DK: Live by the Sword, Live a Good Long Time (Chy 28 MT)

[Malakhai Qinua]

Malakhai arose shortly after dawn and made his way down to the causeway parade ground behind the tower of the Drum.

Its rounded surface was well pitted and pockmarked from many battles and clashes with sandstorms, but it had old bones that went deep into the ground and it was strong. On top of this tower, several guards stood peering through the thick battlements to get a look at visitors. The tower was strategically placed to give defenders a place to attack from above and force those that would assault the Keep to go around its base and be funneled into a wide gap between the outer walls where arrows and rocks would rain down on them. The area behind the tower was like a courtyard and was flat and open. Two connecting walkways crossed overhead for the guardians of the Keep to move back and forth from the round tower to the rest of the keep.

The young tribesman had been at the Keep for a few days already, but knew little of its other inhabitants, aside from the dreshi Lockwood and Denbar. So one of the reasons he'd come down to the parade ground was to remedy the situation and attempt to make a few friends. The other reason was that he liked to keep himself in shape by exercising. Although he was more than a little vain, it wasn't just vanity. Training as a Dragon Knight would require a constant high level of physical fitness.

Finding a quiet spot by the wall, he shrugged off his heavy robe and left it in a heap on the ground. Under the robe he wore breeches but nothing above the waist, enjoying the feel of the mountain air on his leathery browned skin. After doing as many push-ups as he could manage, he stood up and flexed his arms, then set off at a steady jog around the courtyard. All the time he kept his eye open for others who might be out and about to enjoy the early morningtide weather.

[H`saan Alai]

In the days since he had settled into the Keep, H'saan had mainly stuck to the infirmary, acquainting himself with the place and people therein. He had come to know some of the Knights, but only as patients and not as comrades and warriors. It was, in part, a deliberate decision not to get too close. The healer felt that a certain distance was necessary in his line of work - unfortunately, friendship and emotion could cloud one's professional judgement in the most stressful of situations.

But he was not made to be alone, had never been. Nor was he made to lead the contemplative life of the scholar-healer - his legs were growing too restless. So this early morningtide, he found himself drawn to the parade grounds where the cream of Dragonskeep's young men, those closest to him in age and interests, gathered each day to train their skills in blade and battle.

After the excitement at the gates last night, only one seemed to have arisen earlier than was absolutely necessary. H'saan recognised the lean brown form of the Tribesman, Malakhai, running laps around the courtyard.

Not for the first time, he wondered: Now what djinni is it that drives this one so? As fond as he was of his adopted people, H'saan had to admit that their attitude towards outsiders was less than ideal. In fact it normally ranged from disdain to outright hostility. For one of them to leave Terra Incognita and to bow to the rule of guarrdi, foreigners, was practically unheard of.

This one had a tale to tell. One which would probably ruin the whole morningtide. As curious as he was to find Malakhai's motives for joining the Dragon Knights, H'saan wasn't prepared ask it of him yet. If the Sandsman wished to speak of his past, he could do so in his own time.

"Anddi-hu! A fine morningtide for a run!" the half-giant bawled out cheerfully instead. "These stones cannot compare with the open sands but still, we must get what exercise we can, eh? A race?" he challenged him with an open grin.

[Malakhai Qinua]

Malakhai indeed had a tale to tell, although he hadn't yet collated it in his own mind in a form that was pleasing to him. The problem was that the root of the matter - the spark that had led him to abandon his people and take up arms in a foreign order - was perhaps nothing more than a fit of petulance. Still, it didn't usually take the tribesman long to come up with a rationale for his actions with the benefit of hindsight. In time, he would craft it into a masterful narrative with the facility that many of his people had for retelling history.

Upon noticing H'saan, he trotted to a halt, wondering once more at the sheer size of the man before him. Mal had only once seen a half-giant before, accompanying a caravan through the sands as a guard, and then too he had had cause to marvel. Stranger still was the fact that this one garbed himself in the manner of the People of the Sands, and spoke their dialect. Malakhai's thoughts in fact mirrored H'saan's in one respect at least: He has a story to tell.

