Decoys

“ Do not pity them, Lady Killer,” the man in fine white robes with blue and gold trim said in an offhanded manner. He reached with a hand and smoothed back the side of his perfectly groomed hair. Then he curled his fist around his chin, tapping his high, angular cheekbone with one long slender finger.



Oman was a vision of stillness, surrounded by the withering, floating, voluminous robes of gray. The cloak of which, was pulled low around her head. As she shifted, she saw the man's blue eyes travel from the floor at her feet, to her waist and pause. His eyes narrowed, suspiciously occupied there at the small of her back. Like a tree blows against a gentle breeze she turned her neck, the fragrant clove root smoke blew in a stream through the veils silk fabric. He got the point, and turned once more to look through the large one-way plate glass window of the viewing room they were in.



“ I think, Sir, you mistake my scrutiny for pity,” Oman said succinctly in her throaty, sanded voice. The Slaver was quiet for a time, allowing her to peruse the line of ten women, blindfolded, bound, and knelt along a riser on the other side of the glass. “ Number's 1, 3, 6, and 10,” she lifted the hand holding the cigarette between the pinch of fingers, and indicated each in turn. The Slaver nodded, pushing and holding down a button on the wall next to an intercom. He relayed the numbers to a handler on the other side, and let the button go with a click. The four women were poked with a goad, and commanded to stand up close to the glass.



The Slaver again, put eyes on the eerie form of the Woman beside him. He watched with some level of amazement at the way she moved in perpetual grace. “ Fascinating,” he said to himself. Oman turned to level a gaze on the man. She mirrored him. From the carriage of his lean body, to the square of his broad shoulders. Even so much as to reflect his own snarky, objectifying, grin back at him. “ Number 6 does not meet the height requirement, or the weight ratio, and, I believe, Number 1 is a Barbarian. I remember having very specific needs when we spoke of this transaction,” she extinguished the cigarette between the pinch of her forefinger and thumb, " They were to be exactly 56 horts, weigh precisely 33 and one quarter stone, dark haired, light eyed and have fair skin. Too, they were all supposed to be of Ar."  The Slaver, no longer fascinated or amused, cleared his throat and nodded. She continued, “ With that in mind, I will only be taking Numbers 3 and 10. I am quite sure that the price will reflect the difference, of course.” The man's jaw flexed hard as he nodded in agreement. “ They have been trained for my needs?”, Oman spun slowly to face the four women in a line, paying particular attention to the two she'd agreed to purchase. “ Yes. Just as you required, Lady Killer,” The Slaver replied, tucking his hands behind his back in a grasp.

.

Choices and Crossroads - Two Paths

-the author wishes to credit the above art to Dave McKean and Neil Gaiman

' Some labels are forced on us. They mark us, set us apart until we're like ghosts just drifting through other peoples lives. But only if, we let the labels hold. You can throw your whole life away, trying to figure out who you might be. It is only when you've worked out who you are, that you can really start to live. '
-From the BBC original series, Being Human


" Will you, cross the fields of gold for me?"


Morning fog washed the landscape of Venna in a universal solvent. Golden grass, burned from the sun, became as silver as the first light of the horizon beyond it. And still, the world as she knew it, hibernated, lulled by the songs of insects, of birds, and animal's chuff's. Inside the one room cottage, you could be insulated from the beauty. From its spell. She smoked near an open window. The heavy curtain pulled aside so she could watch the shrinking form of a man cross the fields of vines on their trellis'. High above, a Tarn circled. It would be a day's ride back to the Glorious City of Ar.



The nomination had been pushed across the desk. It bore her name, with the beautiful Gorean script for the letter O, outlined in etched calligraphy. " May I keep this?", she had asked, lifting the parchment to admire it. The man behind the desk looked up wearily, and nodded. Whether she was an annoyance or he was truly that tired was unclear, but, for certain, at this moment she stared down at everything she'd ever worked for. The unobtainable goal, achieved. For someone such as Oman Khan, this should have been an auspicious occasion. She turned to leave the Great Hall. " You know of course," she said over a shoulder back to the man behind the ebony desk, " I must decline." Walking passed the monuments of their archives along the walls in their glass cases, the man replied, " Yes, of course."  The double doors of carved Black opened simultaneously as she strode through them.

Seraphim, no more.

" ..brighter once amidst the host of Angels, than that star the stars among. "-Milton

In the living of a life of choices, we all make mistakes. Some are simply more severe than others. More, detrimental.



Ibrahim is an excellent Player. The merit of his skills, were he not of the Caste of Merchants, could earn him a good amount of renown amongst those that closely follow the Game. In life he too is a cunning adversary. Always keenly a dozen steps ahead. Though, much like when playing Kaissa, there are surprises and the unexpected hat trick. Sometimes you cannot see the move, until it is upon you.



Finding Oman in the alleyway, being beat within an inch of her life, was one such unanticipated event. He'd removed his scimitar, unnecessarily, for when a man of such proportion and stature yells with the full power of a monster, an eight foot frame and its diaphragm, the reaction from anyone would be to take flight. It is only natural.

She fell slumped to the ground, blood and spittle dripping from her mouth as she coughed. The assailants had tried to rip the leather from her chest and legs. They had not quite gotten to cutting them off before Ibrahim arrived. Both dagger sheaths at her arms were empty. Out of ammo, perhaps at that moment she simply resolved to stop trying. Ibrahim lifted her face from the muck and scooped her to roll over. The form and looming shadow of the Giant hid her from the view of his arriving Guardsman. Ibrahim lifted a hand and halted them from coming closer. He was, at this moment, a man of few words, " Get a blanket," he'd commanded.



