Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[C S]

"Oh, what comedy," Syria replied with a kind-natured smile. "I wonder if in her sprawling memory, she was reminded of you when he spoke to her. Flirted with her, perhaps?" She looked to Septimus. "One of those minor details that Desrium has a habit of not paying due dividends to when telling stories."

She then stood up, holding her staff's blue rose out between her and Antar. "You keep on looking, Qa'id. And when you find your beloved mind-reader, show her this."

Syria's magic made her coat ruffle, light manifesting around the arm holding the staff and swirling down it, the instrument and gathering at the blue jewel. Another glow rippled within the glassy material, then the field projected outwards between her and the desert sovereign. At her first impression, Beshayir would have thought it was just Syria's shield spell, but over the course of seconds, detail started to appear in the membrane of magic. Syria's view of the world in a memory, shown before their eyes as a wrapping panorama.

The snowflakes were so close to Antar that he was enticed to reach out and catch one of the phantom specks of white, and just then, he heard the crack of thunder in the thick, billowing clouds that roiled over Daaven that night. And then, out of the darkness, was the small shape of Ceridwen. No one could have known then that she'd be taken by her more... overtly dignified personality.



There was a stunned silence in the room. Clinical, scientific minds replaying the event in their minds, corroborating it with their magical knowledge, what they'd felt. Solaurn looked up and around at her colleagues. They were a peculiar bunch, but she felt the need to shout, "Well? Say something!"

No one did.

Someone began to clap.

They were joined by the others in a resounding applause.

Solaurn met eyes with Viho, at a loss. He could sense it radiating off of her before he even had to reach into her thoughts. She too, began to clap for the elf, formerly crippled.

[Hopeflower]

The applause made the psychomancer jump a little, so unexpected it was. Viho was little better off in terms of understanding. In fact, he was having a hard enough time stopping himself from flexing his fingers. He'd never known about the effort muscle and tendon put into making such a small movement. This was...indescribable.

With the magic of the gem, it was almost as though his arm was whole again.

And his newfound ability - with time, there was no telling what kind of use he might -

He could use his arm.

Emboldened, Viho slowly lifted his shoulder and rotated it just so. It still sent pain lancing through him - without the painkillers he'd expected that - but he could feel that void without muscle responding to his will, operating almost like he'd never been injured.

"Thank you," he repeated more quietly, and couldn't find it in him to be ashamed when his voice broke. He gave himself a minute before he tried to stand without the table's support.

[C S]

"There is no need to thank us. We are only... overjoyed, to see something we've been working at for so long become reality," one of the researchers replied. One of their peers whispered something in their ear, and after a moment's deliberation, the scientist nodded. "One thing we did not count on was your certain skillset. A bit of an oversight... we were only expecting your mana reserves to interact with the gem's enchantment, but it seems our talented dwarf has created something even more attuned than that. Your psychomancy has made the jump to telekinetic interaction without your knowing."

"Did I mess up?" Solaurn asked, her inquiry garnering a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"Performing past our greatest expectations is hardly a mistake."

[The Kingpin]

Antar watched, intrigued, his expression lighting up in a fashion not unlike Beshayir's that same night. Ceridwen, funnily enough, hadn't so much as budged from her spot by the fire, and if not for the sound of the spell, would have been heard making little twittering sounds as she dozed.

"Amazing... I did not know such things existed," he said, his tone one of wonder.

"That and more. Ceridwen showed us a cave made of ice. It looked like we were walking through a tunnel of blue glass. And the things on the ocean floor just off Aster's coast..." Septimus's voice was one very much gripped by his own admiration. After the amount of time he'd spent around whites, greys, yellows and browns lately, the sight of a reef was something he felt he could use.

[C S]

Syria picked up on that yearning, and though she was going to show Antar the ice cave, she supposed seeing the world beneath more water than the Qa'id ever imagined existing would be more of a poignant and enthralling thing for him to see. Just as quickly as she could recall the memory of being on Septimus' back while coasting along on the outskirts of Zuppoland, so was the image shown to everyone. A realm drowning in shades of blue, dark at the bottom and cyan near the surface, the sun a warbling point of light that sent its emissaries to the ocean as refracting shafts. Huge fins acting as wings in the case of the enormous ray, and the sleek silhouette of the predator that had frightened the young elf in the audience. And then there was the shape of the submerged city out in the distance, over rolling ridges, the side of Aster, larger than the collective mass of the Razors.

[Hopeflower]

"I see." Viho was having some difficulty clicking over from wondering how long it would take him to get used to this. For the first time in a very long while, he felt young. Like he was brimming with energy and could do anything he set his mind to.

