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"Too Little, Too Late?"
Date: August 13, 1999  Tent City - East of Haven: A dead-cart rolls down the street with the bodies of the deceased piled upon it. Despite all intentions to the contrary, the new home of the refugees has little order and a great deal of chaos. It is a screaming, bloody mess. Children run into Hounds, those still well, trying to keep order. Sick women huddle by the side of the path, praying that they will not be trampled by horses and carts. Those well enough to move attempt to move themselves and any remaining belongings into the newly erected tents. This process is guided by Ranjeet Al'Samar. He kindly and gently directs the refugees into their new homes while his Shakir hands out fragments of stale bread salvaged from the Provost's conflagration. Yet, there are many individuals who lie on the transport wagons, too weak to move and others which collapsed on the path between the old home and the new. Formerly loud, the air above the camp is now a cacophony of disjointed sound symbolic of the disorder created by the abrupt action of Delphi. A mongrel trots past, a bag over his shoulder, intent on some errand. A wail fills the air, then just as suddenly lapses into an eerie silence. Several Empyrean women look around the corners of their tents warily and with great unease. For some time now, there has been a gathering outside the shelter-camp. A Praetorian gathering, to be exact. Not the normal small collection of patrolling soldiers, either -- this is... different. Velites, that's what they are, and instead of setting up a stockade they set up soup pots over fires. Big ones, fires and pots both. Water is added, and ingredients: beans, some rice. Bacon, just enough to flavor it. Salt. A few other in-season vegetables. "Few" is relative, though, for they are making enough to feed a vast quantity of people: themselves, and those in the camp. Certainly, it is not particularly delicious fare -- it's army food, after all -- but it's nutritious, at least. Other soldiers get to work constructing a shelter of canvas stretched over pike-staves: bales of hay are used to make roughshod tables and a veritable plethora of battered tin cups and plates. No forks or spoons or anything like that: the refugees will eat with their fingers and belt-knives, thankyouverymuch, just like the army folk do. In the midst of all of this, another crowd arrives: scarlet and bronze glitters protectively around Aurora and Drusus, and there is a Cohors of additional Praetorians with them. And they are accompanied also by a number of the Empyrean healers who have spent time here. One of them, a tall grey-haired man whose feathers are beginning to go to seed, points to the Delphic building and says something to the Royal couple. The rest of the healers fan out, heading immediately towards the confusion around the stone outbuildings. Drusus says, to the healer at his and Aurora's side, "Later, Lethe." He nods towards the chaos. "Tend to them." At Ranjeet's shoulder is a healer, a mage, who helps the families and individuals to get settled, recommending treatment, teas, and poultices. She would heal if she could, but the strain of constant disease and re-infection has weakened her such that she seems to have trouble even standing at times. She leans upon the Seshmew with no signs of modesty... and he accepts her weight, supporting her when he can, with no sign of disgust. But every so often he points to a child or young woman, and the healer nods, placing her hand upon them as she speaks and advises. Sometimes her gaze lifts to Ranjeet's sadly and she shakes her head no ... but other times when she nods in the affirmative, Ranjeet's gaze flickers to the departing Empyrean, locking his memory upon their features and their names. The chariot that had brought the Royal couple and their contingent was landed just outside the miniature city, lest the sight of the gryphons spread more confusion and chaos. Drusus, Aurora, Theron, and the soldiers surrounding them had entered on foot, greeted by the sight of disarray that Delphi's uprooting had caused. They are headed toward the main structure, where Praetorians have fashioned something of a 'soup kitchen,' to feed as many of the displaced refugees as possible. The healers who'd arrived with them -- some magically-trained, others with no skills but herbalism -- are ready to relieve those who've been working nonstop and who might be ready for a reprieve. It is with little fanfare that the Emperor and Empress arrive, but the sight of them, and their guards and healers, ready to volunteer, might stir up hope within the breasts of many of the cold, hungry, and sick. A young girl, no more than six, sits in the dirt near the Velites. A mother holds her and she sobs heartbrokenly, streaking the dirt on her cheeks with salty rivulets. "Meanie man burned my dolly," she bawls time and time again. Though a single form, the child is almost emblematic of the problems facing the refugees: needing help and healing. It might, of course, stir up hope, either that or fill others with more loathing. Either way, once they've escorted the Emperor and Empress in, the Praefect nods