Waking in a haze of blinding, stark white. Oman tried to sit up. " She stirs," a familiar voice said impatiently. Before her pale eyes had focused, she was being wrested violently upward. The same voice barked, " You could have gotten killed! Have you no idea what that would mean for me? If they knew?" Finally, the room of her Tabidian apartment came into focus, holding her by the shoulders was Basle. Anger sculpted his normally angelic face. She was cold. Terribly and unforgivably cold. Trembling not with fear, but with sickness and shock. Basle's forearm wrenched back. He meant to strike her. Even with her body's quaking she stuck her jaw out for him, defiantly. A great shadow came across them both, lifting Basle up by the neck and bodily tossing him across the room. Something shattered. " Do not," Ibrahim of Tor filled out his wide chest.



After a long posturing play of whom was the alpha in the room currently, Basle relented. Nodding, he stood, rubbing the side of his face and stretching his jaw. Ibrahim sat on the long low table in front of the bench Oman was laid upon. Gently, he pulled the white blanket over her again. " Leave us," he said, once again with his normal poise. Basle yanked the door to the hallway, and forcibly slammed it. The wall decorations shook. " Shh," he said to her, allowing her to cover her face with the blankets corner.



" In 14 days, I am taking the caravan North. You will come. Alone," Ibrahim said gently. She understood from this it was not a question, nor was it a request.



In playing the Game, sometimes one must sacrifice a simple Spearman often, to protect the Ubara.

Everybody Knows

They stood on the balcony of the House in Ar. The streets below them were filled with the residents of the Theatre District. Oman rested her hands on the balustrade, leaning over to watch the festivities with a smile on her young, bare, face. So much happiness abounded. Drink, songs, and comradery. A man, perhaps her age, waved up to the balcony. His drink sloshed staining his tunic and he laughed. She laughed.


From the shadow of the awning the man in Black spoke to her, " It is not enough to want it, or to deserve it. You are not to simply be a Woman," his words had her turning an ear in his direction. When he spoke, she listened. Always.

The din of the crowd below tuned out, " You must be above reproach. Do you understand? ", he pulled a beautiful black woolen scarf out of his vest.

The words rang in her ears. She was still so impressionable, so young and malleable. Disbelief overwhelmed her as slowly, their implication came into the light. Oman looked down from her perch. Surprise, shock, and sadness in her pale eyes. Blood drained from her face and fingers. The man on the street in his simple tunic raised his peasant's cup in a toast. His best friend slapped him on the shoulder. She understood it all to clearly then. The sound from the festival came back all at once in a deafening cacophony. Moments later, she waved back down to the street below. With numb fingers, she wound the black scarf around her face.



Unseen since.

Duplicity

(Monterrosso Piazza - the author would like to credit Dave Olsen Photography)

Got some bad news this morning,

Which in turn, made my day.

When this someone spoke, I listened;

All of a sudden, I had less and less to say.

Oooo how could this be,

All this time, I've lived vicariously.

This morning I walked through the piazza west of the Great Square. People sat on the small fountain dedicated to another of Ar's unsung minor heroes, Vesuvian. They ate bread, they drank Black Wine, their kettle girls washed clothes. In this hour of the day the city begins to rouse from its sleep. Night, is where my kind often find refuge. If I were to say that I am an exception to this, it is only for today assuredly. I too, carry a basket of laundry. As I sit and listen to the gossip of Women, the cries of babes on their hips, and the pontifications of Men who dine at wooden tables around this small residential square, I find myself wondering;

' Whose life is this? '

Who's gonna save my soul now?

Who's gonna save my soul now?

How will my story ever be told now?

How, will my story be told.

My story begins. I was born a twin. On Gor, this is not an unusual occurrence, in fact more times than not, multiple births are the norm. We were born on a plain where the dust rattling through the high golden grass, gave you a name. The wagon's had come to seek harbor from a storm between two craggy hill tops. There, my Arian mother brought us into the world with venom, anger, and thick spite. Then, still bloody, my father held us up to the sky and pronounced us children of a Khan.

The wind howled and whistled when my brother, born first, had cried out. His tiny fists clenched tight in rage at the dying sun. As if, it dared to leave without his permission. 'Jara,' my father had said handing him off to a waiting woman. Ahn's later my mother soaked in sweat and tears, gave me life. My father was said to consider me there in the fire light for a long time. My birth was not a disappointment to him. Unlike men of the Cities, a daughter of the People's was also a fortune.

I was told, upon gazing into my face in the full moons, my father listened to the wind whisper, creep, and raise the hair on his neck.

He named me, Oman; where the sea meets the sky. The event horizon.

Made me fell like somebody;

Like somebody, else.

Although She was imitated often,

Felt like I would be myself.

It is a shame that someone else's song,

Was totally and completely dependant on.

The community stirred around the center and spread out from my position. The people who resided here smiled at me as they passed by. Even the acolytes in their pretentious white garments and shaved heads, offered me their false blessings. I graciously accepted with a humble dip of my veiled chin. The wind sung between the buildings of the Piazza. I heard my name. My head lifted from its humble thanks. Red on White. Blood on cobblestone. Before he could realize it, the man dropped to his knees and looked to my beloved sky. For in the end of every man's life there is nothing greater than the earth beneath your knees and the sky above your head. The realization of this truth must occur to those, who, like this man in White had lost their path and now were shown the way. He gasped. Blood running from his thigh to stain the fabric of the pristine robe. It was then he choked, "Save Me," hands spread wide in rattling apology for a lifetime of wrong doings.

Who's gonna save my soul now?

Who's gonna save my soul now?