And now with practice, he could.

Wonder in his tone, the psychomancer added half to himself, "I suppose we never do stop being students."

[C S]

"We never do, if we want to stay good at our jobs," was one of the researchers' witty remarks.

A few scattered chuckles rippled throughout the gathering, the palpable sensation of success and fulfillment an overpowering one. Few of them found any place for humor in considering the implications for the future. All those people who lost or were losing things in their fight to uphold the tenets of peace, law and order could one day relatively soon be given something back. The science relied on an individual's magical ability to work, and that posed a problem when dealing with someone without any, but with a little more research and refinement of technique, maybe, just maybe, everyone stood to gain from this new practice.

[The Kingpin]

Incredible. That's what the Desert Monarch wanted to say. Instead he found himself completely at a loss for words. Never had he dreamed that such beauty could exist beneath the oceans. He had called Thimeyra's lake the gift of the Life Bringer, but compared to this, the lake was lifeless.

"Where is this?" He asked breathlessly.

"The Jade Sea...Not far from Zuppoland." The smile on the Scholar's face was as wide as it had ever been as he practically basked in the child-like wonder the Monarch displayed.

"Truly the people of Zuppoland are blessed. They live in a realm of wonders," stated Antar.

They would be there for some time discussing the beauty of the world and the many wonders it held before the Scribe returned with those whom he had been tasked with summoning. Septimus, after a long period of describing the wonders of the forests, the rivers and streams, the waterfalls and countless other places of beauty in Aster, ultimately vowed to take him to see some of it one day. With his spirits lifted and a promise made, Antar put forth his decree, and Qutaiba's, Septimus's and Syria's statements were recorded and ratified.

[C S]

While the legal proceedings were proceeding without needing her direct input, Syria took the opportunity to wave Beshayir away from the scratchings of quills on scrolls. Syria found it pertinent to do so, to tell the girl something that had been weighing heavy on her heart, but only now was she able to articulate.

"Beshayir," she began as she kneeled down before the young elf, holding her staff upright beside her and just about leaning on it for support. "It's been quite a day, hasn't it? If it's been a hurdle for me then... I can't imagine how it must be for you. You handle these things so discreetly, hardly ever showing what they've done to you and when you do, it's because of that... anxiety that things might go so awry as to put you back at square one all over again. You're a strong girl, but we are more alike than you may realize. If you ever feel the need to talk to me about something, don't you hesitate."

"I know that I'll never take the place of Imneera, nor that Septimus will never be the same as Shemlan, but I can only hope that they can rest easy knowing you're safe, and that we'll do everything in our power to keep you safe until you're ready to bear this world on your own; because even though we aren't Imneera or Shemlan, you are still very much our daughter -- it isn't a matter of blood relation. Your uncle may be related to you but that does not make him family. And as hard as it is for me to admit this... I can't possibly forgive him for the suffering he consigned you to enduring. Maybe you can, if you haven't already, but I can't. I don't wish him ill, but I do not wish him well, either."

[The Kingpin]

Beshayir was silent through the mage's statement, letting her speak her peace. She bit her lip to keep a straight face while Syria said what she needed to say, knowing that the Mage needed to say it just as much as she needed Beshayir to hear it.

In truth, she had gotten over the matter over a year ago. Sufyan was a *******. There was no nicer way to put it. She'd probably have melted down and forced him to drink the gold he wanted so badly to have, if she could have accomplished it, or had the chance. But that was the past. She was in a better place now than she would ever have been had he let her into his house, and seeing what now transpired between the Qa'id, the Guardmaster and the Scholar filled her with a vindictive pleasure that quelled whatever misgivings she still had.

What was not so easy to shrug off was the heartfelt promise Syria made. Sweet and comforting as it was, it also dug up old emotions, the wounds of loss stinging anew as she remembered her parents. For the second time that day, she was silent, not because she had nothing to say, but because she wouldn't allow her barriers, the walls that had sheltered her for so long, to crumble. Not here, and not now. Not where everyone could see and hear her, in a room where only the scratching of quills and the crackling of fire were there to challenge her.

No. She would not crumble now. There was time for that later. In privacy, in the satchel. Or in the inn. Anywhere that wasn't in front of the ruler of Thimeyra, the head of the city guard and the Temple Priests.

[C S]

"Thank you -- for listening, and being so wonderful."

Syria spoke with such a calm and ease that it was very easy for Beshayir to feel as if she knew exactly what was going through her mind then. Before she stood, Syria pulled the young elf into a hug and patted her on the back, face buried in her platinum hair. Not long after was when the documentation reached its conclusion, and everyone was free to make of the night as they would. For the Qa'id, that meant rest before another day of overseeing his nation.