to his aide, who takes about half the Cohors off to 'help.' This Cohors probably wasn't expecting to help like that, but thems the breaks. The remaining ten sigh with relief that all they have to do is protect the Royal Couple. Theron sticks himself in this company. Aurora's the one who has been here before. Drusus keeps to her side, going where she goes, observing everything. There is a crease in his brow, and some kind of indefinable expression on his face, something between confusion and pity, frustration and sadness too, and regret -- all of it mixed together on a face that is not the most expressive of faces. His old eyes take everything in. He says to Aurora, softly, "What should we do?" Maat has not the energy of her Seshmew and she continues to methodically hand out bread to those too tired to venture towards the soup kitchen. Anyone paying attention would notice that her eyes are tired and wan, without the normal spark that shows that there is a mind behind the windows. Yet, despite the chaos, she cannot miss the chariot and its guard. Pausing in her dispersal of food, she puts a hand forward and touches Ranjeet's shoulder. "Perhaps we should go greet them, Imphadi." As the royal pair enter, Ranjeet's gaze shifts to them, a flicker of emotion rippling his features. It would seem that the Emperor has finally taken an interest in the City and it's Empyrean denizens... a few months too late. His gaze glares about as he surveys the camp with a hostile eye. What a mess... what a nightmare. It makes no difference moving them... only increases their suffering. His eyes shift again, spotting the crying child, and despite his heritage, his brow crinkles in what would appear to be a reaction of pity, or perhaps remorse. Like the others, his gaze fixes upon the child firmly, memorizing features. At Maat's touch, Ranjeet turns, nodding in agreement. "It would be seemly, Imphada." He offers one arm to Maat and touching the healer lightly, Ranjeet murmurs, "Walk with me?" He offers his opposite arm to her, which the slim Varati woman takes and leans upon gratefully. Slowly, the three walk toward the Empyrean pair. "Find the Seshmew, or the Shakir," is Aurora's low-voiced reply to her husband. "Clan Al'Samar organized this -- we should let them know that we are lending our support as best we can. And they would be the best ones to speak to about your plan." She scans through the crowd, hoping to locate someone in the telltale deep blue and silver that make up the Clan's colors. At last, Maat and Ranjeet are spotted near the soup-kitchen, and Aurora veers in that direction, her hand still on Drusus' arm. The Schola and Praetorians follow suit, more alert now. "Aye," Drusus says softly. He still sounds puzzled. "I do not understand why so many are still here. The plan has been in place for some time. If I find that the messengers did not come here, I will... be very upset." The Emperor continues at his wife's lead, now, grey eyes searching out through the crowd of Empyreans for the Varati. There are many. But he is at least partly aware of some of the tell-tale sighs of authority among Varati: in other words, he knows the clothes. He finally catches sight of Maat and Ranjeet. Some of the Velites aren't taking this whole idea of new duties too well, particularly when it involves actually working with the Varati, much less taking any sort of direction, even when it means a minor thing, such as where to park the wagons. Dirty Varati they are, and dirty Varati they'll remain. There are some dirty looks, rumbles of the throat, and a couple of smacks as well. Perhaps the higher-ups had the foresight to, oh, threaten their troops with dewinging if they so much as caused an international incident. The behavior to the Empyreans of the City isn't much better. If they'd just stayed, or fought a little more then they wouldn't be here, dying and causing everyone else to die with their sickness. An Empyrean woman kneels at the side of her tent and scrubs laundry in half a wooden barrel. She is joined by a neighbor who lends a hand, trading assistance for the latest gossip. Only Ranjeet's guidance prevents Maat from stumbling into the sick lying about on the trampled earth. As she nears the crying child, Maat hesitates, the motion felt as a slight tug on Ranjeet's arm, but then she gathers herself and continues forward. Her clothing shields her turbulent emotions from view, though they threaten to break forth from her stone-like mien. And, in this weakened condition, it is only Ranjeet's guidance that prevents Maat from colliding with the Emperor and his wife when the trio finally meets the Empyreans. Drawing face-to-face with the royal Empyreans, Ranjeet holds for a moment to lower the healer down gently to a bale of hay for a seat. Her body sags with exhaustion until she remembers herself, struggling to sit up a little straighter. Perhaps it is Varati pride that holds him tall and firm in the face of disease and disgust. If it were not for their assistance, Ranjeet would rather the haughty Empyreans stick their noses up someone else's ass... for though they may offer helpful hands, they also offer up bitter hearts... and this place has more than enough bitterness