I wonder if I will live grow old now

Getting high 'cause I feel so alone now

The blade only had a small stain on its razored edge. It hid neatly in my basket, that, as I rose to scream settled onto my hip. People came from their domiciles with hands covering their mouths in horror. Behind a middle-class veil and beneath a simple robe I was escorted from the scene. Comforted. Consoled. I hurried away to a family, so I told the Men who held me up from fainting. When I turned the corner I rescued my beautiful blade from its hiding place, leaving the laundry on a stoop from where it had been borrowed. I strolled without hurry, into a new persona.

'It was done,' I thought to myself as a bread maker offered me a free taste of his goods. I purchased several rolls, and carried them off in a paper sack towards the haven of the An'bar.

'Blame whom you must,' I had been ordered. And, I had. They would find marked documents from the Central Cylinder hidden in the fallen man's satchel.

I may be just a little selfish;

All I have is the memory.

Did I never start to wonder,

Is it possible, you were hurtin' worse than me?

Still, my hunger turns to greed,

'cause what about what I need?

I waited under a wrought iron lamp post eating my bread, for Basle's arrival. Messenger, Guard, Watchful eye, Knight to the honor of my self-cause; Basle is all of these things to me. Up the winding avenue, I stared at a dead end. Abandoned, or so it would seem. A dirty child came up with his hands held up. I handed him a roll. It was then that I could feel all of my old turmoil's find resolution. With pride I looked down my angular, Arian nose, with pale eyes that were all at once a fearsome and to some a soothant. The child ran off. I saw a dark haired man in a leather tunic stride up to the corner and turn his head over his shoulder. I could assume with his vigilant stare upon me, I was considered an intruder. He walked up the avenue towards the empty tenements and secluded villa. He did not let his eyes break away. Neither did he smile in polite greeting, nor scowl in protest. Watching. Knowing.

An' Oh;

Who's gonna save my soul now?

Who's gonna save my soul now?

Oh I know, I'm out of control now.

Tired enough to lay my old soul down.

" What kept you?", Basle stepped up to me, giving the dark-haired a lifted brow as if possessive of my person. We began to head deeper into the district. Basle tossing his blonde hair on the wind with a shake, glanced towards our audience. Unrelenting I stared up the street at the dark-haired man, who in turn stared right back at me. Unrelenting. I said to Basle, " I went to pray on the steps of the Temple," then I looked up. " Isn't the sky clear today?"

Someone Does

I will show no mercy for you
You have no mercy for me

The only thing that I ask

Love me mercilessly

 

-Hatefuck by The Bravery

Common Misconceptions





It was a question that he had always wanted to ask. Opportunities, such as her mood, had not presented themselves until now. " Where do you go, when you become still like that?", Basle had asked her before he took a bite of a crisp red fruit. They were perusing the market place on a quiet day. The weather wasn't quite as bleak as it had been.  She had been walking along checking baskets and all at once, the cloud of quiescence overwhelmed every fiber of her being. A distance came between her, you, and the world itself. Leaving only the billow of a tattered heavy cloak to catch the slight breeze through the stalls.



She was turning a peach in her palm as she began to speak. Normally, her terse nature would have her deliver a succinct if not mysterious answer like, ' Away ' or ' Somewhere Else '. For once she thought to answer this rather personal question, fully. Personally. " Does your Mother still live? ", she asked quietly, not turning to look at him in the process. The velvety, thick skinned, fruit was stroked by her fingertips.


Basle swallowed the bite he'd been chewing and nodded Yes in response. " And when you visit her," Oman continued, " when you are standing on the door-mat to her home, do you take a deep breath and leave the Hunter outside before you enter? ", she inquired further. He had sunk his teeth into the meat of the red fruit and nodded once more. " Sometimes, it is like that," finishing her analogy. She offered the merchant a copper for the peach and turned slowly towards the next stall.



Basle, with a mouth full and still chewing, turned towards her with a little incredulity and said, " Hey," he took off after her, " You don't even like peaches."

Shared - Two Cups of Tea

Rain;
Laughing at the window.
Thought I saw your face.
Only cloudy images,
On my window pane,
And all I hear is rain;
And things I tried, to say.

- Concrete Blonde

Storm clouds brewed over head. Oman watched them churn and threaten. In some ways they mocked her as they turned their blooming shade of charcoal gray. They reminded her of great loss, utter sorrow, and life changing heartbreak. The rain that came soon washed away any doubt that somehow we live on after death. It wasn't the first time she'd had the inclination to imagine such things, for if there was a City of Dust, then they were all surely there, their ghosts, raining down on her now. Taking whatever melancholy broke free of the prison-like box she compartmentalized it in.

Fog began to roll in as the sun settled in the horizon. Just as she rounded a street corner a chalk drawing melted into the street. She paused then, proudly, to watch the slow rush of water into the grate, swirling in color defiantly around the iron bars. Once, she had known an Artist. Just like the one who painted this temporary reminder, he was living and breathing. No more, though. Now he is but a bloodstain on the wooden floor of a row-house in Port Kar. Like this chalk, his blood had drained through the cracks into the canals. The sin of his death; of his murder, washed away. The Accountants had seen fit to remind her that she is always of the Black. That this is the life you sign on for, and these are the prices you pay. Steep, as they may be.

The Rabid Sleen's sign creaked in protest. Behind its door there was the raucous laughter of men doing what men do. Inside, on a top tier above some dancing sands, her Sister Savana sat. Oman scanned the crowd to find her. The thoughts proceeding her arrival might seem melodramatic to some. Others still, might see them as a means to an end. Somewhere in those constant reveries she found the sense to procure what she needed in a way that was diplomatic rather than demanding. The two Women met and adjourned to a sidebar, an office, where they could speak without the worry of appearances and expectations. Over their second cup of tea their conversation came understanding and to a degree, trust between them.





