"Orcinus Atlanteans in Khalid Atar's Court"

Log Date:
	3/4/99

Log Cast:
	Kuronbo, Shinjukou, Elania, Yoritomo, Farouk, Khalid, Rabi, Faanshi, 
Vayu, Hepzibah

Log Intro:
	Thus far her time in Atesh-Gah has been relatively peaceful -- even
though Faanshi has been almost constantly amazed by some of the people she
has met, who seem to react with a surprising amount of openness to a humble
shudra halfbreed such as herself. This amazes her almost as much as the fact
that she is not only in Atesh-Gah to begin with, but also there as a shudra
to an exalted, infamous personage such as Kiera Khalida -- and that as such,
she has better opportunity than many to witness the grand doings that often
take place in the residence of the Son of the Dawn in Haven. Such as, for
example, being called in to serve during a Court at which are expected to
attend _Atlanteans_, yet another people she has never seen. 
	Still, though, she cannot escape her heritage, even when she has such
wonder before her....

----------
You ascend the stairs which lead to the sturdy double doors of the Throne Room.
Throne Room - Atesh-Gah - Haven
      This massive rectangular area seem to rise forever; white polished 
  marble catching the light that enters through the spacious windows on either 
  side of the room and reflecting it throughout to dispel all shadow or gloom. 
  The walls themselves are a work of art; the top half being the 
  aforementioned stone, broken at mid-point by a border lovingly carved into 
  an intricate design. Housed within the near foot-wide space is a pattern of 
  interwoven bands of gold. The bottom half of the wall is sky-blue marble 
  shot through with graceful swirls of cloudy white, once again giving way to 
  pale marble for the few inches nearest the floor. Sturdy seats of 
  golden-varnished wood, covered in cushions and upholstery of shimmering 
  royal blue, are placed in orderly fashion at the sides of the room. Those 
  who await the God-King's attention may rest as he attends matters of state. 
      Dwarfing all is the raised dais of solid marble, upon which looms the 
  throne of the God-King. A testimony to the art and craft of the Varati 
  people, it practically shimmers in the resplendent light of the chamber, the 
  same satiny hues of the royal blue upholstery surrounded by a detailed 
  filigree of gold. There are two doorways in the room; the first, at the 
  furthest end of the hall from the throne, leads to the foyer. The second is 
  to the left of the dais. 
Contents:
Rabi
Vayu
Yoritomo
Elania
Shinjukou
Kuronbo
Farouk
Khalid
Obvious exits:
Entrance Foyer <EF>  Living Quarters <LQ>

Faanshi
     At first glance, some things about this individual are easy to discern. 
  The garments worn are those oft seen on Varati females, yet while this 
  figure stands tall at 5'9", the build is small for a woman of that race. But 
  woman she clearly is, if the glimpses of slender hands and feet and of the 
  shape beneath her flowing garb are to be believed. What portions of her skin 
  are visible are a warm shade of gold; a hint of a braid of coal-black peeks 
  out from beneath her sari. Shy or perhaps simply trained to submissive 
  silence she must be, for she rarely raises her eyes to anyone unless 
  specifically bidden, and she speaks so seldom and so softly that it is nigh 
  impossible to determine the quality of her voice. Only the most astute of 
  observers might notice that every so often -- perhaps when she thinks no one 
  is watching -- this silent one peeks with furtive curiosity out from behind 
  her veil at the world at large, with eyes set at a slight un-Varatish slant 
  in her face, eyes the color of summer leaves.
     She is simply clad, her garments of humble make but excellent repair, 
  perhaps the clothing of a servant whose household garbs even its servants 
  well. Her choli is a bright shade of red; her silwar, bright blue. A darker 
  blue sari with gold trim is wrapped about her slender frame, and a veil of 
  translucent light blue silken stuff conceals the lower half of her face from 
  easy view. On her feet are a penniless shudra's version of boots -- several 
  rags of blue, red, and gold cloth tied there and there along her calves, 
  ankles and feet, held in place by the long thongs of her sandals.

Rabi
     Eyes of warm amber flecked with bright copper-red gaze back from beneath 
  the simple veil, a large square of cloth - sheer blue over a golden cloth 
  that shimmers faintly beneath its cobalt covering - held to her head by a 
  twist of white cord and fastened to her left temple, leaving bare only her 
  eyes and the bridge of her nose. Her skin is a dark, rich, red-brown. The 
  rest of the cloth of her veil billows down over her shoulders and back and 
  chest, partly covering the cobalt blue sari beneath, the long cloth wrapped 
  so as to leave points hanging down as it curls around her body. Another sari 
  is beneath it, forest green, shows faintly through the outer sari's 
  sheerness. The edges of the blue sari are carefully worked in golden 
  needlepoint: the pattern looks like an abstract curling of lines but one 
  familiar with the Varati script - and who take the time to look closer to 
  see beyond the graceful loops and curves, will recognize a prayer to Ushas, 
  the Lady of Dawn. It is a request asking Her to watch over the supplicant's 
  household, to bring it grace and joy, three stanzas in three lines of 
  calligraphy that weave together tightly. The cloth is very fine and 
  well-worked; while not extravagant, it is nonetheless the clothing of a 
  woman of not small status.
     Her hands, their fingers long and finely muscled, are undecorated and her 
  nails are short but well-kept.