without adding anything more. His head dips in recognition as he greets, "Ave, Emperor Drusus and Empress Aurora ... please excuse our.... disarray. We were recently moved." There is a ring of weariness in his voice that on a better day might have passed for sarcasm. Drusus automatically offers an arm to Maat should she stumble close to him, and he does not withdraw the offer when he realizes what he is doing. "Praefect," he says to Theron, "would you see that some of those bales of hay are brought here? The Imphada and Imphadi should not rest upon the bare ground." He glances around. "Please have someone arrange for more straw to be brought to the camp." There: physical needs arranged for. Now the social ones. "Imphada, Imphadi. I am Drusus Jove. I believe you know my wife, Empress Aurora. Praefect Theron, head of my escort," he nods towards Theron. "Dominus Lethe is today's healer primus; he is the gentleman who left us as we arrived." Indeed, Lethe is gone from sight, vanished into the depths of this camp. "Imphada Shakir," Aurora greets with a bowed head in Maat's direction. "Seshmew." This is said with a similar respectful nod toward Ranjeet. "We would like to thank you for all you have done for our citizens -- it inspires hope to see that Varati and Empyreans can work together towards a common goal." She tips her head toward the Praetorians and their makeshift 'soup kitchen,' then toward the healers that accompanied their party. "We have brought more volunteers to help, as your own people must be weary. I could arrange another shipment of supplies, as well, if that is necessary. Perhaps you could tell me what items would be most useful?" Her tones are ever courteous, and her gaze straightforward and sincere. Theron replies with a murmured, "Of course, Deus." He twitches his finger once to a pair of soldiers who manage, just barely, not to look surly about this whole business. They, in turn, recruit a few Velites, who are the ones who actually bear the bales to be arranged. As soon as that is done, the Velites trot off, one Praetor falls back in line, the other goes off to alert Benedict to the Emperor's order. If only they'd been this organized during the war, but anyway. Theron nods to the two Varati, addressing them in turn, "Namaste, Imphada, Imphadi." Huh. Someone knows something about proper forms of address. Maat remains leaning on Ranjeet's arm, though she gives a polite nod to Drusus' offers. "Emperor, Empress," she says in turn. "Bales of hay are most appreciated." Once the bales arrive, she does not hesitate to sit, pride or not. Yet, even this action requires the support of Ranjeet until she is firmly seated. "I am pleased that our actions hearten you, Empress, but I continue to hope that it will only be a temporary measure, though this move does not speak well for that hope." Belatedly, she seems to realize that there is another that she ought to greet and she gives Theron a faint nod. "Dominus." Inclining his head toward the gracious greeting, Ranjeet acknowledges Theron with a softly murmured, "Ave, Dominus." His hands and attention are then occupied with seeing Imphada Maat down safely and comfortably to her "seat." For as plain and primitive as it may be, it is a rare luxury in the wake of the recent relocation. Only after she is comfortable does Ranjeet seat himself as well, allowing his Shakir to determine what further aid she might desire, or what other supplies she might wish for. He takes this time to study the pair across from him, specifically the Emperor, whom he saw only once before from a great distance. It is a calm measuring gaze, as if he could study the man from the inside out rather than the reverse. Drusus laces his hands behind his back. "Thoughtful" is what a perceptive person would read from him. Nothing more. For he shuts off his emotions when there are problems to be solved. His own gaze is turned inward: as he waits to hear of what Maat believes the camp needs, he ponders his immediate surroundings, mind turning over everything he sees and knows and hears as separate pieces of a puzzle to be fit together to find solutions. In this distance, along the farther edge of the camp, there is a high-pitched keening crying, a voice shrieking with ultimate despair, "Nooo-oo, it can't be! Antonius? Antonius!! Ohhh-hhhh, Gods .... plee-heee-eeease!" It is a heartwrenching cry, even muffled as it is with the distance and the din of the camp. An altogether too often heard lament, creating its own bitter music throughout the grounds. A small knot of the Empyrean healers bear themselves into the air with the fluttering beats of their wings. They fetch buckets of cool water and some of the tin cups from the Velites and return to the camp. Most of them tend to the refugees themselves, offering drinks to those whose sickness has dehydrated them. One makes her rounds through the Varati healers with her cup and bucket, succor to those who have provided succor. A funny thing about healers; they tend to recognize their own. At least, this girl does. Grey eyes shift. Drusus listens to the plaintive wail. He appears impassive to it. The Velites and soldiers continue to swarm on the camp. Some of them even seem to be