The Bejeweled Water Gardens

Roy wandered in, looking about in wonder. It certainly was a pretty garden, especially for one that was in the middle of a desert. Now, where would he find a hummingbird? Would the guards even allow him to catch one? He looked around at the flowers, looking to see if there were any hovering about. Luckily, he didn't seem to see any ridiculously oversized hummingbirds. Perhaps they were normal sized around here.

Roy wandered the gardens, entranced by the colorful flowers and the glittering animals. How had they made animals out of gemstones and gold? They were amazing, absolutely beautiful. He bought a kebab and sat down on a bench, watching an emerald-encrusted peacock strut its way across the path. His cousin Robert had a pet peacock, didn't he? It was white, though...not made of platinum. He'd completely forgotten about his original task until the hummingbird fluttered up into his face, gleaming with precious jewels. Roy groaned, remembering why he was here. He couldn't possibly catch that hummingbird! He might break it if he tried to grab it. Even worse, if he got caught he'd surely be thrown in prison to rot. He'd never see any of his relatives again, and they'd take away his chocolate! What would he do now, though? If he didn't catch a hummingbird, the boy wouldn't give him the list back and Uncle Renalt would be cross. If he caught the hummingbird, he'd surely be imprisoned or deported. Sighing, he finished his kebab and walked back out. Perhaps he could reason with the boy. Surely he didn't need a hummingbird that badly.

[Exit]

Ryden gracefully disembarked from the elephantine creature's platform, following behind Sashriq at a suitably deferent and independent pace. As he approached the young men to have his feet bathed, he bundled up a small amount of the fabric that made up his robes and pulled it back, revealing a long boot that could be undone merely by unfastening the triad of button-like clasps holding the length of the boot above the ankle together. For this exploratory part of his journey, Ryden had elected to wear a light and simple, if elegant and quite clearly expensive, set of robes as opposed to his overly formal, complicated and bulky official outfit.

After his own washing ritual was completed, the chancellor beckoned to the second-most junior of the guards he had accompanying him - without coincidence, he happened to be the man Ryden had entrusted the protection of his armour to. Once he, too, had been cleaned, he continued up behind Ryden.

"Very well. Thank you, ambassador," said Ryden, his eyes meeting those of the Sakandian man. Like his tone, his gaze was cool, calm, and dispassionate. Following his dismissal of Sashriq's impertinent question during their transit, the chancellor had very little interest in the ambassador or what he had to say. Indeed, he had far more interest in the intricately-detailed golden stairs they seemed to be about to walk on. Throughout his past work and efforts, Ryden had studied and thus gained an interest in and a more-than-healthy appreciation for the incredibly rich historical aspect of life. He wondered as to the significance of the inscriptions and their purpose. It was a mystery for another time, he supposed.

Taking the ambassador's signal to go first, Ryden began to make his way up the stairs with the grace and poise of a former swordsman - which is to say that he still looked dignified, despite the relative haste with which he moved. While his clerk-cum-attendant-cum-guard was experienced at keeping up with the pace the chancellor kept, there was every chance that the umbrella boy would have to scramble to keep up with the unexpected speed he exhibited.

As they proceeded through the tall building, the small retinue the chancellor kept was often halted as he took an opportunity to look around and enjoy the spectacular gardens that thrived in the building, as well as the rather fine art that adorned the wall. Perhaps most interesting to him, though, were, as far as he knew, the totally unique little hummingbirds. They flitted about as the crystals embedded in their feathers flashed in the sunlight, producing magnificent, sparkling, rainbow patterns, and sending them dancing across the walls.

As the small party were stopped as they emerged from the mouth of the staircase and onto the floor, Ryden grazed his eyes across the components that came together to make a scintillating atmosphere. From the gentle rushing sound of the spouts bursting from the pool, to the glimmering tiles that floored it, to the brilliant canopy of exotic flowers and vines above, it fit at least some of what he knew of Fairuz from his basic research - she was wealthy and had excellent taste. Looking to the pavilion in the centre, shelled with a gauzy film, he saw who he supposed to be the lady herself, lounging on a mound of pillows. He resolved to wait until Sashriq announced him, which he did in short order.

As Sashriq was dismissed, Ryden strode through the water, with little regard of the fact that his trousers were getting soaked, at least to his ankles. Indeed, the water was a pleasantly cool refreshment in the otherwise-hot Sakandian day. Eventually, after crossing the great pool, he stepped up onto the pavilion, pulling back the thin membrane that obscured the Lady of Sakand within, and, as he pulled it back, he got his first look of the lady Fairuz herself.