"Kal'essen, anddi-hu," he replied with a wide smile. Mal was not one to be outfaced, or to turn down a challenge. In fact, under most circumstances he'd consider himself a good bet to outsprint any opponent: tall and muscular, with strong, lean legs from racing his friends and his mercurial mother across the dunes near the City of Tents. On the other hand, he'd never had occasion to try his luck against someone with legs nearly a foot longer than his. The better part of him relished the opportunity. "Ack wish to race? This one hopes that ack are prepared to lose." The brashness was pretty inappropriate, but Malakhai never thought too hard about such things.

With the tough boot on his left foot he scraped a crude line across the ground of the courtyard, indicating the Drum with a sweeping gesture. "To the tower and back?" He hopped from one foot to another.

[H`saan Alai]

"Ha!" H'saan let out a short, sharp bark of laughter as he set aside his staff and began stripping down to his waist. Anyone coming behind him would see an impressive number of bold geometric shapes inked into his skin, coalescing into the form of a great mammoth with its trunk snaking down the half-giant's spine.

Still grinning widely, he stepped back a few paces behind Malakhai, adding the extra distance to compensate for the advantage of his larger size. The little ritual reminded him of the times he spent as a boy, running wild around the Native Quarter of Sabata with a ragtag bunch of scamps. Every day had been a contest to see who could run the fastest, jump the furthest, climb the highest - the half-giant had quickly found that victory was meaningless in the abscence of a level playing field. He shuffled back until he was satisfied that they would both be challenged equally, then scuffed his own line in the dirt.

"To the tower and back," H'saan agreed. "And let us see, my friend, if your words remain so bold when there is more than simple pride at stake. 'Let us make it interesting,' as the Westerners say. If I prevail..." he fished around for a suitable prize. "Then you can show me how you use that fine blade of yours, say."

He gestured to Malakhai, inviting the Sandsman to name the terms of his victory. If they reached an agreement, then he would ready himself in a crouch at the starting line.

OOC: do you want Vanadius to arbitrate or shall we settle this with a d6? with say, +1 modifier for Malak's running skill.

[Malakhai Qinua]

(OOC: Let's let the dice decide. )

The tribesman raised a well-defined eyebrow when H'saan chose to give himself a handicap. He was tempted to be insulted... but then looked at the sheer size of the man, and decided that it was fair enough after all. Then he spoke of a wager.

Malakhai didn't have much to offer, so the deal was a fair one in his eyes, although he had no idea what the half-giant might have that he could request. Except, maybe, the thing that interested him the most: the other man's story. "Agreed," he responded. "And if this one wins, he would like to hear the tale of how one of your kind ended up in this place." He smiled and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Over a drink or two, perhaps."

Once he'd satisfied that the deal was acceptable to H'saan, he coiled himself like a trap at the starting line a pace or two in front of the half-giant's. "Ready... set... GO!"

(OOC: As witnessed by Danny and the Rat in chat, the dice gods have seen fit to grant me a 2. With the +1, the total is 3.)

Malakhai had the advantage of being warmed up, at least, but he was also a little fatigued from the laps he'd already done. Nevertheless, he gave it his best shot, legs pumping as he barrelled across the courtyard to the squat bulk of the Drum. For a flicker it occurred to him that the guards on the fortifications might panic and consider it an invasion... but he reassured himself that it would be a strange invasion with just the two of them, sizeable though they both were. Added to that, of course, they were racing towards the Drum from inside the castle compound; not exactly the direction invaders would be expected to assail them from. Still, the possibility was an amusingly tragic one.

These thoughts were sufficient to keep him entertained and focused as he touched the stone of the tower and then cannoned back towards the starting line, paying little heed to the position of his friendly adversary.

