Han'ya/TIC2
First Session
Ratik pulled the veil across his face, gritting his teeth as the fabric tickled his lips. He scratched them, but it did not help overmuch. He plucked his sash from the bed and tied it. After a moment's thought, he selected two knives and a short sword, and tucked them into the blue strip of fabric. After another moment, he slid another dagger into an inside pocket of his robes, a stiletto into a calf holster, and brass knuckles into another pocket. After further reflection, he wrapped two rolls of silver tightly in cloth, then slid them into a small purse, then hung that around his neck, under his undershirt.
"Ratik! Would you move with a tad more expediency?!" Tsut'sen barked from the doorway.
"Say that again with smaller words," Ratik said gruffly. He pulled on his overcoat and sat on the bed to tie his boots.
"Hurry up, fag," said Nkolos from behind the other Lunar.
"Wasn't talking to you, jackass," Ratik grunted. He stood. "How do I look?"
"Presentable. I'm surprised," Tsut'sen said sarcastically, clapping softly.
"Good. By the way, whose bright fucking idea was it to wear all this clothing in this heat?" the whiskered man asked.
"Stop whining. This is nothing," Nkolos chimed in again.
"Shut it," Ratik said. He swept past the two of them, walking into the hallway and down the stairs. "Boys!" he called. "I'm going nobbing, and I shall be back in the morning! Don't wait up for me!"
There was a general call of assent from the members of Ratik's gang in the house. Nkolos and Tsut'sen descended the stairs after him, and they left the house.
"You remembered the invitation?" he asked Tsut'sen.
The noble patted his chest. "It's in here. What do you take me for?"
"An aristo bastard."
The noble made no response to that. He simply sighed and walked towards the waiting carriage. The other two followed him. Ratik whistled, and the three men who had been making sure the coachman didn't get nervous about waiting for near on an hour in the middle of the slums and run off climbed aboard with them. Tsut'sen leaned forwards and spoke to the driver. "To the Tri-Khan's palace, and don't spare the whip. We may be late as is," he said angrily. He turned to glare at his two companions. "Thanks to your sluggishness."
"Lay off," Nkolos hissed.
Tsut'sen raised his hands and laid back, closing his eyes to block out the sight of his companions. While neither of them were hard on the eyes in an aesthetic sense, their faces brought back memories suppressed at great expenditure of willpower from the month-long journey back to Chiaroscuro from Athoth Sandstainer's manse. He had found their companionship to be...abrasive.
The sounds abruptly changed. The sound of dirt underwheel was replaced by a slight increase in bumpiness and the slap-slap of chocobo feet on cobblestones. Tsut'sen was jolted out of his half-sleep as they left the slums and entered a more respectable district. The three gangers jumped from the cart and began the trek back home.
"Why are we wearing all these layers when it's so damn hot?" demanded Ratik.
"So take of your overrobe and your boots and stop whining," Nkolos said. He held up his bare foot. "See?"
Ratik held a hand over his mouth and nose. "Luna's ass, man, get that thing out of my face!"
Nkolos childishly waved it at him and then returned to a normal sitting position. After an exaggerated shudder, Ratik did as his companion suggested. A few minutes later, he took off the veil and headwrap. "How can you breath in those things?" he asked Tsut'sen.
"Practice, Ratik. Practice. Also I'm just a fundamentally more awesome person than you."
"Aristo prick."
"Guttersnipe."
They continued in that vein for the rest of the trip to the Tri-Khan's palace. As the looming cluster of First Age spires drew near, they re-donned their clothes and (with energetic invectives and exhortations from Tsut'sen) did their best to make themselves presentable. At last, they pulled up to the tall gates of the Tri-Khan's palace. The guards at the gate verified that their invitation was genuine, and waved them through. They rolled into the palace. A swarm of slaves hit them, leading the carriage and rider off to the stables, ushering them towards the gala hall, fanning them to provide some meager relief from the hot night air.