For the quartet, that meant rousing Ceridwen from her nap and leading the drowsy and, quite frankly, cranky dragoness back to their retreat in the desert city, where she could resume her slumber in the stable, underneath her covers. Septimus would keep her company as he usually did to ward off her unpleasant dreams, Syria and Beshayir took to their beds.

Another night came. Another dawn passed.

[The Kingpin]

Another day brought with it another set of laughs, another set of concerns, and another set of problems.

The Familial Courts were a series of large rooms with benches on one end, a chair and desk on the other, and a couple of booths in between, much as one would expect of a court room. The Inheritance Office on the other hand was an isolated building located in the middle of them, and it was this building that the Scholar, the Mage and the Pyromancer now sought to enter. The trio stepped past the threshold into a tall room with long vertical slits along its walls which served as windows. Overhead, the roof narrowed out into a tower-like structure, with wooden poles criss-crossing it, wide planks located under the rods to save those below from what trouble birds could cause while they took shelter there. At ground level, the room consisted of a row of benches on either side of the entrance, and across from it stood a tall reception desk, forming a clay and wood barrier that kept the unruly in line. Not that the two armed guards on either side of the room were incapable of enforcing that very thing.

"This is ridiculous! The Qa'id will hear of this. You're denying a family their own money simply because you can't find the body of the deceased relative it belongs to. That is your problem, not ours!" barked a man furiously at the reception desk, the clerk behind it staring stony-faced back at him. The angered elf wore loose-fitting robes in plain shades of white and grey. His hair was a mess that seemed only to be kept together by a tie halfway down the long platinum locks. From the angle the Scholar saw him from, his face was invisible, though a noted squeeze of Beshayir's arm around his own quickly told him all he needed to know. It seemed they had found Sufyan.

"Sir, the laws are straight forward. If you cannot produce a death certificate we have no way of confirming that you are not committing fraud. If you can find the death certificate or otherwise acquire proof of the girl's deceased status, we will gladly release the wealth to you as the rightful heir of the inheritence." The clerk, who wore a pair of small rectangular spectacles on the bridge of his nose, looked over the angry elf's shoulder at the trio that had just entered behind the man. "Now if you don't mind, there are others who I must tend to. M'lord Emissary?" asked the clerk as he made a point of looking past Sufyan's furious visage.

The elf refused to be dismissed as so, leaning to the side to block the clerk's view. "Fraud?! How dare you! Do you even hear yourself speaking? I am her uncle! If I had been able to take her in after my brother and sister-in-law died, I would have! As it stands, all three of them are gone, the family wealth is in government hands, and my family is struggling to scrape by because of your bureaucratic idiocy!" Sufyan was trembling with anger at this point, paying no heed to the ones behind him, until a clearing of Septimus's throat forced him to turn. "You can wait until I am...finished." The anger faded as he saw who stood in front of him, his face going a few shades paler.

"I assure you Sufyan, the Qa'id has heard of it," commented the Scholar coolly, capitalising on the fact the man was struck dumb by the sight of Beshayir, her glare every bit as intense as Sufyan's had been mere moments ago. "Thimeyrans have a saying: that the rope of a liar is short and prone to breaking. As it turns out, your rope has broken several times."

"You...I don't know what you are talking about" exclaimed the dockworker.

"Oh? She certainly does. As do several people in the city. Abandonment to collect wealth that isn't yours is a lowly crime for a Thimeyran. Have you no pride?"

"This girl is not Beshayir Hakeemi," stated Sufyan, a finger pointing at the girl as he looked at the clerk, whose expression had turned considerably less welcoming.

[C S]

"Forgive me for speaking out of turn. I claim no expertise or even basic knowledge of Thimeyran law," Syria told to the presiding clerk. She turned her gaze to Sufyan, and spoke without formality. Without an exchange of names, without any heed of circumstance. It was only for the official nature of their surroundings that quelled Syria's temptation to use some less than kind words that she would keep out of her vocabulary at any other time.

"Disregarding your criminality on multiple accounts, Sufyan, neglect of a child and fraud in court notwithstanding, are you really so unjust as to deny your dead brother's flesh and blood still?" the lady wondered, the inquiry as genuine as it was curt. "Can you not see him in her eyes? Could you not hear his pleas when she first came to you for shelter? For love?"

[The Kingpin]

"I have already told you, if it truly was Beshayir, my brother's daughter Beshayir, I would welcome her with open arms. As it stands, that is not Beshayir Hakeemi." It seemed the immediate shock of seeing his niece had faded, the hard face of a man who spent his life on the docks returning.