" I have come with a request for Names, " The Sea had said.

" I can provide you with Names, " The Crossroads had replied.



Some sin, never washes away. Some sin, stains. But for the Two there can be no regret.

Al Hallaj

Il mio cuore ha occhi che vedono soltanto per voi e sono completamente in vostre mani. Al Hallaj (10 C.)

-Hassan Massoudy

Thread is ripping.
The knot is slipping.
Blindness.
-U2


Knifed.


Bloodstains between us.

I cleaved a niche, crawled inside.
Average Vessel, last Vestige.
Insignificant weight
These leavings of Hate.


Fetal comfort. Love.
Marked, my only sworn Stone.
Its' scar thick walls sealed.
Fused and Healed.


On a rooftop I seeped.
Gone from over your bone.
Drink of my vine.
Threads of silver twine.



Tethered.

Reciprocity

In 1907, MacDougall weighed six patients while they were in the process of dying from tuberculosis in an old age home. It was relatively easy to determine when death was only a few hours away, and at this point the entire bed was placed on an industrial sized scale which was apparently sensitive to the gram. He took his results (a varying amount of perceived mass loss in most of the six cases) to support his hypothesis that the soul had mass, and when the soul departed the body, so did this mass. The determination of the soul weighing 21 grams was based on the average loss of mass in the six patients within minutes or hours after death. Other studies were soon put forward to confirm the results. Experiments on mice and other animals took place. Most notably the weighing upon death of sheep seemed to create mass for a few minutes which later disappeared. The hypothesis was made that a soul portal formed upon death which then whisked the soul away.





I want my 21 grams back, Mother Fucker.







" I saw him," she told her own reflection in her Mother's antique mirror. At times, the distinction between who she is, and, whom she must become is a finite line. World's collide. Tides break. Men fall beneath the ink on a brow. She was trying to convince herself that the delusion of it all, was real. Needing it to be real. The cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the vanity. Through the furl of smoke, she saw her Mother's eyes, so pathetic, weak, and watery pale. Like her Father's ashes. Dust.




In the other room she heard Basle, " Oman, they are here," he knocked gently on the locked door. She flung the paintbrush, with its ink loaded bristles, at the mirror. A hand smeared the stain in large circles. Lineage obscured in the opaque paint. Oman turned her hand over looking at her palm. Black. The Men waited. Seven couriers, bringing the package to her target.




"Drink your tea," another Ghost said behind her, recovering the thrown paintbrush and dipping it into the bottle. With a deftness of memory, she was painted.

Words Borrowed

"We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs, faiths, and fears; the record may seem superficial, but it is indelible."

The stench of Cos still clung to her nostrils. It even overwhelmed the copper smell of blood. The combination of the two was a brutal assault. Oman sat at a table, in the kitchen with her head tilted back. The house she had once called home here in Port Kar, now held very little in the way of comfort for her. The Artist who had shared it with her was dead and gone. With the exception of one lone painting, the entire flat was abandoned. She righted her head, tilting it back from its reclined state and stared blatantly at the portrait of, of all things, herself. It was regarded with a longing to remember the night it had been painted. Instead, currently her thoughts drifted over the brush strokes as if they were not really there. Different circumstances invaded her reverie, and she began to go over them. Inwardly there was a sense of failure that prevailed over the modicum of success in regards to the trip from Ar on a whole. They had indeed managed to escape Cos relatively unscathed, though, she'd lost her pledge in the process. No, Shival wasn't dead. (at least to her knowledge), but, he was missing just the same. It wasn't enough to get what they came for. Pridefully speaking, they should have returned to Ar weeks ago. Too, they should have stayed together. The losing of ones Pupil will not be overlooked, surely and an unblemished record will bear the marks of failure. Much like she did, currently. Oman took the blood soaked rag from her nose and there were obvious and angry hand prints around her neck as if she'd been strangled.




" Has it stopped? ", asked Basle who was looking no worse for wear even with the black eye that was now a very lovely shade and swelling. If it is possible, it only added to his charms. Oman scoffed. She didn't like being rescued by the cavalier guard, who made somewhat a habit of this damsel in distress act. The truth of the matter was that she did not enjoy being reminded that brawling was not her forte`. As a woman, she is not built for close combat. They'd been followed out of Cos, and this was made crystal clear by the awaiting mercenaries that clothes-lined her as she rounded the corner from the Docks of Port Kar. How they managed to arrive first, or, get word that fast, was a mystery. Glowering at Basle, at herself, and at the situation, she replaced the rep cloth. The bleeding had subsided some, but her welted ego was still kicking her ass, but good.



" Oman? ", Basle roused her from the self indulgent pity party, " It isn't like you to be caught off guard. You turned to look at something, and the big one snatched you by the throat, I thought he'd snapped your neck. What happened?" He was looking for an explanation. One she would not give in its entirety, " I thought I saw someone," her voice was laryngitic, still suffering the after effects of being choked. They say that your ghosts always haunt you. If that is true, then Oman is not only preyed upon by waiting Merck's, but also by a past that cannot be undone. Irrevocable, Intangible, and as Indelible as the painting itself. She stared blankly at the portrait leant against the far wall. In this light, it was a vague likeness. Its own empty stare a delicate mirror.



Reflected.

On leading a Double Life, in a Double Entendre`

Screaming at me, all on fire.

Liar, Liar, Liar

I buried you, with my desire.

Liar, Liar, Liar

I buried you so far below.

Liar, Liar, Liar

I hate to see you go.



It occurred to me all at once, that the price we pay for our indiscretions are not monetary. No. This life, through a looking glass has a value greater than gold. Something that we take for granted and let sieve through our fingers like so many promises.

