men surrounding Shahar, makes his response in a bold voice, bowing to the Imam. "I, Lais Al-Jehan Khalida, have raised this woman to the will of the Atar and present her to you, Imphadi," this to Kiral, of course, "to govern and care for as you see fit. From my house to yours, if you will have her and the bride-price of one thousand panas and seventy-five bolts of finest silk... and the two dozen wyverns awaiting you in the stables."

That breaks the Pasha's stone face. He blinks slightly, then his lips curl upwards in a slight smile.

Puffing out his chest, a bit, Kiral stands firm. Perhaps not quite the shining image of the kshatri warrior class, for he has neither their grand build nor practiced grace. Yet, he is strong in his own way and his grey eyes call the attention of those who would notice. Sharp, eager eyes. Wetting his lips a little, he intones so very formally, "Your gifts please me, Lais Al-Jehan Khalida, and I accept." A smooth hand, one that has rarely known the feel of cold steel, extends towards Shahar. Inviting her forward into the circle.

Hadad sucks in a breath at the price. Visions dance within his head of such a sum. Jealousy almost lends a green cast to his brown flesh.

Shahar moves not a whit. Not a muscle. Not a lash. Until she is called for directly, until she is more than simply what her part of the clan presents to Kiral, she will remain innocuous... insofar as that is possible in her shimmering white attire and the diamonds twinkling in her veils. When Kiral offers his hand and the formal request to join him, she places her long fingers within his grasp and steps into the rice and tallow circle for the bride and groom alone.

Suri arrives late, having had to tend something, having left her normal gloves at home in exchange for a pair of elbow length wool gloves of a similar shade to her sari. Suri looks around, and, spotting Kovar at the back, slips along to his side.

The lightest of laughs graces the area by the doorway; it is unlikely the ethereal, consummately amused sound would be heard more than a few feet from the laugher, but for those that do hear... Vayu sounds downright scornful of the dowry, as if it were a mere joking formality.

That huge pile of flowers shivers slightly, shifting as the naraki beneath the heap attempts a better grasp without being crushed to death at such a celebration.

Still little more than a silent object of beauty, Hepzibah folds her dusky hands at her waist as she bears witness to this momentous event. The quiet joy she feels for the couple is still visible within her gentle eyes.

Kovar turns to smile at Suri as she comes to his side. His usual arm-folded position is broken as he drops one hand down to take hers. He lets his gaze linger on her eyes a moment and then turns back to the ceremony.

The Imam turns and picks up the bowl of oil. Leaning over but not entering the circle, he places the stone vessel within the airy grasp of the filigree iron stand. Once again, he returns to the altar to gather up the brass disc and one of the wicks. Slowly, with the measured grace of a lifetime of ritual, he pulls the wick almost all the way through the disc so that only a small bit remains nestled within the little sun's rays. He leans forward again to delicately float the disc on the surface of the oil. An array of stars glitter across his face, light bounced off of the disc's decorative engravings. And lastly he turns to retrieve the bowl of kindling and the flint. The former is handed across the circle to the bride. The latter is given to the groom.

"The brazier," says the Imam. "Is symbolic of your union: the bowl is empty without both oil and spark to light the way of the days before you. Hold the kindling, Shahar-who-would-be-wife; use steel and flint to begin a flame, Kiral-who-would-be-husband: together start the fire that is the soul of our people and the heart of your union."

Shahar places her hand as directed, a brief display of honey-gold skin where most is concealed in snowy white silk. Once she is ready, she glances at Kiral, peridot and gold irises unblinking and direct.

Drawing his keris with his free hand, Kiral exposes the naked blade to the light of the throne room as he eyes the brazier, almost warily. Tapping the steel against the slate, a couple of times until a spark is produced, the Minister leans forward and blows on the tiny flames, aiding in their birth and growth. The kindling takes to the fire and sheathing the keris once more, the Khalida clansman uses one of the longer strands so as to light the wick.