Regarding her for a few moments without saying a word, Ryden moved in through the doorway and into the pavilion. He continued to consider the ravishingly beautiful woman in front of him, before finally deigning to speak in perfect, albeit heavily-accented Sakandian. "My lady Fairuz. It is... an honour to meet you." Smoothly, he bowed half-waistedly, before straightening up again to look back at her. 

He scraped up and down her body - draped so sensuously over the mountain of pillows - with his eyes, solemnly, the blue-grey pools wondering about every inch of her. Her steel, her resolve, her... prowess - politically, of course. She was... a juxtaposition to himself. Where she was curved, he was rigidly straight. Where she wore expensive jewellery, he was bare. Where she thrived on and in her youth, and her beauty, and her ambition, he rested comfortably on austerity, and a not-altogether-healthy arrogance, and an august dignity built up over a lifetime's experience.

"I have far too many secrets for your guards to be able to throw a stone at me, even if they listened to us speak for a year and a day." He spoke evenly, not harshly, nor softly, but measuredly calm, meeting her eyes with his own, as he stopped regarding her body, and started regarding her words. "That said, I will speak which every language your ladyship should prefer. It matters not to me, flattery aside." For now, he continued to speak Sakandia, although he would flow easily into whatever language Fairuz led in. 

He strode through the tent, idly noting the subject and content of the scroll she had cast away. As he reached the cushions she had indicated to, across the other side of the low-sitting table, he gracefully sank to his knees, resting back on his heels, with an ease and elegance that would not be expected of one of such an advanced age as he. 

He watched her across the table, his eyes a maelstrom that only began to depict the state of his mind. In alarmingly similar amounts, he lusted after and was angered by the young woman sitting opposite to him. The look she wore and the action she took were altogether too familiar to Ryden - they were the very style he himself practised and usually used to no small effect. Fairuz, though... she disarmed him in a way that very few others managed. Not Naoki... their brand of conflict was far too vocal to be considered in the same sort as this. The only thing that was nearly in a comparable league was his conversation with Grandma, but, again, that was a totally different combat. This... this was a strange form of mental warfare Ryden was almost totally unfamiliar with, and that was a thought that disquieted him. 

Ryden watched the tendons and sinews move beneath her skin, observing the way her body shifted as she moved to serve the pair of them. Moreso than a naked breast, it was the twirling henna that danced across her body that interested him - which, of course, was not to say that said breast did not interest him. Unlike her own accessories, his clothes were no masterpieces. A rich, midnight-blue coat, with short sleeves and a sidefront that trailed down to half his thighs, bound tightly to him with a belt of the same colour and material, rested over a comparatively plain, if not still luxuriously soft and well-made, short-bodied, yet long-sleeved burgundy tunic, hemmed with golden thread, to capture both the colours of Isra, and his own personal colours. Along the hem, the governing principles of Isra was inscribed, in the same golden thread, whereas on the coat, the hem, and subsequently the inscription of Ryden's house words, was finished in silver. These inscriptions, of course, were not written in anything so vulgar as the Common tongue, but instead the obscure, if not nigh-upon extinct High Vintic script, a winding, ornate calligraphy that was far more suitable for noble clothing. It was not overstated, nor was it particularly exuberant, but it was elegant, it was tasteful, and, most importantly, it was symbolic. 

"Why would I be worried, my lady?" Ryden spoke softly, in the same Gauldic she spoke. It was a language he had always enjoyed, and so spoke it with a degree of proficiency par to that of a native. "You do not daunt me, nor do your men outside." Which, to an extent, was true, and Ryden would, of course, play the extent that was not true off. He was enjoying this exchange, on a certain level. She was like a fieldmouse for his hawk to toy with, and that was an enjoyable thing.

As she shifted across the pillows towards him, he accepted the offered goblet, taking a delicate sip. He always preferred the taste of wine to that of ale or lager, a side effect of having been brought up in a noble house, he supposed. All the same, the drink he had in hand now was of a superb quality - as he had observed early on in his life, the origin of a wine gave it an idiosyncratic flavour, and the Sakandian was no exception. It was citrus, tannic and dry, something that he figured was fairly typical of wha he had seen of Sakand so far.