set up as servants, fetching and so forth for those who are so weak as they cannot even come to the tents for food. Oh, the indignity of it all. Serving mongrels, the lower classes, Varati. Too much, it is all too much to hope that the Empyreans can conduct themselves reasonably, and without hate. A few of them manage it, and there are just enough of them to thrash the more ... vocal and obvious detractors to this new policy. There are a few scuffles and loud words that are settled in a manner of minutes, often resulting in bruises. The work gets done though, slowly and surely, the work gets done. Maat begins to elaborate on the needs of the camp, "The refugees needs many things. Immediately, the concerns are healers, food, and wood." Her voice chokes to a halt as the despairing shriek breaks high enough to grab her attention, then she takes a breath and forges on. "Merchants in Haven have been donating food, but they now feel a monetary strain after having fed these people for so many months and the food has never been of the best quality, stale bread and old vegetables that can no longer be sold, also, the seaweed kindling provided by the Atlanteans is not enough to heat so many during the cold months. Some ventured into Sylvan lands and were shot for their efforts. And, now, we have a plague after sickness through the spring and summer so that the refugees, already weakened by hunger, cannot leave even if there was hope for them." She looks up from her seat to the member of Clan Khalida rather than the Emperor and she says with a voice thick with emotion, "These people need hope. They need to know there is a place for them to go where they are not a charity institution." Drusus says, "There is a place for them. And a future. The destroyed cities of Edessa are being rebuilt. The Aegis has offered land grants to those refugees who work to rebuild them, and tax relief to the merchant Houses who transport, clothe, and feed them. This policy has been in place for some time; I was under the impression that many of the refugees here had taken advantage of it. But I have asked our healers to make sure these people here know: when the plague has passed, they will have an opportunity to build themselves a new life. So the plague must pass. We have sent our ambassadors to the races to find out if there is any knowledge that can be applied to the curing of this. Have your own healers discovered anything about the sickness?" Politics ... talking. What is required is action. Ranjeet's gaze shifts from Drusus to his wife, studying her quietly now as his Shakir explains their needs. Hope? Well, perhaps for some. For those already gone by death or ... other means. His eyes lift for a moment to rest upon the cool grey of the Empress', his own silent and impassive, even through the wailing dirge. He has heard it all too often in these past three weeks since he returned to Haven. Once a job he disdained and derided, it is perhaps ironic that the Seshmew spends most of his days, and some nights, in what used to be Tent City, and now is this ramshackle recreation. His gaze flickers once again with interest and a mark of surprise at Drusus Jove's words. Apostolic action from an Empyrean? Finally. A bit too late, but perhaps for those saved thus far, a new chance. His gaze shifts to Aurora, an unspoken question glittering in its depths, but after a short moment it is gone. Aurora is silent now. She stands beside Drusus, face and wings still, expression composed. Yet the sounds -- the shrieks, the crying, the laments for those lost -- must be getting to her, too. She tries not to look, to seek out the sources of those wails, but her eyes dart from side to side despite her efforts. Her face saddens a little each time her gaze alights on some new misery. But she forces her attention back to the conversation at hand, eager to hear Maat's reply. Perhaps the Varati have found some clue -- some key to unlocking the mystery of this plague, and providing a cure. Theron simply stands there, at ease. Hands clasped behind his back, feet apart. Watching, calmly, not overtly reacting to the noises that surround them, perhaps he's familiar with them or used to them, in his own fashion. He does take note of the things that are mentioned, wondering where and how he can cut his supplies and contribute. The Guard would likely object, but then again many of them were sick as well, and might not be in need of such things. Maat has a momentary pause before answering Drusus, enough to take her eyes of Aurora and to flick them obliquely at Ranjeet, as if to garner the man's reactions to these words. "Your policy has not been wildly spoken within the confines of the camp. Indeed, many refugees seemed to believed that it only concerned those that threw themselves at the mercy of the Palladium, Houses Augustin and Tritonis. Those that remain have instead focused on the fact that the Archon ignores them and they say that they are ignored by their own." Yet again the woman pauses in her litany and she looks at the collection of Praetorians and Velites. "For many months, there was not a single Praetor in the camp. Not until Optio Cyrano came to speak with me about missing people. It does