What if there were times where I could see these truths?

What would you say to that, my Lovely Foe?

Why is it that I find myself calling you by that moniker rather than to give your true name?

Perhaps like my own, personal, demon, you would usher forth and become a reality and break me into a thousand shards, if I spoke it. Corrupted Mirror. Your so called sin's upon me like puddles on a dark street. Where I see you in the reflection and I am the depth of their water. I see you and your little, white, lies. Come, my own demon. My old friend.

Go away.

Don't leave me.

Stop following me.

I need you.

Don't look at me.

　
When you believe in things that you don't understand
Then you suffer
Superstition ain't the way

-Stevie Wonder
　
The dark was penetrated by a brilliant flash of lightning. Seconds later the thunder clapped, shaking the walls and the bed with the sonic boom. Rain pelted intermittently at the floor to ceiling windows that ran along the length of the apartment. The storm was on its way, and still, Oman slept. The cloying aroma of the flower bloomed through the twenty second floor apartment. When lightning struck again, you could see the remnant's of the smoke that clung to the marble floors and around the bed she sprawled over in restless sleep. It wasn't a graceful or a lady-like thing to be passed out, half undressed, but she was alone and in the sanctuary of her own home. Every thirty seconds another flash gave birth to the ominous sounds of bowling thunder. It made her twitch in her sleep uneasily, her eyes darting back and forth under their lids. She was dreaming.

The rain poured down over her drenching everything she wore. She was standing on a long pier in the garbs of a peasant looking over the anger of the Sea before her. The tumult of waves crashed over the dock's edge and splashed up over her booted feet. She felt no fear, only a profound and certain curiosity. Something was coming, something was here. The Ocean roared at the shore in defiance. A huge wave rolled in. The sky was grey and lower to the ground than one might imagine. Lightning crept upwards from the horizon to the ominous cloud covered sky. It was a forest of arc's, its limbs and branches of electricity spread to loom between her outstretched hands. The onslaught of the impending wave came crashing down, it parted around her and rocked the pier she stood on. Something was so very near. The metallic taste of ions clung in her mouth and tongue.In this dream she spun around, so fast that it whipped a long trail of water from the braid which hung down her back. A Man who stood at the end of the wharf. He was completely dry and his feet were firmly sunk into the sand. The oceans tide was claiming him little by little. The defiant shoreline persevered. Facing him fully, the rain seeming to wash whatever sins she'd committed between the planks at her feet. The tale of each one slowly dissolved into the ocean under her. Oman stared vacantly at the figure, an amalgam come to haunt her. This man was unknown and yet she knew him. At least in the dream sense, he was a de'ja'vu. Lightning struck her. It coursed around her entire being, arcing from her fingertips to the pylons of the pier. The man dared her to release it.

Another thunderclap rattled the pictures hung on her bedroom walls. Oman jumped off the bed, the sheet sticking to her cheek, her eyes were so dry she couldn't focus. These premonition's always found their way to her in this halcyonic state. Still disoriented, the intensity of the dream made her heart thrum in her chest. Storms were horrible, terrifying, omen's. They told of change, rage, war, and death. Lightning was the curse of the Kings, come down to loose their judgements upon those who were deemed guilty. Only the innocent could survive it. Tuchuk's were intensely superstitious. Oman was no exception to that.

Staggering to a stand she managed to feel her way along the wall to the light switch. In the light she found herself alone in the sanctuary of her home.

Amphitrite

In poetry, Amphitrite's name is often used for the sea, as a synonym of Thalassa.

The dinner ahn upon the city, there was quiet. Crowds had thinned out, as most people had returned to their Arian homes and their Arian families. I stood before a mosaic of Neptune and Amphitrite. Each tile was hand painted, a painstaking process of someones devotion. I can't say how long it held me captivated, or how long it was before I started to drift off in thought, but there I found one of my oldest memories.

We were riding in a wagon, across a vast expanse of grass. Jara held my hand as the sounds of the impending dusk crept up to the caravan. I was cowering in a corner, covered by a thin blanket. Jara sat shirtless, with his back up against my legs. His face had a large burn from temple to jaw, and his hands were peeling and painfully red, there was a pungent odor of salve. Soot and ash coated my throat and dried my eyes, they were gone now, our father's people, dead. We'd been found in a field of high grass, thankfully, by another train of wagons passing by. A midwife, her sister, and her companion carted us off to our last known relative.

The two women were talking back and forth as the wagon rocked, one of them was sewing a leather jerkin. " It is good we found them," the Midwife said. " Are we sure those were the wagons of Khan? ", she looked at us both, her brows knitted, " they do not look like children of the Plains."

The Seamstress put down her work, and also peered over at us. " They are marked, as was Kasim Khan, look at the boys back. "

" Hrmm, " the Midwife continued, a nod as she spoke. Yes, we both had the same port wine marks, as our father before us. " The girl, too?", she questioned the Seamstress significantly.

" Oh yes, both of them, " and she began to sew again. " The boy has so much Storm in him, look at the scowl of his brow, " she said pointing the needle in Jara's direction. I didn't know then, but it was significant. Tuchuk people had a great reverence and fear of storms, particularly those that brought lightning, wind, and rain. " You can almost smell the charge coming off of him, " she nodded as she stitched.