Vayu
        While often we are told that the outer shape does not make the inner, 
  we sometimes forget that the inner mettle of a man will often shape his 
  appearance, by virtue of determination and will. This Varati man shines with 
  his inner strength, body shape and language radiating confidence and 
  self-reliance.
        Tall, this Varati man - perhaps six and a half feet, perhaps a little 
  less; his shape is, as the Varati are known for, seemingly chisled from some 
  sort of dark brown granite. He does not appear exceptionally strong - for a 
  Varati - but rather appears to have the hardiness of one who has travelled 
  many miles during their life, and has endurance to outrun the greatest 
  Olympians. He is lean, like a runner, but the muscles stand out as proof of 
  said miles travelled. His face is beholden of the strong features of the 
  Varati, dusky skin matching his hard grey eyes and jet black hair - 
  everything is a square, hard angle, matching his prominent nose and jaw. He 
  is marked with a mustache and goatee, as is the style of the Easterland 
  Varati. These are noble features, matching fierce purpose with kindness and 
  acceptance - he is, without fail, a handsome and regal man. Age can be see 
  creeping in around the edges of his eyes, marking him in his early 30's, but 
  it does not diminish his appearance one whit.
        He is clad in simple fare; the mix of styles shows that he is a 
  diplomatic envoy of the kshatri caste. He wears a plain white robe, 
  embroidered with grey around the lapels, cuffs, and edges. Belted with 
  braided leather, a jambiya dagger is present - it looks like quite a fine 
  weapon, too. Below the robe appears to be brown jubbah; he wears simple 
  sandals on his feet. Despite the plain fare, however, the Varati man holds 
  himself as though he were a king among men - or, perhaps more accurately, a 
  sage among students. Not condescending, but certainly aloof - kindly, but 
  still distant.

Yoritomo
        The sharp-featured man in your presence initially conveys a hint of 
  sinew and tightly restrained personal power. High cheekbones frame a pair of 
  quite large, grey-green eyes the color of the sea's foam, the most prominent 
  element of his countenance, which are well-matched by a skin tone not unlike 
  the color of moonlight reflected off the very waves that he obviously was 
  born beneath.
        Long-limbed and long-fingered, his build, above the average in height 
  yet not extraordinary suggests more of a physique geared towards dancing and 
  athleticism than brute force, which would be expected. Crowning his head is 
  a head of lower-neck-length, stark black hair, as dark as the thin eyebrows 
  that line his face in what is usually conveyed as a thoughtful, self-assured 
  appearance. It is currently held back in a modest tail, by a piece of white 
  cord fashioned of a sparkling substance.
        Yoritomo's clothing is quite an odd assortment by any peoples' 
  standards. Soft-soled, odd black shoes appear almost as one with a pair of 
  baggy cloth breeches of the same color. Black is countered by white as one 
  takes in the equally baggy white blouse typical of a mariner's, while 
  well-made, it is not terribly frilly. It is neatly maintained and is 
  embroidered with several small stylized shells. Over it all is a 
  midnight-blue cloak, typically thrown over his shoulder in his easy walk as 
  he reveals a pair of swords, one long and one short, stuck within his simple 
  white belt. Their smooth, polished stone hilts hang as though they were part 
  of uniform dress. The only other noticable feature is a small bit of 
  jewelry, the swirling rainbow hues of abalone glinting in the form of a 
  triangular-shaped pendant dangling from his neck, and a small ortamental pin 
  which seems to be a sort of official symbol, keeping his lightweight cloak 
  in place.

Elania
        El's a frail, gaunt little thing, somewhere in her mid to late teens, 
  weighing in around a hundred pounds and standing maybe five-foot-nothing -- 
  if you could ever get her to stand up straight, that is; a coiling crouch 
  comes far more naturally to her. A chin-length mop of fiery red hair crowns 
  her head, frequently obscuring her expressive greengold eyes. Freed from 
  snarls and knots, it hangs smooth and sleek as watered silk -- all save the 
  hair near her scar, which grows in shock-white and whiskery. Delicate, 
  bird-boned features bear a markedly vulpine cast, indicative of her graisha 
  heritage, as are the pointed ears tufted with soft black fur. Unmistakeable, 
  though not uncomely; she was beautiful once upon a time, before the scar. 
  Should she smile or (more likely) snarl, she reveals more pointed teeth than 
  is usual, as well as a gap where her upper right canine ought to be. She 
  radiates a feral, nervous energy, often biting at her bottom lip or chewing 
  upon ragged fingernails.
                      < Niftyneato +views. Please read. >                     
Shinjukou
        What curious shaping of sea-foam and moonlight is this? A creature 
  seeming born of the ocean's dreams and murmered whispers, she stands tall 
  and regal. Eyes that glimmer with the delicate shade of peridot trapped 
  beneath crystal waters drink in the world around her with a firm and sure 
  composure, a knowledge of self and that which is. The pale skin that 
  sheathes a slender frame holds that curious shimmer of mother of pearl, a 
  gleaming iridescence that both captures and gives off its own light. Wild 
  hair that bears the same odd iridescence as her skin, as tumbled as the 
  ocean in the midst of a storm, spills around this dignified creature, 
  rippling down almost to her calves, bound only by ropes of seed pearl and 
  polished coral.
        Attire is simple, meant to allow freedom of movement and still capture 
  the flowing graciousness of that which gives life to all. Diaphanous fabric 
  of the palest silver and green swirls around this woman's body, concealing 
  and revealing on the whim of movement and elemental desires. Slender tatters 
  of fabric serve as sleeves, long enough to just cover hands that bear webbed 
  fingers. The hem of the garment whispers softly against the ground, 
  concealing similarly webbed feet. Beyond that she wears nothing, having no 
  need of outward adornment to compliment physical bearing.