Whether to frown, or admit defeat when Fairuz unsubtly mocked Isra was a decision than in and of itself, defeated Ryden. Despite the sense of patriotism he felt for his city, and, more to the point, the city in which he was an elected official, her criticisms were... not unjustified. 

"To call the people of Isra lazy is hardly fair. It is only through their hard work that they can be happy with their circumstances, through their perseverance that there is a booming housing market and economy, through their dedication that their military, mages and minds are the finest. It is a good life, that of an Isran citizen, but it does not come for free." The fact that his words, to a degree, were harsh, was somewhat mollified by the tone he used - gentle, soft, and not rebuking, but recommending. "I am not Isra, and you are not Goraia. It is not a question of what Isra wants. Isra needs nor wants anything from Goraia. It is a question of what I want, and I daresay the answer will be not what Goraia wants, but what you want. All the same, there is time yet for that, and it is a heavy subject, best for the halls of diplomacy, if you will, rather than the... 'pavilion of casual discussion and reading of international treatises'." He turned from his goblet to the young lady of Sakand, who had come uncomfortably, or, should he say, comfortably close to him. She was... not unseemly, and, despite her motive of manipulation being quite clear in Ryden's head, he found himself drawn to her in a predictably lustful way. 

Ryden held her eyes in his own sharp gaze, watching where they moved, where they looked, what they saw. There was a lot that could be discerned from one's eyes, Ryden had learnt. They were a... window to the soul, so to speak. Ryden saw that flash of fire, that advantageous soar. He looked at her face, watched it move and the emotions that moved with it, bit-by-bit comprehending what he was confronted with, and finally - finally and far too slowly - realised the game that she was playing. And he'd be damned before he let her beat him at such a game. So... for now, he would tow the line. For now, he would play the game, the sympathetic, oblivious counterpart. In time, though, she would learn exactly what she was tangling with. 

"Of course, my lady Fairuz. I, ah, would be happy to speak with you wherever you should prefer - I am, of course, at your disposal. If you could be so kind as to indulge my curiosity, though - Isra offers many services, and friends of Isra receive many benefits for being such. Which of them might you be looking to ascertain?"

Ryden played his role well - hitting the right pauses, quavers and facial expressions to seem as though he was feeling intimidated by her, but trying to play it off, most of the time. The rest of the time could probably be attributed to his discomfort at the surroundings he found himself immersed in. 

As she tried to catch his eyes with hers, they slipped away to the bottom of his goblet, watching the scarlet liquid and how it moved as he tilted the chalice back to take a sip from it, considering his 'answer' to her 'question'.

"That much... would seem self-evident. Isra's nature as an international nexus for trade opens doors for all. That, surely, though, cannot be all you are interested in. You said it - Isra can broaden your limitations. The question is how broad you want to go, and in which direction."

Unlike when he began, by the time he finished speaking he was attempting to meet the young Lady's jade eyes with his own flinty stare, daring her to say what she wanted to. While he could make his voice and manner as meek and servile as he could, he could never mask his eyes. The eyes were a window to the soul, as the saying went, and, as they usually do, the saying held true.

By the time Laisha brought Roarin and Royal Fletcher back the Bejeweled Gardens, a crowd had already begun to gather on the lawn on one of the levels. Birds sang quietly, here, and no wind seemed to blow, making it, truly, a paradise on earth. The flora was bright and slightly perfumed, and the animals glittered with gold and jewels as they moved.

sitting upon the lawn were children of all ages, ranging from the babes in the arms of young mothers, to teens the age of Laisha and Royal, as well as older men who came to listen to the tale that wound be told. The woman who would be telling the tale, however... was as striking and unusual as Sakand itself, yet enchanting in her own way.



She turned her orange eyes and saw Laisha and her companions coming and she smiled. "Aaah, Laisha," she said, her accent Sakandi, yet there was... a difference to it. She must not have been entirely native to the city itself, although clearly she was of some people that was very close to it. "I wondered if you would be coming. Who are your guests?"

She turned and looked from Roarin to Royal in anticipation of their names while still more arrived to fan out comfortably on the lawn. The sun was low on the horizon, casting its last deeply golden rays of light over the city. In another fifteen minutes or so, it would be dusk.

Roarin looks at the storyteller with his one visible eye. Things had changed he didn't remember people who looked like that being around Sakand when he'd explored the desert city. Since the lad had introduced him he just grunts and nods at Roy's words. There was something fishy going on in this city he was becoming increasingly sure of that.