not provide the refugees hope when members of their own race blatantly refuse to help them or do not venture to observe their plight." "Indeed," Drusus replies. "And I am responsible for that. They shall have my apology, as well as my assistance. But for now there is one pressing problem which must be resolved before anything else can be resolved: the plague." Theron could have answered that himself -- reasons that Empyre, particularly the Praetorians and Velites weren't out here, but one does not want to air one's dirty laundry in front of others and it's not his place either. So he stands there, just a bit startled at the Emperor taking responsibility, because it wasn't his fault either. He glances towards Benedict, his aide, to get a status check of how things go. Turning his gaze to Maat, Ranjeet's eyes and features speak for him, allowing finally his disgust with the Empyrean nobles to rise to the surface. "Too little too late," he notes firmly. "I find it curious that action is offered now when the chances of survival are slim to none. Like wayward parents, like the cuckoo, the Empyrean nobles have been content to leave their eggs in our nests. Now they come back to take what few fledgling have survived, while we have sweat blood and tears for children that are not even our race? It seems ... presumptuous." Drusus says to Ranjeet, "To support such an endeavor takes resources, Imphadi. Goods. Labor. Money. Roads. We have suffered losses in this area, as a whole, both across the Empyre at large and here in Haven. It may seem that we have been doing little, because we were not here with you in this place, and I agree that even had we not the resources to help, we should have been here in the beginning. But I assure you we have been hard at work, setting up the foundation for the effort with what we had left after the war." All of this is delivered calmly, with a level ease. "You are understandably frustrated, Imphada, Imphadi. But at the moment there is a problem to be solved. The plague." "Yes," Aurora echoes. She rouses from her silence and stillness, offering her agreement to her husband's words. "The plague is the most pressing concern -- we can do nothing more with these people until they are cured, for otherwise, we risk spreading this disease far beyond the bounds of Haven. Who knows what havoc it might cause, if loosed upon our nation." Her eyes dart earnestly from Maat's to Ranjeet's, and back again. "And your own. Your people risk spreading it as much as ours do. We must keep it contained until we can find a cure. Perhaps... perhaps our healers could confer with one another... join forces. And Sylvans, and Atlanteans, as well. Better we work together than apart." 'And better we stop this senseless bickering over where the fault lies,' is an unspoken addendum. 'For it can do us little good now.' It's all some of the Servitor Praetorians can do not to snarl at Maat and Ranjeet's words. Perhaps the Schola are in the habit of hearing such words, but the Servitors are not. Many expressions go flat, and cold as if etched in stone. For them, it would be a relief to go back to war, that they could practice what they do best. Fighting, not cooking and being nursemaids. Maat looks down at her knees, perhaps embarrassed that in her exhaustion that she forgot the second part of Drusus' question. "I am not a healer. My observations are inaccurate, in all likelihood." She puts a hand to out to touch the back of Ranjeet's after his outburst, then murmurs across him at the Varati healer. Her request is obvious when the Healer speaks up in a voice that rasps with exhaustion. "Emperor, Empress, the plague should not be one. It should not exist. It was a simple cold during the summer, but it changed during the cold season and now attacks rapidly. It is the speed that defeats us. We cannot cure it quickly enough and the refugees are so weakened that some of those who have been healed will catch the sickness a second time. We need more workers, even people without healing skill to make herbal mixes. Anyone who can follow directions, we can use." It may be the draining nature of the problem and thus its intellectual enticement, but for a moment, it would seem the Healer forgets the August company that is present and says in a wry fashion, "Or create some more potent herbs. That would be a miracle." Anger roils within him, long hours of duty and service to a race that is his enemy? It is simply too much. Standing up, Ranjeet stares for a moment at Drusus. Pretty words for an ugly situation. "Ah, but from no showing to this? Quite a leap in action, Emperor Jove. I suggest you take a look at the work that is being done. You'll find I believe a great discrepancy between the Varati, who work with quiet compassion and fervent obedience, and your Empyreans, who work here because of orders and with blatant bitterness and unpleasantness toward Varati and their own kind alike." There is a febrile glint in Ranjeet's eyes, and turning to Maat, he bows deeply, murmuring, "Forgive me ... I suspect you have a more diplomatic nature than I, Imphada. Please continue ... I will be back shortly." Turning again, Ranjeet offers the royal couple a short nod before he