[H`saan Alai]

"Ready... set... GO!"

H'saan sprang off the starting line at the sound of Malakhai's voice. It took him a few strides before he found his rhythm, stretching his long legs out in an effort to catch up with the tall Tribesman. He began to wonder if he'd been a little too cocky when he found himself trailing behind as they approached the Drum.

Slowing only slightly as he approached the half-giant placed his hand and one foot against the tower wall, using his momentum to launch himself back into the race explosively. His fortune appeared to be changing as he drew closer and closer... and then level with his foe...

OOC: Dunno how to roll a dice in chat. I rolled a 3.

With a final grunt the half-giant threw himself forward for the last few paces but by then it was all over. He slowed down and trotted back around in a large circle to face Malakhai, panting from the effort. The morning sun lifted away the thin sheen of sweat from his bronzed skin. He pushed his hair back and stretched his arms out behind him. It felt good.

"I think, my friend, that must have been too close to call. So." H'saan raised his eyebrows at Malakhai. "Shall we stop for that drink before we return to the swords? And before I forget." He extended a large hand to the tall knight. "This one is H'saan Alai, of Sabata."

[Malakhai Qinua]

"This one is Malakhai Qinua, of the Black Tribe." The lanky tribesman stood from where he'd collapsed over the finish line, flexing his shoulders and calf muscles, and shook the half-giant's solid hand. In the last few flickers of the race he'd been too busy running to even notice who was in the lead, although during the return leg he'd been aware of H'saan's presence close at hand. "Formerly of the City of Tents."

Unusually for the highly competitive young man, he was happy enough with the result being announced as a draw. In fact, after his gentle humiliation at the hands of Warden Blacktree - which, he reminded himself, the half-giant had been there to witness - he was happy enough not to have lost, and it had given him a good chance to really step it up a gear. The whole experience reminded him of the last person he'd raced, his mother, especially since he'd had cause to mention his origins at the Hidden City. Still, there was a friend to be made, and that was more important than any old grievance rearing its ugly head. "Excellent plan."

Returning to the place where he'd dumped his robe, he slid it on over his bare torso and breeches before leading the way to the watering-hole he'd visited a few days before.

Against the curtain wall to the far right stood a small, tall building with a sharp, pointed steeple topped by a circular symbol of silver, its shadow falling down upon Pete's cafe, another of the semi-permanent buildings hastily converted from what might have been a stabling in more peaceful times. The winding 'streets' of the settlement were little more than paths between collections of shanties and tents, paths that almost bustled with activity as the stoically optimistic citizens of Dragon's Keep continued to work despite their hardships.

It was not unlike seeing history begin. While the place was little more than a large, ramshackle set of walls added on to what was once a stabling, it did work as a diner... numerous unhinged doors were utilized as tables all through the spacious interior... and its kitchen, clearly visible since the diner had only one room within... was at least active and clean. Already into its third day of operation, Peter was already picked as the man charged with the keep's rationing, if such measures would be required, and all the inhabitants of Dragon's Keep came to him for their daily nourishment. The diner had no name... it was not even a proper business in any civilized sense... but it was quickly becoming known as "Pete's Diner" in honour of the man that always seemed to be working within.

Malakhai seated himself at one of the tables, stretching his legs out and letting out a contented yawn. The tribesman liked to think that he could match up with the best of them even when it came to being lazy. "After all that running, I could eat a horse," he commented. "Although I hear that such a thing is frowned upon, on this side of the desert." His lips parted in a wide grin, revealing his slightly yellowed teeth. "So tell me. What drew you here, from the City by the Sea?" Mal was just as curious to hear how one of H'saan's kind had come to be in Sabata in the first place, but that would hopefully emerge in the telling.