The Midwife began to roll a ball of yarn, " They are not both full of the Storm though, look at the girls eyes, " and she pointed a finger right at me. Jara looked over his shoulder, and squeezed my hand. She continued thoughtfully, " She has the Thassa in her eyes, just look at them, full of all the ghosts on the sandy, kelp ridden, bottom, " then she clucked her tongue against her teeth. " She had better hope to find a companion of Earth or Forest, only the Mountain or the Trees can hold onto that much Water. Rare though. " The Midwife looked upon me as if I were the most pitiful of creatures and finished her thought, " I've never seen that much of the Thassa in one child, no indeed." The woman took a deep breath, " It's a right good thing really, not a burn on her, Water douses Fire, you know."

" Quite the pair, Wrath and Vengeance. It is good we are taking them to Hadas, in Lydius, " the Seamstress spoke of our Aunt with familiarity, " it is the only place where the Ocean and the Storm can live in peace. "

We rode for a while in silence. I can remember looking into Jara's face. I was soothed by the way he patted me, saying nothing, and asking nothing to be said. The Midwife had a matter of fact tone as she finally spoke up, " You know they think that they think Turian's are responsible for the fire, but, funny that they only found one set of boot prints, and someone found a tarn feather, of all things. "

" Hrmm," the Seamstress questioned, " A tarn feather, you say? "

As I walked away from the tiled fresco, a wave of sadness and longing came over me. I cannot say how long it will stay, or whence it came.

Hell Hath No Fury

It was darker than simple darkness, there were no moons to light my way. Stars seemed to hide from the sky like frightened children covering their eyes in terror from a nightmare. Still I stood over the dead body with curiosity. It was simply amazing to me, the automatic change from life to death. Pallor came quickly to the man's corpse, with the loss of blood. Death made his skin begin to glow in the night. I touched the dead man's chin, it was still warm. His eyes were wet and frozen wide open. I tilted my head examining him and watched the blue grey seep over his skin like a dark cloud moved infront of the missing moon. I skirted the ebb of blood pooling freely around my boots and crouched low and near him. None of the others dared stop my macabre inspection. They often left me to my own machinations. I fell, lost into thought. I felt something I remembered, Scorn. She, my ever present enemy of soul. Yes, wrathful anger.

I wonder if I am plagued by the nightingale? Which man mocks me now? The man lying here with nothing to offer but liquid eyes and a price on his head, or the one with a great debt to me? I will exact this payment and finally get justice. Afterall, I had paid for a Life, I will have one in return. Watch over your shoulder for there is no where to hide; No stars or livid moon will grant you the sanctuary or the redemption of shadows.

Patience.

Like a Stone

on my deathbed i will pray

to the gods and the angels

like a pagan to anyone who will take me to heaven

to a place; i recall, i was there so long ago

the sky was bruised, the wine was blood

and there you led me on

It was nearing dawn. The fog had settled across the lawns in dream-like angels that the birthing sun caught and burned away. I could almost hear their hissed sigh of pain, relief, and release. I brought the bottle to my lips and drank. I was thirsty not only for the wine, but the new day. I sat here watching the sunrise from a lofty perch on the roof of the House Samsara. I had once lived here. I was looking to go back to that previous life, even if only for a little while.

The night had been taxing. My hands were crusted with the fruits of my labors which now crackled and flaked off on the breeze. The wounds I had sustained a month ago were still tender, but no longer empowered with control of my actions. Yes, I killed men last night. I had been out of commission, summoned, and put back to the task at hand. I was reminded of what was at stake; the trade I had made. One life saved, for my complacent servitude. The brothers Red and Black think to control me. They only see the woman in me, and think to pass over the assassin I am. It is a mistake.

"Oman," came a low voice I knew (and by all rights loved). " Why do sit on the edge?" he asked.

I answered without turning to face my demon, " I was considering falling off, " I continued calmly, " Why are you here?"

" I have been sent to keep your considerations, simply that, " he answered plainly. I did not turn around lest my heart break.

I am resolute in my choices. I did, I remind myself, make this choice. What was done would never be undone; would never come undone.

Homage

Shanked.


"You're bleeding quite a bit," Basle's brow furrowed. "Maybe we should see a Physician."

" It's nothing," I tried to answer calmly, my voice was sounding stark. " Get me to the Tabidian," picking up stride.

It was late as we walked. The streets were empty. The others were looking at each other, and at me. Two of the others were wounded. I wasn't in much pain but, my vision was beginning to blur. I needed to stay focused until we got to the apartment. I had to make it to the apartment. The blood was pooling in the fingers of my gloves and running in streams down my leg into my boot. I could hear drumming sounds in my ears as we rounded the corner.

" Dispose of the bodies, leave nothing in the alley," I sent the four I thought most capable, " Take Herschel and Castor to the Caste Physician." Basle refused to go with them, " No trace, do you understand? " The pounding in my head was getting louder. I swear I heard Basle say, " He's going to kill me for this."

We entered the double doors of the towers foyer. Behind a desk was the manager of the residences. His eyes widened with the quiet spectacle. He nodded his head once, and the elevator opened. Before the doors closed behind us, I saw three slaves with buckets and rags mopping up the spattered footprints I left behind. " Send the doorman a satchel, Basle, " I remembered to say. Once the doors closed, I began to feel the wounds. I slumped against the elevators wall. " Get a signal to The Cleaner, " I managed to get out with great labor, " For the trail on the streets." The last brother, Aradorus, exited the elevator on the second floor, and went to carry out my orders. Managing the situation seemed to help me retain focus.

Basle had acquired an apartment here in the Tabidian on the fourth floor. That is where we headed. I did not argue, it was closer. We stepped out of the elevator, the hallway seemed to stretch out to an impossible length. I was starting to feel cold. After what seemed ahns, we reached his residence. I leant against Basle, trying not to touch the walls. Basle slung my good arm around his shoulder. " I've got you, not to worry, " there was great angst in his voice.