shifts, moving past the bundles of hay. Striding back from whence he came, Ranjeet's steps slow as he draws past the tormented child who lost her doll to the blaze. The bedraggled girl clings to her mother now, the pair sitting upon the dirt, rocking for mutual comfort. Slowing, Ranjeet stops and lowers, speaking softly to the pair. And it is here perhaps with the greatest discrepancy can be seen. For here is a Varati, the enemy of the Empyreans, speaking gently with the two winged ones. His hand reaches out to touch the child who does not cringe in fear, but offers a tentative smile. For no Varati has ever beleaguered them or belittled them here. Has tormented or snarled at them. No Varati has burnt everything that belongs to them. Thrice, that is Drusus' limit. Blame is all very well and good, and yes, responsibility must be ascertained so that such things are avoided in the future, but for the present it serves no purpose but to vent emotion. And Drusus does not feel emotion when there is a problem to be resolved, so he has little understanding of the need to put emotion before solution in others. Ranjeet opens his mouth to lay down criticism the third time and so Drusus simply turns his attention to Maat and the Healer, shutting off his perception of the Varati man. That can be dealt with later, if need be. "Which herbs?" He asks the healer. Several of the soldiers go with flat-out scowls, eyeing Ranjeet, just praying to the lares, that the man will give them an excuse to, oh, possibly murder him through something they can pass off as an excuse for attempted assassination. Thus, they prove the Imphadi's point, but nevermind that, the Emperor and the Empyre have been insulted and someone or something must pay for such things. The Praefect just eyes his soldiers with that, 'I will be very displeased if this gets out of hand' look, that brooks no sort of dissent. It helps. The Healer says, with the cadence that marks a teacher warming to the subject, "Febrifuges, to lower the fever, and herbs that will aid the respiratory system such as thyme, mullein, and licorice." Meanwhile, Maat looks over at Ranjeet, then shifts her attention back to Drusus and Aurora to provide whatever diplomacy she can to the situation. "Please, excuse the Seshmew. We have worked long and hard to aid your people and it has strained our nerves." Drusus listens with an eerie intensity to the Healer: there is a light in his eyes not normally there as he puts down the familiar words to memory. He says, "Thank you. I will see what we can do about that." He nods to Maat. "We understand. You both have my thanks for all you have done on the behalf of our people." And this is damn hard. "Should the situation ever be reversed, Imphada, we will return the assistance in kind." He then says to his wife, quietly, "Aurora, do you remember Many Shadows' gift of flax?" The Seshmew is kneeling in the dirt despite the fact that his clothes are of good quality. It would seem that he is gathering information from the pair, asking the little girl questions. His hands trace upon the air in front of her a figure, ascertaining height. There are other questions. How many eyes? The girl giggles and holds up two fingers. What color hair? Ranjeet tilts his head, tugging hopefully upon his own dark length? The child screws up her face is disgust, shaking her head emphatically. With a deep sigh, Ranjeet reaches out to tug upon her own blond locks? She nods emphatically. All right, that is apparently settled. Color of the eyes? He points to his own dark gaze; she points to the sky. Blue. And wings?? Of course. For a brief moment there are smiles exchanged, tears dried. The mother's face is quietly crumpled as she bounces her child lightly upon one knee, emotion overwhelming her as she offers a ragged crooked thing in response. A smile of adversity and overwhelming odds. With a hand upon Drusus' arm, Aurora nods to his question. "I do. The Sylvans are the most likely to know which herbs might be of use. They might know of others we haven't tried. We could trade for such herbs. And wood -- we need wood and kindling. Surely we have something that the Sylvans might want? And I... once had friends among the Ettowealona. It cannot hurt to make the attempt." Her voice is quiet, meant for her husband, though not so low as to shut out the listeners. Her gaze darts over toward Ranjeet, resting on him while a frown of chagrin bisects her brow, yet she tries to overlook the rising tension among the group. She has not missed the way the soldiers are itching for a fight. "As for volunteers," she tells Maat in a louder tone, "it is senseless that the Varati should bear this burden alone. Al'Samar has done so much, but you still need more able bodies. I wish to do more than bring supplies. If you can work here, toiling among the sick and the weary, then so can I." She smiles wryly. "Perhaps some of my own people will follow the example. For I do not want it said that the Empyre does not look after its own." A glance is shot toward Ranjeet, almost pointed. Then her gaze goes to Drusus, expecting argument from him, perhaps. "I can do far more good here," Aurora tells him quietly. Theron glances over to his friend and