The silks of Rabi's veils shimmer ever so slightly as she lets out a soft sigh, wide eyes watching with rapt attention. Her gaze travels over the coffers and their promise of extravagant wealth; she looks at the rich cloth; she studies the clothing of the bride and of the bride's family. Such riches, in such a place as this -- the hall of the God-King. It all seems... surreal to her. The sound of metal dancing against stone captures her attention and she watches Kiral at his task of fire-making.

As the brazier is set aflame, the brothers step away, as if symbolically loosening their heretofore lifelong grasp on their sister. They linger nearby, close to the tables with the bride-price, but for all intents and purposes, Shahar is alone again, alone with her intended and the Imam set to wed them.

Suri watches the ceremony and, at something Kovar's whispers to her, she pauses before nodding.

"Let the Divine Flame warm them and cleanse them." The Imam fills the room with the ritual phrase, his voice melodic and rich. He gestures towards the guests, a silent indication that they should repeat the phrase.

A number of eyes drink greedily of the vision of the marriage, dreams soon to be filled with hopes for such an occasion of their own.

Without much great show, but in a voice filled with respect, the Pasha, and his guards, repeat the phrase at the Imam's motion. "Let the Divine Flame warm them and cleanse them."

Hepzibah's soft voice repeats the words as her eyes glisten. The barest hint of a smile can be detected through her slightly sheer veil.

Rabi repeats the phrase silently, her lips moving unseen under the green and blue veils that cover them.

Lais rumbles, though he is watching Kiral exclusively at this point, "Let the Divine Flame warm them and cleanse them."

Kovar smiles happily at Suri's response and kisses her cheek tenderly before straightening and looking back towards the wedding ceremony.

Mouthing the phrase in response, Vayu's words are not merely 'rinse and repeat' style mimicry -- he knows this speech by heart as well, it seems, for even afterward, his lips still move with the prayers. His eyes are glitterfast now, grey marble in the sunlight's waywardly drifting rays.

Hadad's voice too joins the chorus, letting the words wash back and forth over the congregation.

Zuhayr and the others of the Agni-Haidar repeat the words as well, rumbling bass to balance some of the lighter spoken, adding to the words that fill the room.

Suri adds her voice to the chorus, giving Kovar's hand another squeeze.

Standing at attention, Kiral seems to be engrossed in the flames. His eyes never leave those flame, even as words are spoken around him. Even his bride is ignored for the moment. Perhaps he has taken leave of his senses.

The flowers speak. A miracle indeed. Strangely enough, exactly that phrase which everyone else intones. You'd think flowers could be a little more original, once they found their voices.

Shahar's nostrils -- or rather the suggestion of them under her veil -- flare at the intoxicating tendrils of smoke assailing her senses and, indeed, her eyes briefly glaze.

Kovar smiles and adds his deep, booming bass voice as well though softly, giving the impression of distant thunder.

As the voices settle down, a piercing gaze is turned upon the groom: serene is the Imam and yet there is a power lancing through his words, for an oath is about to be made: "It is your task," he says to Kiral. "To protect and provide for this woman. You shall father her children, barring the path of all others who might find delight in her. You will bring fuel, drink, meat, grain and water to the house she keeps for you. You shall provide for all children she bears. And you shall serve the Khalid in payment for this gift. Do you agree?"

Blinking a few times, Kiral shakes his head as if trying to clear it. "Ah, yes. I, Kiral Khalida, do indeed promise and agree to do as required of me in the capacity of husband." He manages to smile up toward the Imam, before turning that smile on Shahar. Grey eyes narrow into slits, as he gazes upon his bride.

Rabi listens to the oath, a soft smile hidden by age-long tradition. The expression of her eyes is gentle and perhaps a touch wistful as well. She rubs Drisana's shoulder lightly and glances down at her daughter, smiling.

The full lips of the woman presented as bride curl into a smile under the translucence of her veil as Shahar hears Kiral's acceptance of the Imam's sternly presented proposal.