Kuronbo
        For a moment, your eyes have trouble focusing on the man that is 
  standing before you but that fact is couterbalanced by the feeling of 
  presence, of power. Then your eyes detect the reason for the difficulty, it 
  is his skin...it is the color of onyx, of the deepest depths. It is as if 
  Aidoneus has fashioned a figure out of that which the night is composed. The 
  man's powerful frame is smooth and unblemished, and along his back is a long 
  slender dorsal fin that stands erect upon his back. That fact along with his 
  webbed hands and feet betray that he is an Atlantean. His face is strongly 
  angular with an aqueline nose and two eyes ebony in color. He is completely 
  bald except for a single ponytail of ebony hair that reaches to his lower 
  back.
        This man's attire is exceedingly simple and consists of a smokey-gray 
  loincloth and a matching pair of sandals. There are a few other items of 
  note upon him. The first is an elegantly simple set of shoulder armor and 
  helmet made of marble white coral...and tucked into the side of his 
  loincloth is a knife made of the same razor sharp coral. The final thing of 
  note is that draped over the man's shoulder is a supple leather cloth that 
  is apparently made of shark-skin...it is similiar in color to the loincloth 
  that he is wearing.

Farouk
        A short, stocky Varati, this man has light brown skin, and wide 
  features. His face is dominated by big eyes, and expressive brows, but his 
  bulbous nose and broad mouth are also attention-getting.
        He is dressed in fine Varati clothes, a suit of flowing cottons, 
  designed to cover his weight. His feet are protected by leather zoris. He 
  has broad, serviceable dagger strapped to his side. His hair is receding, 
  revealing a shiny bald head.

Khalid
     The first angel. The fallen angel. The god-king of the Varati. Khalid 
  Atar. This figure may be all of these things, but he is much more than 
  simple phrases or religious ideals. He is power incarnate; the living legend 
  of fire and immortality made flesh and bone.
     Standing just over six feet in height, he is perhaps shorter and slighter 
  of build than most of his people. Yet this seems to suit him; he has no need 
  for great physical stature. His dusky-hued body is more than fit; it is 
  leanly muscular, cut to perfection. Raven black hair cascades down his back, 
  wavy and full, reaching nearly to his waist. But it is the eyes, the eyes 
  that draw true attention. At odds with his dark complexion, they are matched 
  flames of crystal blue; burning stars of the fiery night. Uncontrolled and 
  unpredictable emotion rages in those cold blue eyes - mirth and deadly humor 
  mix freely with fierce, ruthless passion. Those eyes are framed in a 
  handsome face; a noble, determined countenance, marred only by the brooding 
  lines that furrow his brows. The final stroke on this masterpiece are the 
  ebony-stained wings; strong and sleek, they extend from his back in all 
  their dark, regal beauty.
     A snow-white tunic provides contrast with the rich brown of his skin; its 
  banded collar embroidered with an intricate geometric pattern in gold and 
  blue. Its loose sleeves, cuffed tightly at the wrists with more gold and 
  blue embroidery, billow free of the sleeveless jerkin. Black breeches hug 
  his legs, simple in cut but made of richly textured, thick silk, and are 
  tucked into solid boots of fine leather, their cuffs worked with an elegant 
  design of gilt-edge vines. A sash of white and gold is wound around another 
  sash--royal blue--which is wrapped around his waist. A long curved sword, 
  crafted out of what appears to be ebony, is thrust through the sash. It is 
  complemented by a smaller matching ebony blade and a silver-tipped whip, 
  both of which also ride at the hip. A crown-circlet rests atop his forehead, 
  holding back wisps of unruly hair.
(+views are available)

The Throne Room Doors open and the first figure to come through the opening is 
  an Onyx-Black Atlantean of erect bearing...his pace is solemn and unhurried as 
  he passes by the first rank of Agni-Halder, his skin almost perfectly matching 
  the color of the Guard's uniform. He does not look upon the figure sitting 
  upon the Throne, but keeps his eyes cast at a point a few feet in front of it. 
  In time, he reaches a spot about six meters from the throne and he takes a 
  knee there..his posture locked in a deep genuflection..completely silent as he 
  waits to be addressed.