aide, a summoning perhaps, as the soldier in question comes over after a few moments time. They step away and start to confer in low tones, both keeping an eye on their men. Maat does not berate. Her tired voice is guilt enough. "It would be a pleasure to see you working beside me, Empress." Her expression of gratitude is directed entirely at Aurora and it may be that the Shakir does not see an Empyrean, but a member of Clan Khalida. "Any additional volunteers will be immediately put to work." As a healer mage passes, Ranjeet lifts a hand, holding her to stop for a moment, which she does. He rises up again from his place on the ground, a slow and awkward ascent that has him touching his brow for a moment with one hand. Soft words are murmured to her and this time the pair of them lower to the ground as she talks to the mother and daughter, touching them lightly. Ranjeet waits for her determination, the action done so smoothly and with little effort shown. Absently, he raises an arm to wipe the sweat forming upon his brow with his sleeve to stop it from rolling into his eyes. "I was thinking that perhaps they might know of a way to increase the effectiveness of the herbs that grow here, as well. Your miracle, perhaps, Imphadi," Drusus says to the Varati healer. He nods in response to Aurora's work. "Yes. You must see to it that they know about Edessa, and the need for workers there. Instill the hope in them, Aurora. As for volunteers," he says to Maat. "These soldiers will assist. More can be found, if needed. Please let Aurora know, Imphada. The kitchen will remain until the refugees are well enough to travel. Then they will be assisted to Edessa." The winds shift and the scent of charred flesh drifts by. Maat throws a glance over at the rather belligerent-looking soldiers and there is doubt in her eyes that these arrogant folk will truly aid, yet she nods to Drusus' words. No thanks comes from the woman. The prevailing attitude is clear -- the Varati will not thank the Empyreans for helping their own people. "If the Pasha will allow, the Varati shall also send emissaries to the Sylvans, but she is protective of those living in Haven and she fears that if she should open the doors of Atesh-Gah, then those within will gain the illness." Surprised and pleased by Drusus' lack of argument, Aurora isn't inclined to waste any time. "Then I shall stay here," she tells her husband and, indirectly, the guards. Then again, most of them are going to be staying too, and are probably not as satisfied about it as she is. "I will spread the word about Edessa," she assures her husband. "Perhaps we could arrange a mass-caravan for the travelers. Better to travel in large groups." Then, to Maat, she says, "Tell me what you need me to do," She seems eager and willing to help, and her eyes skim over the tent-city again. Brow furrowing, she muses, "Winter seems to be the time when most people get sick -- especially the end of winter. And a wet one only seems to breed disease. Perhaps..." But she trails off before the thought is truly formulated. The healer's head shakes no, and for a moment Ranjeet simply stares, his gaze shifting to the child as she coughs against her mothers breast. His eyes flicker shut and then open again, a smile drawn from the depths of his soul as he ruffles her hair lightly, murmuring something in farewell. Slowly he rises again, thanking the healer and letting her move along her way. There is a slow turn taken as he examines the camp, his surveying gaze finally resting upon the small gathering of powerful heads with a chagrin. What the blazes is wrong with him? He's a better man than any Empyrean ... losing his temper in front of one? Feh! Brow crinkled in self deprecation, Ranjeet slowly advances upon the group, touching one hand to Maat's shoulder in silent greeting, his gaze upon the Empyreal pair with regained control as his head dips in mute respect and acknowledgment. The Praefect's aide slips into the Praefect's place, allowing Theron to slip off and take stock of what further things are possibly needed by the troops. Benedict remains polite, quite and in firm control of the soldiers. Like a mother handing out chores, Maat has an endless list of items which must be done. Her exuberance cannot match Aurora's, yet the light that flares in the depths of her eyes show that she is extremely pleased at Aurora's gesture. "The sick must be moved to the healers, the displaced families need to be shown to their new lodgings, food must be delivered to all those too weak to visit your soldiers, the barrels must be filled with water, and more tents need to be erected." She looks over the smooth earth. "If you have any shapers, we could use help putting in new drainage ditches. The men are weak, and cutting through frozen earth taxes them greatly. It seems to be an aspect of camp planning that Delphi did not consider." As she speaks, she puts a hand up to touch the one that Ranjeet has placed on her shoulder. "Aye," is what Drusus says to Aurora in regards to her staying here. He makes a mental note to have his camp tent brought here. The regal one and the Optio tent, for he suspects his wife will make shelter for the sick out of the large