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.