A step behind and to the left of the dark Atlantean in the lead walks a 
  slender silver shadow, the glide of bare feet on marble near silent and 
  placed carefully -- only the whispering ripple of her concession to going 
  clothed betraying that Shinjukou's legs are moving at all and she is not 
  just an alabaster statue rolled inside with the aid of an invisible platform 
  on wheels. Hands clasped before her at her waist, the expression of her face 
  bearing the chill serenity of carved ice, the shimmering woman may well be 
  that statue when she comes to a halt behind Kuronbo were it not for the calm 
  drift of her eyes as they drink in her surroundings. Then she too sinks 
  carefully to her knees, silently bowing her head in what can only be patient 
  respect.

Elania plays me-and-my-shadow with the Crown Princess, and seems quite happy 
  to stay that way, silent, bare feet adding to the impersonation. She moves 
  along behind Shinjukou, just a touch to the left so she can see everything 
  -- and she /does/ try to see everything. Even the God-King. Well, from the 
  knees down, at least. When the Princess kneels, she does as well, head bowed 
  and lip-chewing blessedly hidden behind fiery hair. Her shark'stooth 
  necklace clatters softly, and she pats it into silence before tiny fingers 
  tangle together in front of her.

His odd shoes padding softly across the floor, Yoritomo proceeds inside just 
  behind the pair of Atlantean nobles, slightly webbed fingers folding 
  together as his arms remain tucked behind his back in a most formal posture, 
  nodding the head downwards reverently at first, and then taking up position 
  directly behind the Decemvir and Princess as he kneels downwards without 
  raising his head a hair. The cloak billows behind him shallowly with every 
  movement as he sinks to the ground while managing to arrange the belt in a 
  manner that allows him to avoid tripping or otherwise embarassing himself. 
  This only serves to provide a bit of a grandness to him that is at odds with 
  the overall tranquil politeness of his demeanor. Lips pressed together, he 
  retains a certain focus of purpose, not daring to allow his visible 
  attention to deviate from the area below him at this exact moment, the 
  alabaster skin of his webbed hand set in front of him.

All the colors of the rainbow -- some garish, but most rather understated -- 
  are to be found in the ranks of those whose status is high enough to grant 
  them a place here. They kneel arrayed along the walls, and some in the back 
  are standing. Some have supplications of their own; others are merely sent 
  by clan and family to be on hand. To watch history being made. To be ready 
  to take word back to their family of the needs of their god. The women are 
  arrayed to the God-King's left, the men to the right, and the kshatri stand 
  closer to his throne than do the vaisya. Occassionally there is the softest 
  buzz of words as the attendants make comment to one another.

Farouk has come to rest on the opposite side of the throne from Rabi, and 
  looks over the crowd to the servant girl who followed the Atlanteans from a 
  comfortable distance. He nods to her, minimally. Only those paying close 
  attention to the seneschal would notice.

The throne is raised high, on the dais, and it allows a grand view of the 
  large hall that the God-King claims his audiences within. Two oil lamps 
  decorate either side of the throne, small and obscurely situated, but well 
  placed so as to provide sufficient light. Each of the pillars bears at least 
  one of the dreaded silver and black guardsmen, and the walls and exits are 
  also ringed with the royal guard of the Varati known throughout the lands as 
  the Agni-Haidar. They are all equipped with both ranged weapons and deadly 
  blades and they watch the approach and entrance of each member of the 
  Orcinus retinue with stoic dispassion.

Seated like some bird of prey on a marble and silk blessed nest, Khalid Atar 
  regards the arrival of his guests without a word. Ebon wings whip outwards, 
  arching high, as the final member enters the grand hall. As fiery blue eyes 
  focus on the faces of several individuals, the God-King utters, "The Orcinus 
  delegation is made welcome in the halls of the embassy of Atesh-Gah." His 
  voice is quiet, calm, yet carries well in the open-air court. He inclines 
  his chin, graciously, first to Kuronbo, then to Shinjukou and finally 
  towards Yoritomo. An arched eyebrow, however, is his outward reaction to 
  Elania's presence.

A smile is born behind the drape of silk that hides the face of Faisal's 
  consort. Rabi smiles to see the Atlanteans, and most especially to see 
  Elania, whose kindness she has not forgotten. The fact that all of them, and 
  the rest of the crew, had a hand in saving her own life, is still new within 
  her heart. The smile fades as she remembers the crewmembers who died in the 
  fateful near-sinking of Kuronbo's grand ship. /Death, everywhere./ She 
  thinks of the refugees fed by the salted whale meat brought in by the 
  venture. /And life./

The entry of four shudra is unobtrusive, occurring only after the exalted 
  visitors have made their entrance. Between them they guide a fine cart of 
  sturdy craftmanship, but made a pleasure to the eye by its ornamentation of 
  fine hammered gold. Upon the cart rest myriad platters of delicacies: the 
  freshest fruits, slices of meats and fishes and bread and cheeses, bottles 
  of clear sparkling wines and waters to cleanse the palate between the taking 
  of the foodstuffs. The shudra themselves are all arrayed in their finest 
  garb, each of them clad in the colors of Clan Khalida, scarlets and azures 
  and vivid gold. And first among them, green eyes filled with nervousness 
  even as she strives to remember the directions she has been given, moves 
  Faanshi. The girl's slender golden hands bear another platter, and once she 
  acknowledges Farouk's brief glance with a respectful little curtsey, she and 
  her fellows surreptitiously see their cart and platters and edibles to an 
  out of the way table set up to await them.