The gala hall was a recent construction, only ten years old. It was tall enough to be three stories, though there were in truth only two, and all of stucco-coated sandstone. It was a stark contrast in white to the red and gold First Age towers that still dotted the palace compound.
The trio arrived at the open gate of the gala hall. A herald approached them.
"May I have the names of these honored guests for the heralds?" he asked with a bow.
"No you may fornicating not. Go die," said Nkolos, radiating contempt and bloodlust. The man paled and backed away, and the trio proceeded into the gala hall unannounced.
"That was...brutally elegant," Tsut'sen said.
"If I had a dinar for every time somebody said that to me, I could buy the fornicating Realm," the Full Moon grunted. He looked around. "Nice place. All these rich people are making me hungry."
As Nkolos had said, the upper crust was out in force tonight. Every robe they saw was silk or an exceptionally fine example of another fabric. The pattern were intricate, the embroidered veils were long and intricate with descriptions of ancestry (although for the most part there was a conspicuous absence of any notable deeds), the swords were generally of a higher grade of artistry.
Tsut'sen glanced at his companions. Both of their veils bore only their names, with no details of patrilineage. Neither of his companions had any notable deeds under their belt that would not get them kicked out or made the targets of a Wyld Hunt, so they bore no descriptions of deeds on their veils either. He sighed softly.
"So what's the game plan here?" Ratik asked.
Tsut'sen looked around. The hall they were in was tall, with a domed ceiling painted with a scene of the Kha-Khan ascending to Heaven, the two sacred wounds in his chest bleeding silver and fire. Several Immaculate saints and dragons circled about him as he rose on a cloud towards the golden gate. Three balconies stood equidistant around the room. One was directly opposite the door, across the room in front of them, and the other two stood to either side of the door. Two wide hallways sat between the balconies, lit by torches. People seemed to be coming and going through them freely. In the center of the room was a tall fountain that burbled with clear water. Globes of sorcerous light floated around the chamber, providing clear, steady, heatless illumination. A small group of musicians stood on stone pedestals set in the water, playing a mellow song on flute and drum. Tables of food sat around the edges of the room, and there were servants scurrying about the room with platters of food for those guests who didn't feel like walking all that way to get a snack. Several hookahs stood on the tables, color-coded to distinguish whether they offered cannabis or tobacco.
"The game plan is this. We meet and greet for an hour or so, then we slip away at an opportune moment and look for the vault. Preferably in another shape to avoid suspicion. While we're here, let's split up. Nkolos and I will take this room. Ratik, you go see what's through those hallways."
"Sounds reasonable," the Changing Moon said. "I'll get right on that." He turned about and walked off. in seconds, the crowd had swallowed him.
"So what should I do?" Nkolos asked.
"Go stand in a corner and don't cause trouble."
"I will do that."
"Yes you will."
Nkolos moved off. Tsut'sen looked around. He could see neither of his companions. With a momentary wiggle of guilt, he made determinedly for the food.
As he was piling his plate with food, he looked over and saw a man beside him enthusiastically sampling the vintages offered for the guest's delectation. The man was short, only a little over five feet, and fat. He bore the characteristic large eyes and pale skin of a Blessed Islander. He barely fit into the light armour he wore, which, despite being polished, still managed to look grubby on him, as did the dark red robes of a Realm dragonlord. He stank of sweat and alcohol, and was poorly shaven. Two men dressed in robes that were drab, though of good quality, with short stabbing swords at their sides, stood behind him, obviously bodyguards. From the looks on their faces and their posture, they seemed more like babysitters.
Tsut'sen tapped one of them on the arm. "Who's that guy?" he asked around a mouthful of food (it came out sounding like "Foo fahfuy").
"Sesus Abara Ganth, dragonlord of the first and fourth wings of the Ninth Legion and commander of the Chiaroscuro garrison," one of them answered, a little sheepishly.
Tsut'sen nodded and mumbled his thanks, then stuffed a cheese-stuffed prawn into his mouth and followed it with a sip from his bowl of barley beer. His face momentarily contorted at the intermingling of flavors. He swallowed with difficulty, and took a deep draught to wash the taste out.