Shahar, spared the merciless scrutiny, is spared no longer: the Imam turns to her and, fixing his eyes upon her own, he says, "Your task, set before you by blessed Atar, is to be wife to this man, to bear his children, care for his house, cater to his desires and in all ways serve and obey him. Will you serve?"

Hadad clasps hands together before him, jewelry flashing gobbets of light as he breathes. The vows are drawn in, considered as his thoughtful gaze flickers from bride to groom. He doesn't dare look at the Imam.

Shahar bows her head to the Imam, though her eyes flicker sideways toward Kiral. "I shall," is her simplistic, heartfelt response. Whatever else may happen henceforth, she means her oath well.

Drisana did of course chant along with the rest, though her attention has since drifted over to the Walking Flowerpot Rory. At the touch to her shoulder, she does glance up, grinning big to Rabi before returning to the floral arrangements.

The priest holds his hands over the brazier and announces, "Then in the name of Khalid Atar, the Divine Flame by whose grace we live, I proclaim this woman wife of the Imphadi Kiral." He takes the second wick from the altar and holds it over the brazier's flame until it is lit. Then, with this slender reed of a torch in hand, he kneels down and lays the wick upon the circle in which the bride and groom are standing. It is gradual at first, the flame, hesitant and shy for a minute or two until it finds its food in the tallowed, colored rice. A low, blue-white flame ripples up from the circle and spreads around to surround the bride and groom completely. "So as the flames signifying our Amir-al surround them, so, we pray, does his guidance and protection encircle them in answer to their service." He begins to chant one of the prayers well-known to all, slow and firm so that all have the chance to join in.

"Blessed is the Most High, who leads us. Blessed is the Most High, who guides us. Blessed is the Most High, who rules with the just hand of His father, and with the wisdom and grace of His mother. Blessed are the chosen, who lift their voices to their lord and messiah, Khalid Atar. May our life be in His service, may our deeds please Him, may we never fail Him, until the end of time." The chanting continues, this simple prayer repeated over and over as the aromatic smoke from the brazier and from the burning circle tickles the noses of the guests and laps around their ankles like a low morning mist. The prayer becomes hypnotic, a joining together of voice and heart, until the loop of fire burns down and fades into naught but ash and memory.

Rabi has no voice but she prays just the same, her eyes drooping half-closed as repetition and scented smoke capture her in their hypnotic embrace.

The Pasha's voice doesn't join in the prayer until the second round, but it is strong and firm throughout, even past where most people turn to simple droning.

Hadad's voice is a buzz amongst the whorling sound. He pauses only to rub fingers against the base of his nose, desperately suppressing a sneeze at the tickling tendrils of smoke.

Drisana chants with her mother, missing some of the words in the beginning and towards the end, but getting most of it at least. The fire has caught her eye now, and she's staring nearly transfixed at the flames.

Zuhayr's eyes close as he murmurs the words of the prayer over and again.

Kovar drops his head and closes his eyes, praying silently.

That rich variety of blossoms manages a husky voice, each portion of the prayer articulated with absolute faith and a touch of breathiness. Darn flowers, quit babbling.

Echoing the Imam's words in a silent whisper of his own, Kiral manages to hold his place despite the fire and smoke. He gazes upon Shahar, once more, before turning his attention back towards the Imam. Otherwise, he is the model of the perfect Varati groom.

Hepzibah's thick dark lashes shield her eyes as her gaze lowers to the floor. The violet veil that hides the lower half of her face wafts with her breath as she speaks softly with the crowd.

Shahar repeats the words of the prayers but, within the fiery circle, studies her newly made husband through the veil of her ebony lashes. And, once the flames licking about their ankles have faded into nothingness, with only memory and a lingering whiff of smoke remaining, she whispers something to Kiral for his ears only.

Kiral senses: Shahar murmurs faintly, "Henceforth I am yours. Entirely. Thank the Amir-al." And she bows her head in respect to you and Khalid alike.