Rabi lowers her eyes as Khalid begins to speak. She regards the blank paper on 
  her writing board and dips her head as if saluting an enemy. And then, with 
  deliberate precision, she begins to fill the blank space with a description 
  of the proceedings, with the words said. Her silks ripple as her hand flows 
  over the surface of the paper. Bold, strong letters for the God-King: his 
  words barely contain the power of the speaker, and this sense is faithfully 
  captured in the calligraphy that translates his speech into writing.

The words of the God-King carry and die in the confines of the Throne Room 
  before the Orcinus Decemvir Apparent reacts. As silence begins to fill the 
  Throne Room, the Onyx-Skinned Atlantean rises to his feet with the solemnity 
  that he exhibited upon his entrance. He places a hand behind his back, and 
  then touches his other hand to his forehead...and then to his throat...and 
  then to his chest in a manner that is similiar to the Varati form of homage. 
  However, he then turns his wrist and extends his hand outward and reveals 
  his webbed fingers free of malice in the homage of the Atlanteans.
When the Atlantean speaks, his voice carries throughout the Throne Room...deep 
  resonant tones that bear an eloquence that is very uncommon amongst the 
  water race. His words are artfully given, "Amir-Al, O'Khalid-Atar...I am 
  known as Orcinus Kuronbo, Decemvir Apparent of the Orcinus by the grace of 
  Pasiphae and chosen Ambassador for the Varati People by the wisdom of the 
  Ephorate." Though his words are proud, his eyes remain at a point short of 
  the Throne, "I bring you greetings and introduce my household...and those 
  that are favored in the eyes of the Orcinus"

When one's king can lay out not only fine foods, bedeck his servants in 
  excellently tailored clothing, and entertain a hundred guests in the 
  greatest of class, but *also* do so with the greatest of ease and with 
  quality of items unrivalled by any other, is it any wonder that he is a god 
  among men? Such common events as these are part his mistique among the 
  common folk - and their tales of his court are in no way exaggerated. Silks 
  with patterns so complex they need be stitched by hand and by no loom 
  decorate the entirety of the court, and all are bedecked with jewels and 
  precious metals. Yet, kneeling off to one side of the room - far enough back 
  to seem quite common, yet close enough to be assured a good look at the 
  throne, is Vayu. He wears his plain robes, and bears no ornamentation of any 
  shape - a patch of plain white, set adrift in a sea of slowly shifting and 
  swirling paints.

Rabi's hand freezes and a tremor passes through it. She sets aside the pen, 
  considering the best nib to use to represent the quality of Kuronbo's 
  speech, and surruptitiously waits for her fingers to stop trembling.

Silence is a comfortable facet of the Princess, as familiar to her as the 
  waters she was born in. A portable ocean, in one sense, carried with the 
  woman, wrapped about her in a near palpable if invisible cloak when away 
  from her home. And so with the words of the God-King, the reply of her 
  brother, a curious if tranquilly patient ear is turned up to listen - such 
  strange acoustics in this chamber, to her hearing - even as she herself 
  remains content to drift in the serenity of having to make no sound, filling 
  the time spent waiting with impassive inspection of the floor before her as 
  if it were novelty rather than simply a place to set one's feet or, as in 
  this case, one's knees.

From the point of his actual kneeling until several after the imperious figure 
  of Khalid Atar extends his greeting, Yoritomo remains completely and utterly 
  still, like a marble statue immersed in the cool tranquility of deep water, 
  the blue of his cloak brushing against the seafoam of his skin. His white 
  neck, bearing tiny slits for gills that are nigh-unnoticable, shifts 
  slightly, but his eyes remain still where they are, at the point of the 
  floor in front of him. Such is the place of this humbled denizen of the seas 
  in a place of Fire. Through all of this humility, still, there is a certain 
  glamorous undercurrent to the very stillness that continues to claim him.

Begging your pardon, O God-King, but Elania misses the arched eyebrow, and 
  thankfully so. There are many things she's hoping to appear as, tonight, and 
  'intriguing' is right there at the bottom, barely above 'vile threat to the 
  Varati Kingdom'. She stays kneeling behind and alongside Shinjukou -- just a 
  shadow, Most High. Just a shadow. Her necklace clatters softly again; again 
  she pets it back into silence. A tiny sniffle escapes her, as graisha-sharp 
  senses pick up on the sweetsoftwet of sliced peaches. She doesn't turn to 
  look, though. Nope. Peeking is for later.