Nkolos was bored. As any fool knew, a bored Exalt was a dangerous Exalt. And when that particular Exalt was a twelfth-generation Dune Person, matters were not improved at all. He licked his dry lips, running his teeth over his extended canines. He absently stroked the necklace of fingerbones at his neck.
With a grunt, he shook his head and looked around for Tsut'sen and Ratik, although he knew they were not in the room. He blew out his breath in a sound that was too angry to be a sigh, but not sharp enough to be a hiss, and drifted through the crowds of nobles. He felt a breeze tug at his veil, and looked sharply over his shoulder. A trio of white-robed beings like hairless, angular baboons nearly five feet in height, wearing stylized jaguar masks of white ceramic, were speaking with a noblewoman while her attendants gaped in astonishment. Nkolos' eyes widened in surprise. Now that he thought about it, it was perfectly natural that the elemental and divine courts of the region put on an appearance at a gala hosted by the Tri-Khan himself. He looked around, newly curious. A tan-robed being twice as tall as he was stood in the middle of a cluster of onlookers. A scale-skinned man with two teenage boys on each arm sat at the edge of the fountain, telling some story that had his listeners guffawing as the boys fed him sweetmeats.
Nkolos muttered a hissing stream of prayer to the god of his tribe, the god of the Dune People, Luna, and any listening gods who felt like firebombing the gala hall. He resumed his stride and walked into the passageway on the left. He looked to one side at the touch of a breeze. The right side of the hall was open, a series of tall, wide windows that looked out onto a largely dark garden. He walked further down the hallway. One of the windows stretched all the way to the ground, and a stone path lit by torches led into the garden. The Full Moon stood there for a moment, gripped by indecision. With a mental shrug, he walked into the garden.
Ratik had decided not to enter the garden, but had continued to the terminus of the hallways. He emerged into a second circular chamber, the same size as the first. The mural was a large, intricate battle scene. The Changing Moon neither knew nor cared about the details. There was no fountain in the center of this room. Instead, the buffet was there, and the edges of the room were lined with couches, occupied by Guildsmen and their entourages. The Changing Moon looked around the room. He recognized the large, black-skinned man surrounded by naked Djala slave girls as Mbalu Esetse, Master of the Harbor and Guild factor. A tall man in the white robes of a desert nomad (though of superior quality) stood before him. His posture radiated anger, and Esetse's face bore an expression of irritation. They spoke for a few more moments. The Guildsman gestured with a ring-encrusted hand, and the tall nomad whirled and stormed away. He almost ran across the room, jostling Ratik on his way out.
Briefly, Ratik's tutelage at the feet of the No Moon who had tattooed him came back. One of Luna's many faces was the White Navigator, a tall man in white robes. Obviously this man was not the Silver Lady, but perhaps it was an omen. He turned and walked after the white-robed nomad.
After breaking into a brief jog, he caught up with the man. "Hey," he called abruptly. The man stopped and turned. "What was that about, if you don't mind me asking?" Ratik asked him.
The man blinked. "I suppose I do not. You know who that was, I assume?"
"There's only one Mbalu Esetse," Ratik said.
"And thank Heaven for that," the man said with distaste. "Well...it's somewhat awkward. I have a weakness for the dice, and as Mbalu owns eight from ten of all the dice houses in Chiaroscuro, I owe him a fair sum."
"How much?"
"I'd prefer not to say," the man said icily.
Ratik raised his hands. "No offense meant."
The nomad looked at him. "I don't believe you've introduced yourself."
"Ratik," the Changing Moon said. He gave a small bow.
The nomad smiled. "I am Lion At The Gates." He returned the bow. It was customary in Delzahn culture to give details of one's ancestry with one's name. Not giving such details was socially awkward unless no other party gave them. "If you will excuse me, there are other matters I must attend to."
Ratik bowed again. "Don't let me detain you."
Lion At The Gates nodded and turned away, walking down the passage. Soon he was lost around the curve of the hallway. Ratik watched him go, then turned back the way he had come.