[H`saan Alai]

Lounging back in one of the largest and sturdiest seats he could find, the half giant signalled to the waitstaff to come and take their orders. When they came he would ask for a cold black tea. In the meantime, Malakhai’s question remained to be answered. "Education," H’saan said simply before elaborating. "The Apothecaries' Guild in Sabata recognised me as an apprentice healer not long ago, after I brought to their attention a health matter of some public interest. Poison in some of the wells... some fools were calling it a plague when clearly it was not...” He waved his hand dismissively. “In any case, this one is pleased to have the guild’s acceptance, but has no desire to slave himself for the next five yahren to some dusty old kurdi-gol in his herb shop, as is the custom before one proceeds to the next rank of journeyman. I wish to further my skill, but under more stimulating conditions, yes? So I have come here. To work with warriors such as the Keep’s knights, and to speak with their learned men, like the Bishop who came last eveningtide.”

“But that is not the tale you wish to hear, I would wager." The tall healer raised one eyebrow with a knowing smile. “I have met others of your kin in my travels of the Sands, and always they ask the same question. How does a great desert dweller of Amun Rah come to live as the small desert dwellers of Terra Incognita? Well my own reply is quite simple. As a youngling I was often left in the care of Marianna the healer, a wise woman of the Red Tribe. Her heart was as boundless as her mind was sharp, and though she had children of her own, she raised this one also, in the best ways she knew. Dreshi is the name I call her, but in my heart she is honoured as the woman who was my mother.”

H’saan bowed his head in a short tribute. That was all there was to it, really, but well aware that neither explanation was the dramatic narrative that would please and entertain the younger man, he continued on. “The simple answer. Yet my own life is but the end of a greater story, one worthier to share in exchange for your time and teaching.” The half giant swept his hand out, gesturing towards Malakhai with his palm to the ceiling and fingers slightly spread. “But will you first tell me more about yourself, andi-hu? For this telling is not one which I would share with a stranger.”

H’saan’s smile widened in anticipation. The City of Tents! Even to other tribes, the hidden capital of the People of the Sands was a place of great mystery, and this boy had grown up in the heart of it! Although he tried not to appear overly eager, the healer was most curious to see what sort of man would walk out of a legend.

[Malakhai Qinua]

"An Aiel*, please," Malakhai requested of the waiting staff, his tongue stumbling over the name of the alcoholic beverage. He was in Dragonskeep now, not the desert, so he figured he ought to start drinking what the locals drank. No matter that most people didn't drink beer in the early morningtide. Malakhai would learn that soon enough.

As H'saan related his story, Mal grew both disappointed and intrigued. It was true that the tribesman had been hoping for a more earth-shattering narrative. Still, at the same time the half-giant had clearly divined his intentions for asking, and was equally clearly offering more in return for insight into his own origins. H'saan knew how to strike a good deal, for it was ever thus among the People of the Sands. Storytelling could often be a matter of give and take.

"Well, this one numbers himself among the Black Tribe," he began, "but has few of the qualities they would value. Although I was brought up among them, in the Hidden City, I am no shaman, and nor will I ever be. I could only be a kholen as a man of action." Malakhai had convinced himself of it, at least. Plus he lacked the constance to be a shaman, but he didn't want to admit that.

"My childhood was as any other son of the People," he continued. "I loved, learned, travelled, scuffled. Ignored my father's teachings and adored my mother." For the flicker Mal was absorbed in his own story such that he didn't consider that the formative experiences of others could have been different. "In truth there was little of great interest in my life until a month ago. With my family I had left the City for some reason or other, for my father was a great shaman and followed the stars." Malakhai was intending to keep the story's ending a secret for dramatic purposes, but he couldn't keep the distaste for Oyon Qinua from his voice. In his mind, his father was the real villain of the story. "We made camp every night and moved on each day. But one night was different. At gravetide I awoke to a swirling of sand and found that we were under attack from above. A dragon of asful had come."