The flickering light of the torches and braziers dances off of the silks of 
  the audience, causing heavy patterns to ripple in high relief or plain silk 
  to wave off snakes of shimmering highlight from its smooth surface. Like 
  birds, they, caged by awe and worship of the one on the throne: their heads 
  turn and bob as they make the softest comments and agree or disagree with 
  one another, a silent song of motion.

"Rise." The word is indicated to the court as a whole, as Khalid continues his 
  inspection of those presented before him. Expressive blue eyes widen, then 
  hood over as thick, long black lashes hide the one feature easily readable 
  upon the God-King. He is utterly impassive otherwise as he speaks, "The 
  Orcinus Decemvirate is spoken well to me by my Foreign Ministry in these 
  recent years. I am glad to have finally met you, Orcinus Kuronbo, for your 
  tales regale my halls." There is a faint hint of a smile at these last 
  words. "I am equally pleased to make the acquiantance of your household."

Rabi dips her head a bit more, as if in prayer. Her other hand joins the 
  first, fingers lacing together in her lap.

_Try not to gawk, you who were once captive in Clan Saraze, and now serve Clan 
  Khalida! Behave like an awestruck child, and doubtless you will not see a 
  repeat of this boon you have been granted!_ Thinking these and similar 
  thoughts with each breath she takes in behind her concealing veil, acutely 
  conscious that the three younger shudra she has been instructed to oversee 
  all regard her when no one else is looking with barely concealed suspicion, 
  Faanshi swiftly and as silently as possible sets her fellows to arranging 
  their dishes and trays to optimum effect upon their table. Once their task 
  is complete, however, the four array themselves on their own knees, two at 
  each side of the table, stoically awaiting further orders.
And Faanshi, heart racing, struggles not to gawk.

Farouk is silent, but smiling and pleasant-looking from his position beside 
  the throne. His eyes follow the servants, the nobles, the courtiers, the 
  guards...all but the Amir-Al himself are scrutinized in turn by the 
  seneschal.

Rabi picks up another pen and sets to the task of representing Orcinus Kuronbo 
  on paper. There is a graceful smoothness in the writing she uses to 
  represent him, and an energy in the letters not unlike the dance of the 
  dolphins she witnessed from the deck of the Iruka.

Words, exhaled, float upon a curtain of air - with enough force behind air, it 
  becomes wind, and from wind a storm will grow; some words are laced with 
  enough force to cause a storm of their own volition, without need of 
  nature's helping hand. Khalid's words always have, and always will, hold 
  such force. When he speaks to the Orcinus entourage, an a haze that tastes 
  of thickly bitter saffron and stale breath spent in violent rhetoric at 
  three o'clock in the morning. In their eyes, you can see the words: Who are 
  these Atlanteans, to come waltzing into Atesh-Gah, and kneel before Khalid, 
  as thoughh they had any claim to royalty?!? Despite the needs of diplomacy 
  and good taste, the hatred and xenophobia of the Varati still crops up in 
  the populace, and this court is not so very free of hatred that it cannot be 
  smelled on the lips of the angry.

Farouk's eyes meet, in turn, the eyes of each whispering noble, each frowning 
  warrior, each gossiping fop. He smiles to some, nods to others, and to each, 
  his expression is warning and a promise, most tastefully delivered.

Orcinus Kuronbo waits for the rest of his Household to rise before continuing. 
  During the interval, he turns his head left and then right, taking in the 
  splendour of this Court with a manner that does not suggest awe. Rather, he 
  seems to be attempting to divine something of the person that sits upon the 
  Throne by assessing that which surrounds him. Whatever opinion he derives, 
  he keeps his own counsel.
After his companions rise, he turns his head back to the point before the 
  Throne. He pays no mind to the murmured uprise amongst the Varati...they are 
  of little concern to him as he raises his voice again and states, "The 
  Orcinus are supremely honored that are names our upon the lips of the 
  Amir-Al..we whom are merely a tenth of our race." He bows slightly from the 
  waist and states, "The Amir-Al has always been known to us..a Land-Dweller 
  whose majesty is known even amongst those that reside beneath the waves. 
  With the Amir-Als victory over the haughty and imperious Empyereans, There 
  is no place where his name is not known. Surely The Amir-Al pays us too much 
  honor"

Grace has been fought for and hard-won on land but held to with sure 
  composure, lifting Shinjukou to her feet in a single smooth movement that 
  leaves her once more becoming the shimmering statue of before. And, as 
  before, the play of crystal eyes begins again over the room and those around 
  her - always, always remaining by calm design away from the figure seated 
  upon the throne. Stillness of body is broken only by a fractional turn of 
  her head to bring Elania the Nervous Shadow into view, the barest breath of 
  warmth given to the pale curve of her mouth - speaking of a silent 
  reassurance, possibly. Lingering only briefly though before moving on to 
  inspect some new point of interest, no outward sign being given to show 
  whether the mood of those assembled here is felt. Or cared about.

Rabi switches pens, her hand moving with studied, unhurried grace. That she is 
  behind in terms of keeping up with the conversation does not dismay her: it 
  remains within her, every word said, the tones of voices, the quality of 
  pronunciation. It waits for its turn to be made immortal by the hand of a 
  scribe.