royal tent and keep herself to the more modest officer's shelter. He adds, as Aurora trails off, "we have means to help with that." And then he falls silent as Maat outlines the list of needs, listening to her. He nods in response to Ranjeet's greeting but remains focused on the tasks at hand. Drusus glances towards the troops. Praetorians build stockades in all weather, every single day when they are on the move. Oh yes, digging is something they can do. And oh yes, they are NOT going to be happy about it. "The Praetorian soldiers are not weakened from toil," Aurora tells Maat. "They can help with the digging, for I am afraid we have no shapers." She takes in the group of Schola and Praetorians, some of whom still look irritable and tense, for they are not quite as adept at hiding their expressions as the Varati. But they do not protest. Without a trace of timidity, Aurora tells them, "It seems you'll be wielding shovels rather than spears, servitors." She cocks her head at Maat. "Will you have one of your volunteers show them where to find the tools, and they can start immediately? And if you will show me where you've placed the sick ones, I can help with moving them to the healers. There's a whole day yet. Best not to waste it." Maat tips her head to the side and gazes at Aurora. "If that can all be done today, then that will be an accomplishment." She takes a deep breath. "To put order to this chaos, but tomorrow the feeding and healing will begin anew." For a moment, her voice sounds whimsical, floating away from her burnoose, as if this were a game for pleasure rather than the hard work of survival. She stands, only slightly shaky, and gives Aurora a shrug of helplessness. "The sick are lying on the ground." She points to those sitting on the cold earth and shoveling down the hot food provided by the Velites. "There are a few back on the path whence you came, but the majority of those most ill are in wagons which we have rolled to the clinics. They merely need to be carried in." She tries to sound organized, but the attempt is a failure. "Tools... I am sorry, Empress, they are in a wagon, but in the move, I now do not know the location of the wagon. And, there may not be enough shovels. Not all could be gathered before the Provost's men set the tents to flame. Indeed, some tools are within the confines of Atesh-Gah and that place is barred to me now." The hand under her fingers squeezes the shoulder beneath it gently, in support and apology to his Shakir. As if to show greater obedience to her, Ranjeet stands behind her in support and says nothing. He has shamed both her and himself already this day. Best to not do so again. The touch of Maat's hand feels wondrously cool and soothing upon his heated knuckles. Straw. It begins to arrive, on the back of a clattering wagon hauled in from one of the nearby farms. Normally, this would supply the Empyrean quarter's stables, but there's no getting to them and the straw is needed here. "Excuse me," says Drusus, bowing his head to those assembled, and goes off to intercept the cart along with two of the guards. He begins to oversee the distribution of the straw, making sure that the bales are broken up and that thick pads of the stuff are laid down in the sheltering lee of what buildings and rocks are available. An officer orders more Velites over to help, an Acies' worth. "Do you have gurneys?" Drusus asks one. "I don't know, Deus." "Go find out, please." Yes. Hauling sick people around without support is not a good thing. Drusus does not need to tell his men that they need to get these people off the ground: they are campers, they know. Maat says deferentially to the Empress, "Perhaps we may walk together for a measure, and I will show you how I had planned to house the refugees? I would not wish to keep you from your work, but perhaps once I have made clear that which has already taken place, then you can proceed without confusion." She pats Ranjeet's hand a second time and a faint furrow appears above her eyes. She looks with concern at her Second. "Are you well, Imphadi? Perhaps you ought to visit the Healers yourself." Yet, with the day fading, she does not wait for an answer from Ranjeet, but simply gives him another concerned look before indicating the general direction she would like to take Aurora and waiting for the Empress to proceed before her. Nodding in understanding, Ranjeet bows to both women, Varati and Empyrean, and just as silently as he returned does he takes his leave. He walks quietly back to his tent, his mind not on the healers ... he deals with them every day. No, there is a project that must be done while he takes a moment and rests. No time for sleep ... but a short break, yes. And some sewing would settle his mind. Ducking into the small tent, the Seshmew now calls home, Ranjeet vanishes from sight without a word or a glance back. Two females, one with the wings of an angel, the other arrayed in the tones of the earth vanish into the chaos. In their wake, of the Emperor's and of his minions, order comes. Though it advances slowly, the calm after the storm soothes the sick and brings with it the air of hope.
FIN
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