I looked at him gravely and grabbed fist fulls of his shirt and cloak, " Do not let them see my face Basle, promise me." He was resolute and again the moniker for honor and ethics, " I will not allow it. I swear." He unwound my fists and brought a first aid kit. Tearing off lengths of gauze. "It's sterile, " he assured me. His hands were steady as he pulled the glove off. The blood had congealed some, making it stick and tear from the open wound. When he reached for my wrist I saw stars. He pressed the gauze firmly. I heard the door open quietly, " I think you'll be needing new gloves, She," Ibrahim had arrived with his caravans doctor, a man named Farrakan. " All is well, do not fret, " he nodded to me. He held my eyes a long while, without words I knew he would see me safely through this. " Mind her wrists, there are trigger daggers, " I heard Ibrahim warn the Physician. Basle made sure to unhinge them and unbuckle the mechanisms. I saw a bright light shine into my eye, and all faded to a haze. " The wound at her hip is a simple flesh wound, though there is still a shard of glass in it. This arm looks worse. I think the weapon nicked her artery, " was the last thing I heard.

I was standing in the meeting halls of the Black. Beside me, my sponsor. Before me sat three men their eyes filled with malice and judgement. Dragon, Ralton, and the eminent Captain, Surbus. I swallowed back my youth and inexperience like a hard lump of reality. My sponsor spoke, " I bring to you this pledge. She comes from years at the training schools of Ar. I have personally seen to her education further. She will be the one." He was held fast with conviction. The schools he spoke of were where I spent the entirety of my youth. When my family had died, my brother and I were sent there. Our tuition paid by a small estate. We lived under constant scrutiny and vigilant discipline. My brother was sent to the Red four years previous. The teachers had a different set of intentions for me.

I was not the first Woman to grace the presence of the Chairs. If I did not overcome that adversity, I could have been the last. An argument broke out amongst the four men. It was fueled by fists pounding the arms of the chairs. Raised voices became shouts. I did not move or flinch in time we stood before them. They would not see my fear, even when Surbus jumped from his chair with vehemence, I held still. In the end, the decision was that I was a necessary evil. A woman could open doors no man could. They would allow me probationary status. I could not take away coin from the Brothers, so they would throw me a few test contracts. Tests indeed were to be my lifes work and greatest chore. I would carve the way for the next. I would not falter. I would not fall victim. I would rise. Within the next hand, I had a Sister, Aspyyre, amongst the Brotherhood. She would walk this path with me. She and I would show them the error of their judgements. It was not long after, that the Chairs occupancy changed. They knew our dedication and zealous loyalty to the Caste. For this we were rewarded with the most difficult to obtain trusts. Tasks that took great patience and subterfuge. Soon we were no longer two, but twenty.

My mouth was dry when I awoke. It was daylight. I was still in Basle's residence. I sat bolt upright and felt my face, the wrapped coverings still there. The doctor fussed over me, making me drink thick juice. I asked for tea and was refused with mumbled comments. " Your defensive wound will take some time healing. I removed the glass from your side, it should be healed within a few days, " The Physician Farrakan said while packing his satchel, " See to it she favors that arm. The cut was quite deep. I can see by the scarring over the rest of her, she will know what to do. " He handed Basle a bottle of antibiotics. I laid back down. Yes, this was not the first time I'd jumped to meet a shank. Nor, do I believe it would be the last. As the fog of drug induced sleep came over me once more, I saw them. My trio of ghostly companions, ever present, rarely seen. Earth, Air, and Fire were there in the full length hallway mirror. The laudanum smelled sweet on my breath. I heard the Beloved speak. Darkness. Damned Mercenaries and their make-shift weapons. I had just broken those gloves in.

Prideful

I did not have to ask Ibrahim if he made the delivery I requested. There was no point, the giant of the deserts always completed requests as planned. Perhaps he leads an ideal charmed life. Lucky then, I have made him loyal.

"Yes of course, my First. It is done. The Crossroads will fulfill your request," I had said standing tall. He was gruff today. Haggard even. The plotting was taking its toll on his chiseled face, making it coarse. " I assure you, one way or another, I will get to him," I was held fast to my prediction. I have no choice but to be. Conviction. " May I ask, what will be the payment to the Woman, should she complete this for you?", I was referring to the Baker of course. I found myself curiously interested in what they would offer her at the end of all of this. They had said she would be compensated.

The First lifted his head he was looking at me, but not seeing me. He lowered his head, " Why do you wish to know? What difference is it to you ?", I should have waited more patiently, for a better opportunity. I answered, " I wish to know what to tell her, should it come to that." Hoping that was simple enough to secure the secret. " We will discuss it when that time arrives, " he answered dully. Moods aside this was the most emotion I'd ever seen this man betray. Was he entrusting me ?

" If there is nothing else, I shall take my leave, my First, " he waved me off only to call out, " She will be offered a position of standing. That is all for now, go."

I had left unceremoniously. No reason to leave with pomp and circumstance. As I walked the streets of the Anbar I thought of that meeting. Savana Vinquient, She Killer. Basle sat where I had put him. I half wanted her to pick him without question. Then I could find dislike for her. But, she did not. He was too transparent. Too young, and perhaps to eager. She had questioned my motives a great deal. It was good, her interest in our intentions. At first I mistook this for loyalty to the Woman. But, I believe it now was her own curiosity. Situations sometimes do need answers, even Black requests.

Tonight I would find the Tabidian Residence more to my liking. I have no need to don the robes and veils of the Apothecary for such a short stint. In truth, sometimes the smells around the stall gave me a headache, made me hallucinate. I had more business to attend, I was after all still painted.