Those words, whatever they may be, bring a large smile to Kiral's lips. "Mm. Yes, I know," he responds to Shahar. Grey eyes glimmer with the possibilities head of him.

The Imam prays, his voice always graceful and rich, as if he were finding the words anew with each repetition. He waits a few moments after the fire has died, watching the two, and when Kiral has spoken, he holds out his hands again. "Blessings of Khalid upon you, Kiral Khalida, husband of Shahar, and upon you, Shahar Khalida, wife of Kiral. Blessings upon your families and your household." And to the crowd: "Blessings upon you, as well, for bearing witness to this sacred act of unity and family. Go now and know that His eye is upon you, watching that you make a life of honor and service in His eyes."

Shahar bows formally to Kiral, then kneels before the Imam and briefly prostrates herself to the Flame that illuminates their paths, a prayer whispered to Khalid. As she raises her head, demure and diffident within this holy locale, she adds, "My thanks to you, Imam," and rises. Once again on her feet she remains silent, allowing Kiral to guide her henceforth.

The priest bows to both of them. "It is an honor to serve, Imphadi, Imphada." He holds his hands out for the paraphernalia and, upon gathering it up, retreats to the altar to tidy up.

The look that Lais tenders Kiral is respectful but indicates that he is interested in his only sister's well-being. And will be watching.

Kovar smiles softly to Suri as the ceremony draws to a close and leans to whisper something to her again.

With a rustling of fabric and the hissing of booted feet on the floor, the crowd eases from immobility. Conversations quietly start up, commenting on the ceremony, the bride price, the honor and the future of the union.

Cutting a sharp bow at the waist towards the Imam, Kiral utters, "My thanks to you, your holiness." Taking Shahar by the hand, he inclines is head towards Lais. "Akraba." Turning towards the assembled guests, he speaks, "Thank you for all attending and watching our union before the eyes of the Amir-al. If not in person, than in spirit."

Suri nods to Kovar and the two turn to slip out as silently as they slipped in.

Zuhayr leads the wave of a full formal bow toward both Shahar and Kiral that the Agni-Haidar near him, at least, execute. Honor done, the black-and-silver-clad guardsmen straighten and depart.

The four Agni-Haidar around the throne watch impassively, scanning the hall, ever on duty. They pray with their whole being, and so have remained silent testimonies to the Khalid's power.

Beneath the veils and coverings, Shahar's irises travel about the course of the room before landing on the tremulous pile of flowers. "Those may be returned to his ... to our rooms," she directs quietly.

Adham watches the people, and their reactions, watching them file about, offering their congratulations, and taking note of several factors. The Nayaka's dark eyes are expressionless however, that scarred face not even twitching.

Gently, then, the Seraskier's mahisi guides Drisana towards the bride and groom, stopping well before the circle of ash that still surrounds them. She bows deeply, her silent congratulations to them both.

A waterfall of words, a big grin beneath the veil of the child Drisana. "It was really pretty, Mama! Why didn't they have a cake, though? And when is the pretty lady, the bride, when is she going to have babies? And why did everyone repeat those words? And..." Etcetera, etcetera. Woooh, it was hard to stand still and quiet for so long.

The walking jungle begins to weave towards the doorway, the heady aroma of blossoms following.

Hepzibah lingers near the back, keeping demurely silent and somewhat withdrawn There is dampness upon her lashes, but her demeanor is not one of sadness. Her robes make a sussurus of sound as she turns, waiting for the wedding party to pass.

Without a motion, word, or glance, the Pasha turns and, with his four guards following, strides out of the throne room.

Talking - moving - rustling - thinking. Vayu does none of these; his is the way of zen, for he watches without assumption of judgment, his grey eyes swirling slightly as they pan across. All are taken in, and let out in a breath.

"Mahisi," murmurs Kiral. "Thank you for attending in the stead of your consort, the Seraskier. His victories have reached all of our ears. You must be proud." The Foreign Minister acknowledges the congratulations with a smile, then nods again to the child draped around her legs.