After a brief pause he continued. Now he truly was unable to be impartial, his voice distorted by grief. "I wanted to fight, but my father forbade it. Even when the beast swooped down and took my mother in its claws. As a coward he stood impotently as it bore her away." To his surprise, Mal found that tears were springing to his eyes. This was the first time he had related the events that led to his joining the Dragon Knights, and the telling was more painful than he'd imagined. The scorn in the narrative had grown to a ferocious level. "He would not use his great learning and magickal prowess to save the woman he loved."

Malakhai took a deep breath and swallowed. "Suffice it to say that I could not remain with my father after that. I came here, far away, so that I could learn to fight them." The dragons - his father - whatever.

Where's my ale? When the drink arrived he gripped the mug and drank, knuckles whitening against it.

* in apologetic homage to Robert Jordan

[H`saan Alai]

Ah. That explained much. Watching the young man’s eyes water, H’saan was reminded that as well-grown as he was, Malakhai was not that much more than a boy, and since had left his people he was also very much alone in a new world. He could recognise some of the pain in him. Though it had been more than ten years since his father Kh’leel had been taken from him, H’saan still carried the memories of that terrible loss and loneliness.

And how was I any different? In his mind’s eye he could see himself at thirteen yahren, raw with grief and anger, swearing never to rest until he had taken up arms against the desert raiders that had attacked his father’s caravan. But what a terrible waste of a life that would have been. Perhaps he was guilty of the same fatalism that possessed Malakhai’s father, but H’saan could no longer see the point in nurturing one’s bitterness and desire for vengeance. It would help distract the tribesman from his sorrow for a while. It might even drive him to perform brave and daring deeds. But as long as he held it in his heart it would never allow him to heal.

The half giant opened his mouth to tell this truth as plainly as he saw it. Then he thought the better of it and closed his mouth again. He was not speaking to a child. The last thing Malakhai needed was someone telling him how to deal with his personal grievances – H'saan had no idea where to begin addressing the rift between the son and his father and by his own admission, the tribesman did not take well to being lectured anyway. Neither did he need H’saan’s pity – it was a woman’s place to offer that kind of comfort. Anddi-hu, the healer thought to himself. You should have been born to the red. They would have known where to turn this bitter rage of yours. For in a tribe dedicated to battle, the poisonous effects of a man’s unchecked destructive impulses were all too well known.

Then the words finally came to him, an echo of those he had been given by the men of Marianna’s Tribe after Kh’leel’s death so many yahren ago. Warriors, not mystics, H’saan’s own adopted tribe had no qualms about defending themselves against any kind of foe, draconic or otherwise.

“I see your pain, Malakhai Qinua. It is sharp, like a blade. You will honour your mother when you turn this blade to your enemies to defend the lives of those like her. It is fitting that you should do this thing.”

H’saan raised his glass solemnly. The next words he spoke would be a toast and a blessing, but also he hoped, a reminder to a young man in his darkest marks that he could move beyond the past. “May you bear your blade with honour. May only those who have wronged you fall before it and may your strike ever be true. And most of all, may there come a day when you can put away your sword and your heart can know peace...”

[Malakhai Qinua]

Malakhai couldn't quite keep the precious water from rising to his eyes as he raised his mug of ale to H'saan's. At the same time, though, his heart - far from being at peace - was glad. "Ack are a good man," he responded after a deep draught of ale. "Although I fear that day might be many yahren in coming. But in the meantime I will not let my edge be dulled." Taking another mouthful, he added "Jygust and the Hunt will be my first chance to prove it."

The fact that Malakhai genuinely didn't know what he had to prove to whom, or even who his real enemy was, affected him little. Somewhere out there was his enemy, and that he had something to prove was beyond reasonable doubt even to him. The asful in Mal's belly was still burning, and he would fight and train like a daemon possessed by a djinn until it died down.

H'saan's own story was all but forgotten for the flicker, replaced in his concerns by his personal past and future. The young tribesman could become very self-centred very quickly.

(OOC: Shall we wrap this up for the super synch?)

[Vanadius]

Skilled, locked, archived.