"'My brother's family is dead. There's nothing for you here'. You said that to me two years ago. You may have forgotten. I have not," said a quiet voice, Beshayir speaking just behind the Scholar's left arm.

Sufyan looked back at the clerk, a look of confusion and frustration on his face. "Master clerk, please! This is ridiculous! I come here, trying to clear up the matter of my family's wealth and finding closure regarding my deceased brother, and then these...these vagrants show up, trying to tarnish my name and that of my family! This is a branch of a court of law! Such irreverent accusations can't be allowed to stand!" he stated as he pointed back at the trio with a broad hand.

"Mr. Hakeemi, I would ask that you do not raise your voice in here. I will hear out their pleas just as I have heard yours. We will see who is telling the truth. M'Lord Emissary, Miss Letant, do you have proof of your claims that this is indeed Beshayir Hakeemi? Do you have witnesses who will confirm this?"

Septimus nodded. "The Qa'id and the Guardmaster can both attest to the fact we took her in off the streets six months ago and travelled with her. We weren't aware that there was paperwork left to take care of in her name. I have the Qa'id's testimony as well as the Guardmaster's, signed by them both as well as two Temple Priests to confirm that what we say is true." His response was delivered with the calm authority of someone who knew the truth of his statement. Stepping past Sufyan, he handed the document to the clerk to be read.

"And Miss Letant, would you have anything to add?"

[C S]

"Don't be too harsh in Sufyan's sentencing. As difficult as it is to imagine, there are people who depend on his contributions to 'scrape by' as he describes it. They should not be made to punish for his lack of character," Syria said flatly, objectively, not doing so much as looking at the elf as she spoke of him in such away.

[The Kingpin]

"Such disrespect!" exclaimed Sufyan, his eyes wide with the tone he was being given.

"I would hold my tongue if I were you, Mr. Hakeemi. The implications of this are grave. Miss Letant may be a respected person in Thimeyra, but her vouching on your behalf will not account for much if you continue this facade of moral superiority. Remember: Silence is golden."

The clerk's eyes scanned over the document he'd been given while Sufyan quietly fumed, glaring at the young elf beside Septimus. The Scholar, in turn, swept a hand out protectively, bringing Beshayir behind him as he met the dockworker with his own glare, slitted pupils going narrow as he made eye-contact with the elf. That, in turn, intimidated the dockhand sufficiently that he dropped his gaze. He realised there was no winning here. He could not sense the latent power of those standing before him. But his eyes told him enough.

"The paper seems to be in order. The seals and signatures are genuine, procedure is correct," said the clerk as he took a blue wax stick, holding it over a candle on the table. "You will be able to retrieve the inheritance this afternoon. As for Mr. Hakeemi," he continued, glancing to the guards on either end of the room. "You will be detained in the court jail until your hearing is carried out." As he spoke, he pressed the wax stick down on the document, leaving a deep blue blob at the base, which was then followed by a stamp.

"On what charges?!" responded Sufyan, his eyes zipping between the clerk, Septimus, and the guards.

"Abandonment of a child of your own kin, lying before the court, and multiple accounts of attempted theft of an orphan's inheritance. I will leave it to a judge to decide your fate, but I cannot imagine it will be a light sentence. Guards?"

"...You!" snarled the man, lunging at the girl looking around Septimus's shoulder.

It turned out to be a terrible miscalculation. Before he had even had a chance to realise what was happening, a pulse of air seemed to explode out between him and the Scholar, papers, dust and other light objects kicked up with the force of it. Sufyan was sent flying backwards, slamming into the heavy oaken desk and slumping to the floor as the dragon in disguise glared down at him, eyes ablaze with power.

"Dare to touch Beshayir again...and I promise you that the fate you suffer at the hands of the courts will be a blessing compared to my wrath." The dragon's voice shone through his disguise, the entire room reverberating as he spoke.

Sufyan, if he had anything to say, remained silent, groaning in pain as the blast left him feeling like he'd just been trampled. The guards were on top of him and pulling him to his feet to be taken away mere moments later.

"...I see how the stories of you defeating a fleet of raiders started," commented the clerk. "I apologise. It's not usual that a man would have so little reverence for the authority of the courts," he explained as Sufyan was dragged away. The last thing he saw of the trio was Beshayir looking back at him, her expression a mixture of hate and pity. He was a broken man, of broken morals, and now, broken spirit.

She felt no sympathy for that.