Now the Nayaka turns slightly, watching Arslan's departure, a faint smile flickering upon his lips.

Hadad moves himself towards the exit, pausing there to turn and bow. The flourish takes in the whole room in homage to the God-King, and ends towards the wedding party as specific honor. Congratulations attended to, he joins those leaving the chamber.

Shahar accepts any and all well-wishes with the silent uplift of her chin, an occasional soft-spoken thank you here and there. She seems content to allow Kiral to speak for them both.... for now.

The 'Pasha' gone, the Nayaka for Clan Behzad turns to regard the last of the guests and revelers. He turns, motion once more, booted footsteps lost in the soft ruckus of the shrinking group as Adham makes his way towards Hepzibah.

Rabi straightens up and bows her head, nodding. She cannot speak but she does agree, and something like a serene pride shines in her eyes. Another inclination of her head in thanks for the compliment. When Drisana, too, has bowed, she and her daughter retreat back into the slowly dispersing knot of women.

Hepzibah is unaware of Adham's approach until his shadow darkens her much smaller form. Head tilting back, she glances up at him with slightly widened, slightly startled eyes. The curtain of her sable hair stirs along her back like the lazy pendulum of a clock.

Adham inclines his head towards Hepzibah, his voice soft, surprisingly gentle for a man his size. He murmurs, "I trust all is well with you Imphada? It has been long since we have spoken." His voice not really carrying far.

The soft echo of boots is lost in the chatter and slap of hard-soled zoris, Vayu's approach through the crowd becoming a strange and weaving thing. As he breaks from the chattering mounds of flesh, he merely grins sharply and lopsidedly, arms folding up over his chest as he surveys the new wife and husband.

"Vayu, hello." Kiral clucks his tongue as he greets his clanmate. "So good of you to come. Our thanks." He bows his head slightly to the other man, even as he leans in a bit closer to Shahar.

Shahar's brothers join the guests, though now and again they look at the bride and groom and mumble amongst themselves. Their wives and concubines, elsewhere located, chatter as well in a small knot of humanity. (Varatity?)

Shahar bows to Vayu as he approaches and has the good graces to blush in reaction to the cockeyed grin tendered to her. Then she turns her head just so, offering her attention to whatever Kiral is doing or preparing to say. Attentive, she is.

The calligraphed poem that decorates the hem of Rabi's sari comes to life, rippling as she walks as if singing its words in bright golden silence. She dips her head in farewell to the ladies of the court, unable really to communicate with them, and leads Drisana over to one of the sheltered benches normally used by those waiting for audience with God-King. Once seated, she takes out her slate and chalk from the folds of her sari hidden by her veil's waist-long drapings. She begins to write in clear, simple letterforms, and shows the results to the golden-headed child at her side.

Dark lashes fan downward as Hepzibah respectfully lowers her gaze from the Behzad Nayaka's face. "You are kind to inquire, Nayaka," is her soft, gentle reply, voice low. "This one fares well and is honored by thoughtfulness toward her welfare."

Drisana grins up at Rabi, nodding her head once more, with extra vigor this time. "Yaah, they were really pretty, Mama! Lots and lots and lots."

Adham nods faintly in return to Hepzibah's words, not truly looking at her eyes or face either. Such is the way. He turns standing beside the concubine now. His voice still not carrying far, "That is good, it would not do well, for things to be... out of sorts, Imphada." And there is a subtle timbre to his voice, a slightest innuendo that could be taken many ways.

"How could I do any less, akraba?" Vayu inquires with droll humor, bowing low before the two. "A fine couple you make, and I'm sure health and honor will come to you both! And, might I add, 'tis high time I met you, my Shakir... Honor upon your home." Strange fellow -- he says the ritual greetings as though they were blessings, and more than just congenialities.

Rabi rubs at the slate with her long fingers, clearing space for fresh new words. She moves a touch closer to Drisana and writes slowly so that her daughter can read as she is writing.