A small -- and very clean, let it be noted -- hand touches against saw-edged 
  fangs to still them as Elania raises to her feet behind Shinjukou. Her bare 
  toes twitch against implacable marble, fingers reknotting in an impression 
  of calmness before her. Greengold eyes lift to the Princess's, hold there a 
  moment as the edge of her mouth twitch, trying to brave a smile. Nervous? 
  Who? /Her/? A corner of her mind absently wonders what fantastical creature 
  the God-King's boots are made from, as she looks that way again. Something 
  far more exotic than foxhide, surely. Yes. Surely.

The ruler of this household, of his very -nation-, in fact, having spoken, the 
  ivory sculpture that is Yoritomo Nakaya is, of course, one to take heed of 
  the word that was at once both a command and a permission given. The First 
  Domo of Orcinus is not without his sense of place in the great chain of 
  being that is very much alive in the decor of this hall, and smoothly now 
  tilts his gaze just upwards to eye that of the Decemvir in front of him, 
  foam-green irises settling on the form of the man whose form is of the very 
  hue of the blackest depths of the sea from which his folk hail from. He 
  himself would appear the complete opposite, dressing in a fashion that would 
  almost liken him to certain among the drylanders, were the touches not so 
  distinctively fitting. Starkly differing hues, yet of the same people as the 
  nobles he travels with, this man. At the slight wagging of tongues, the 
  bitterness of the surrounding courtiers and nobles goes seemingly unnoticed 
  by him, sliding off of his form like water as he fluidly rises to look, 
  still, upon the same point his liege is. The words, any sort of haughty 
  derision flung towards him or his people is met with simple noble conduct 
  and behavior. The simplest way to challenge the claims of your detractors is 
  to behave in the exact opposite manner they would accuse you of, after all? 
  At once both reverent and majestic in his odd, exotic way, he holds himself 
  in an erect posture.

Chuckling softly, Khalid's mirth is like fire incarnate; fierce, sharp and 
  powerful. "Ah, I would not say that the Empyreans were all such creatures, 
  Heir Apparent." His right hand slips towards the armrest of the throne and 
  long, slender fingers tap idly against stone. "I would hope my future wife 
  and Queen would not be so categorized." He graces Kuronbo with a faint, 
  passing smile. "Yet, the Varati empire acknowledges and thanks the Orcinus 
  Decemvirate for their kind words and congratulations. In addition, we 
  appreciate the support and aid they have shown our kingdom in the past and 
  the friendly gestures they continue to make in the present."

A curious stillness shivers through the attendant watchers as the God-King 
  mentions his /future wife/.

Farouk steps forward, into the periphery of Khalid's sight, and bows his head 
  to the God-King, awaiting recognition.

Vayu's stillness is as the willow trees in a gentle breeze; when he moves, it 
  is so fluid and subtle that, unless one watches directly, it cannot be 
  discerned - to most, he would appear a statue of a sleeping man. To the 
  alert, he meditates; he fairly radiates as an island of peace and serenity 
  among those that grow tense and sweat with the mention of Khalid's future 
  wife. How can this be? She is an abomination! She is the face that evil 
  wears in these years! Vayu approves, however, else he would not smile when 
  Khalid speaks of her - and how could he disapprove? The word of God has said 
  she is good - and how may God be wrong?

The Orcinus Decemvir-Apparent bows his head in acknowledgement of the words of 
  the Amir-Al and a close-lipped smile crosses his face at the mention of the 
  Empyereans...it is near impossible to determine if the smile is one of 
  politeness or agreement. Orcinus Kuronbo, with his eyes still upon the 
  carpet, lowers his voice slightly now that the introdcutions are offered and 
  he then states in a voice that is a fusion of conversational and formal, 
  "O'Khalid-Atar...The Orcinus have two petitions to offer before you..." He 
  then adds, "But first, we desire to offer you something of value"

The Most High, married.. the thought is practically beyond the ken of the 
  shudra girl with green eyes, kneeling there uneasily on the highly polished 
  floor, golden hands clasped at her breast in an effort to keep them from 
  shaking. Khalid Atar's clarion voice commands the attention of Faanshi, and 
  she latches onto it for all that she does not dare to look up past the range 
  necessary to see if anyone comes within her vicinity to give her and her 
  fellow shudra orders. Would it distract the Amir-al, if she prayed to him to 
  grant thoughts of better will into the hearts of her companions, she 
  wonders? Anxious to avoid doing _anything_ that would be construed a 
  distraction, Faanshi concentrates instead on the resonant cadences of the 
  God-King's spoken words, using them to clear her mind of as much nervousness 
  as she can banish.

The ice sculpture moves. That is to say, Shinjukou looses then reclasps her 
  hands before her waist. What the movement is indicitive of is difficult to 
  say, but a curious gleam has somehow stolen into the ice of peridot eyes - 
  if the twin crystals would only remain still long enough, perhaps someone 
  might be able to detect the thinnest glimmer of amusement in the woman's 
  gaze as it roams now over those near the walls. Too fleeting to be caught 
  and held to with any surity however, it soon fades, leaving her as still and 
  expressionless as before.