[C S]

Syria on the other hand felt a twinge of sympathy for Sufyan. Not to prove untrue to what she'd told Beshayir to be sure; she could not bring herself to think without a burning of her blood and a sickness in her stomach that she could forgive a person like this. It was the harshness of it in spite of her stated wishes, being thrown across the room as he was. If this was the beginning of retribution for the elf's crimes, then Syria shuddered to think what awaited him yet. She could not forgive him, but she did feel for him on a basic level of compassion. Too good for this world, as Septimus would put it.

And while Syria did not wish him ill, Septimus most definitely did. Wrath.

Wrath balanced by restraint. The mage knew all too well that Septimus could have ended him right then and there.

"Remember, I am a Justicar, not an Executioner."





Imneera's riches found their rightful heir before the courts closed their doors for the day, Sufyan's case joining those of the captured dahasani. The senior Hifaadhi was waiting with Ceridwen outside of the building, and after being informed of the triumph by Septimus, he invited the band of four to his home for dinner. A token of gratitude, for the deeds done, for the good fortune that things were not made even more complicated by the way of the law. It was long overdue, Beshayir seeing her grandmother again.

Her actual grandmother.

[The Kingpin]

The smell of spices wafted thickly through the seasonal home of the Hifaadhi family. For all the merchant couple's collective wealth, the home they kept as their own was anything but telling. The walls were of simple mud brick, wooden beams criss-crossing the second floor and roof, and wooden latticework shutters decorated with dozens of eight pointed stars covered the windows.

The inside was even more modest, with simple carpets and round-cornered furniture making up the bulk of the interior. There was a mirror in the foyer behind where the door would swing open, and a coat rack opposite it, lending an almost uncanny resemblance to the Bark residence. Unlike them however, rather than a staircase leading upstairs being beyond the threshold, here there was a hallway that led to two arches, one on either side. One arch served as the entrance to the living room, the other the dining room and kitchen. It was behind the living room arch that a staircase could be seen.

Rawabi, Beshayir's grandmother, proved to be a soft spoken woman, elegant and regal in a way that was muted, downplayed and effortless. Her presence was one felt even when she was silent, as she was for much of the time she was preparing dinner in front of the trio.

That said, it did not mean she wasn't all over the young Pyromancer the moment they stepped through the door. With an embrace the likes of which only Willow could have matched, she swept the girl clear off her feet, even despite the young girl's not insignificant height.

"My little girl. My sweet little Beshayir. Glad tidings come with you indeed. I have missed you so!" she had said, mauling her granddaughter with kisses as she had pulled her down into her lap on a couch in the living room. "How you've grown...I can't really call you little anymore, can I?" she had said with a soft, sad smile.

Now they sat, as a family, in the kitchen. Ceridwen, unable to enter through the door, was allowed to watch through the window. Septimus made certain to remind her to keep her head outside the actual room, so as not to cause a minor culinary catastrophe when the spices inevitably reached her nose.

The kitchen was surprisingly spacious for what it was, but that was a boon in this case. It allowed them to see in detail the procedure of cooking the dish. Septimus in particular took note of every spice, and the portions in which they were applied. He noted the preparation, and the shape of the pots Rawabi used, considering the fact he had none of that sort himself. Something to ask Ameen about, he thought.

[C S]

"Or you can let me help you," interjected the mage beside him. Her staff was out by the coat rack, holding itself upright as a mimic in a way, so she was able to cross her hands on the table and sit innocently. Under the table, she prodded Septimus with the tip of her boot playfully. "You've amazed me in many ways since I met you, helping me learn a foreign language in a couple of months being only one of your many achievements. But I can show you how to cook with telekinesis." Syria gave the Scholar a subdued wry smile, though she did not stop poking at him with her foot.

[The Kingpin]

"It's what the pot does that makes it. It needs to be enclosed so that it doesn't dry out," responded Septimus with a sidelong glance at Syria. "Surely you don't think I'm incapable of of levitating food, do you?" he jokingly jabbed while giving the impression that he was focused on the bubbling contents of the pots that Rawabi stood over.

Beside her, Beshayir held a stack of plates, and the elven trader and part time talented cook began to scoop out a heap of rice and a ladle full of murga for the plates one at a time. Each time Rawabi finished one serving, Beshayir handed the plate to someone else in the room, first to Septimus and Syria, then her grandfather, and then finally she held two plates; for herself and for her grandmother. The Scholar, not wanting Ceridwen to be left out, floated a pair of his wooden plates, the tray-sized dishes stopping by the pots as Rawabi scooped out much of what was left, before they floated out the window and settled on the ground near the dining room window.

It was only once they each had a serving that they moved to the dining table; a large circular thing that was relatively low to the ground, not unlike Antar's throne room. It was clearly meant for the diners to eat while sitting cross-legged.