I sat before my mirror, my reflections dancing behind me. The brush dipped in black paint was used. The mask of She stared back at me. The flame on the candles flickered. Two more men of Ar would find the dirt and nap forever. Dust to dust, and all of that. I had used this long respite to reinvent my plan.

No bodies would be found.

To Clement, or not to clement

The Contingency

He had said, "Let it be." Such is the way of men. Cruelest orchestrations set in tablets of salt. So shall it be done.


I am simply the messenger, delivering mortality at its finest hour for the price of a contract. Betrayal that singes the edges of family bonds. The brothers are good men. Just men, in the end. They have a dream that Ar shall return to its glory. Who cares in what kind of paper the present is wrapped? Isn't it the thought that counts? I see their vision, and believe its wholesome. Does this make me a puppet? I think not. I think this makes me a visionary. I am from Ar. Once, before the beauty of black paint I was an Arian Woman. Regal. Now I owe no Home Stone fealty. Deep within the recess of my heart I hold love for the city. Perhaps this is a fault, perhaps this is an asset. Relevant to be sure.



They had called for me, the Red and the Black. To be dutiful I arrived on time. I did not choose to linger at the door and listen, instead I simply knocked and entered. Call it pragmatism, but I am no longer interested in what their plans are, only that I carry out this task and have it be done. They were huddled over the desk, pointing at some plans when I entered. Neither seemed altogether interested in my presence only that the door was closed behind me.


"It seems as though our tides have shifted, my Sea, " the First had said. I nodded a reply. " Make an amendment to our previous order. We shall wait this out, and see what unfolds."

I said nothing in reply. But, didn't I suggest that? Whatever these two were plotting, if they wanted my opinion they would ask for it and they would usurp the idea as their own.

The Red looked at me full on. I think he was pondering a de'ja vu, at least one seemed to wash over his rugged face. I kept stoic, for should he know that he had spoken to me, in truth, stared upon my almost bare face, it might make him angry at the deception. He did drink much that night, also, he was one of those men who tries very hard. It was embarrassing. I did deceive him on purpose. I also, did it with great joy and slight sanctimony. He deserved it.


The two were passionate. Not about the affairs of most men, their passion was played out in a great love of their city and Home Stone. They wanted to rebuild, remodel, and reinvent it. I listened for a while to their discussion. It was provocative, and called for reform. It was citizen friendly, and at least sounded like an even balance of good and evil. Politics never made much sense to me. You must rob the poor to renovate the dilapidated. Seemed like a sad tale of budgets and taxes. To the two of them, it was the things dreams were built on.


I went to leave, and the First called for me, " You will continue on as if nothing has changed. Should clemency be called, I will do it personally. Do you understand? " As patronizing as it sounded, I think he just wanted to be reassured. " Yes, my First."



"You may go," he waved me off to show his control. Everyone in their own way is a thrall to something more important or powerful than themselves. I am no different. This is a profundity to which I will find no answer or end.

In Perpetuity

You are my constant.
My northern trajectory,
My broken Mirror,
House of my reflection.


You are my constant,
An audience held captive;
Bewitched by wit,
To which I am chained.

Stalking


Down



Moonless gardens,
Sunny Alleyways,
Resounding rain gutters.


You are my constant.
My cruelest curse;
My truest good deed,
Unyielding faith.

Vigilant hater do not fall prey to your guesswork;
It is not what you think.
It simply is,
Constant.

Commend, Condemn, Collide

The banquet was beautiful. The people in attendance roaring with hurricane forces. Like a hurricane it was lovely to watch and yet altogether terrible to experience. The wine at least, was good. I am not one for food in public places. It is unfortunate to have this kind of neurosis, as it genuinely smelled delicious.


Ibrahim proved himself useful when he wasn't enjoying the bread. He seemed to know just when to draw attention so that I could leave a trail for my target to follow. I am commanded by the powers that be to make this man, the target, come to me. This was not the way I would have it, but it is not for me to choose. I am beginning to despise this new world order. Edict or not, it is not right to expect me the black whore. Figuratively, of course. I am above this type of behavior, but, a contract is binding. I have agreed to fulfill it, and am being compensated well. There is something to be said for knowing your place in this world. Then again, there is something to be said for rooftops, too. I'd prefer the latter.


I was told a story once, of a great woman who knew her place. It always struck a chord with me. She had been a woman of plainness and not particularly beautiful for the times but, she had command of a powerful man. Moreover, a man she wanted and desired, held captive by her guile. It was not without rumor as to how. Some had said she was a witch who enthralled him with a poison. Others had said she begged the Moons, and her wish was granted. One proclamation was more simplistic in nature. It had been said she would give him just enough to instill the want of her, and then she would walk, sometimes run away. Subsequently, this powerful man would chase her, want her, have to have her. She became his obsession. He gave up companion, Home Stone, religious affiliation, and almost his monarchy. Just to have her? Just to hold her? No, just to posses her. When the hunt for her had come to an end, bored of her whims, he betrayed her. I do not believe she was a heretic as the story's end would have us conclude. It is my feeling she was done in by love. Lust is a chase, love is a conqueror. Love after all, had chopped off her head in a market square. Love had watched it roll into the awaiting basket. Love had left her to the flies and spectators.


I had been seen. Stalking me across the room. It is like being a feast at the pulpit of the poor. Or, more like kaissa, if played right, of course. A moved piece, a first pawn, sacrificed for the long war and not the quick battle. A taste of things to come. It isn't as if we have never been the object of someones affection before. For that matter I also know what it is like to covet with desperation. I can play this out. If experience teaches us anything it will be that we can draw upon that past for use now. The Lady Desdemona with her regal poise, and long slow voice, I hear her speak to him. To someone.


He will hunt us down.