Hepzibah's dark brows barely furrow at Adham's statement, but she keeps her gaze upon the polished floor. "This one is well, imphadi. She is ever blessed by her position and knows she is highly honored to serve the Beloved Flame in such a wise. How could there be anything... amiss?"

"Oh thank you, Vayu." Kiral's tone indicates his equal measure of humor. "It is so very nice of you to think so." He squeezes Shahar's arm lightly.

More bobbings of that little head, and Drisana is just all grins to her mother. "Yaah, that would be really neat, Mama?" Then, a huge yawn interrupts what would surely be another ramble.

"In no way could it be. I am glad that all remains well... Imphada" Conversation done, message given, the Nayaka of Clan Behzad moves away from the Concubine without another word. The armored individual moves over towards the newly-wed bride and groom, waiting, but not as long as some might think, before he can speak with them.

"It is as my husband has wisely said, an honor and privilege to meet you at last, Imphadi," Shahar tells Vayu with all of the blushing bridedom of a woman half her age. At the tug on her arm, she turns more fully toward Kiral, awaiting his next words.

Rabi abandons writing to curl an arm around Drisana's shoulder. She tips her head towards the door and then her eyebrows lift in an inquisitive expression.

Making a great show of taking offense to this, Vayu draws himself up very straight and tall, jutting his jaw out pugnaciously. He even bothers to sniffle slightly, lip quivering. "Fine..." he squeaks at Kiral, "Mock me... Shower me with barbs, why don't you, when I offer an honest blessing." Then he winks at Shahar, and, touching his forehead and then a point in the air between the two, within the band of sunlight, murmurs something very strange sounding, half under his breath: "Nanna lugal-an-ki en lama-sa-ga-zu he-me-se-se, Nin-gal nin-mah nin gizkim-sa-ga-zu he-me-se-se." When it's completed, he's already turning to walk away.

Once Adham moves away, Hepzibah lifts her eyes enough to follow his path with a curious expression. Puzzlement can be detected in the set of her brows for several heartbeats before she takes a few steps toward the entrance to the living quarters.

Rabi tucks her slate and chalk away and gathers Drisana into her arms, hefting the girl onto her hip, and makes her way out even as her daughter falls sound asleep with chin resting against her shoulder. She prays in silent worship to the mother of Khalid as she slips beneath the archway leading out.

"Um, hm." Kiral watches Vayu for a long time and the best comment he can respond with is, "Well, same to you then!" Whether there is anger in his voice or pure humor, it is difficult to tell with the Varati Foreign Minister. Luckily, there isn't time to digest his response, as Adham makes his own appearance.

As Vayu draws away, Adham flickers only an instant's notice over the other Varati, before turning his attention to Kiral and Shahar. He inclines his head towards the couple, murmurs in his soft voice, looking down at them both, "Imphadi, Imphada. May your lives be twice as long together, than they were, without." Then he inclines his head once more, his blessing and well-wishes done, purely formal as he moves with that smooth grace of a swordsman for the doorway.

Though she makes no sound where her laughter is concerned, merriment fleetingly dances though Shahar's gaze as she lifts her husband's hand and presses it to her cheek. Her gaze, however, follows along in Adham's footsteps.

Hepzibah hovers near the exit, glancing uncertainly toward the couple as she weighs returning to her room or offering her own congratulations... and whether or not she will have offended if she does not.

"My thanks to Clan Behzad." Kiral speaks his own response to Adham as the Nayaka makes his statements and then departs. Shifting a little, he keeps his hold firmly on Shahar's arm.

Little encouragement is required this evening to gain Shahar's acquiescence of Kiral's wonts: she is apparently throwing every ounce of compliance into her evening and travels along beside her newlywed husband, stepping on the occasional flower petal that Rory's oversized bouquet graciously left behind.

Finally, as the guests filter out, Kiral also begins to move to the exit with his wife in tow. "Ah, finally. It is time to enjoy the fruits of this union." He slides a sidelong glance at Shahar, chuckling a bit as he leads her from the chambers of the throne room.

FIN  

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