Rabi tilts her head slightly as she writes, switching pens once again. She 
  senses, rather than hears, both the murmurs and the silence. It all flows 
  through her and she winnows out what will be set down for posterity. Writing 
  is prayer, and she prays most accurately.

Ripples of air flowing over water without any resulting motion liken the 
  crumbs of gossip and conversation mouthed from the assembly of nobles and 
  court-denizens. So the God-King has an Empyrean as a future wife? No change 
  in expression flows from Yoritomo at this revelation - he yet remains a 
  passive observer. Throughout all this, those snow-white hands remain tucked 
  behind his back as the blue fabric of his cloak billows around his form even 
  still. Those swords might as well not even be there, for all the heed he 
  gives them. They are dress - ornament, part of a uniform, nothing to even be 
  noted in a setting such as this.

"And the Varati empire has questions of the Orcinus Decemvirate. But your 
  petitions and gifts will be accepted and considered, first." Khalid's words 
  are still soft, quiet, but laced with the undeniable power that this 
  creature has at his very fingertips. Shifting slightly within the confines 
  of his pillowed seat, the God-King's eyes flicker of the Crown Princess for 
  a moment, then onto Yoritomo. Another arched eyebrow is offered in the 
  direction of Elania, but it is Farouk that captures his final attention. 
  "You may speak, Seneschal," he indicates.

The Orcinus nods deeply in response to the Amir-Al's graciousness...and then 
  yields the floor to the Seneschal.

Farouk bows his head. "My thanks, most holy." He takes another step, and says, 
  "While I respect the wisdom in progressing straight to business, I would be 
  remiss if I did not point out that we have chairs available for your guests, 
  and refreshments for them, as well." He nods in the direction of the table 
  filled with food. "I would feel personally responsible if your guests were 
  not to enjoy the finest comforts that your court has to offer, most holy. 
  Please excuse my interruption, on that account." He bows deeply, from the 
  waist.

Time for peeking, albeit /exquisitely/ surreptitious peeking. Elania's 
  attention starts to flicker over the parts of the throne room that she can 
  see without turning her head too terribly much. The food-cart is regrettably 
  out of sight, so she contents herself with a well-mannered sniffle. Peaches. 
  Meat. Honey, maybe? She worries her lip again, as she looks to the womenfolk 
  clad in their gleaming, intricate silks. A brief look of wistfulness passes 
  over her; so pretty, all of them.

Holding to his balanced stance, Orcinus Yoritomo Nakaya's feet retain a 
  certain poise, for all his dryland trappings, he will probably forever 
  relate standing on anything out of the water as being aboard ship. Still, it 
  would bring to mind a hint of eerie, alien grace to an observer not 
  accustomed to his people. A narrow, coal-black eyebrow concaves 
  ever-so-slightly at Farouk's announcement, as the turquoise of the eye 
  beneath strays briefly towards the Varati man's form while he speaks. The 
  rest of him remains, still, stoic and unmoving, after letting his eyes stray 
  to the Princess and back to the feet of Khalid Atar. His head has not moved 
  all the while.

"Of course." Khalid's lips tug into a brief smile as he gazes down upon Farouk 
  from his perch. "I will allow the Heir Apparent and his companions to enjoy 
  the fruits of your preparations, Seneschal now or after business, as they 
  prefer." His attention flickers over the various shudra assigned to the 
  table and blue eyes pick out Faanshi's form. Fiery orbs widen slighly at the 
  sight of this halfbreed, then narrow again. Finally, he addresses Kuronbo. 
  "As you desire, Heir Apparent."

Yes, the Seneschal. Rabi has written Farouk's words before, and she deftly 
  changes the angle of pen, the pressure against the paper, to make the 
  writing that represents him: neat, orderly, and yet with a bounce that makes 
  them seem on the edge of being too energetic, of getting ahead of 
  themselves. And yet they always manage to fit the line to which they have 
  been written.

Farouk bows to Khalid, smiling a grin just small enough to avoid being 
  presumptious, but large enough to indicate his pleasure at receiving the 
  Amir-Al's grace. He takes a few short steps back, once again moving out of 
  the center of attention, and standing beside the throne. He regards Kuronbo 
  with interest, waiting to see what the future Decemvir decides.

When Farouk stops speaking, at least the sleeper wakes; his eyes slide open to 
  reveal the grey lifelight of the sphinx, made aloof by ten thousand years of 
  contemplation - yet also made all the sadder because of the knowledge that 
  some day, the wonderful experience of life will end. This is how Vayu takes 
  in the God-King's court - not as a pompous noble, or a shudra begging for a 
  glimpse of divinity, but as a man, one who takes pleasure and may find 
  divinity in all things. For him, a single breath is all of life, and yet 
  none of it at once. Savor what you can, and taste the fruits of existance 
  while they are here - for some day, your card will be shuffled back into the 
  deck, and played in a new hand. Such the beauty of the universe.

Peaches? The thought is as bright and shiny in Elania's mind as the awaiting 
  fruit is; woe be to anyone picking the graisha's brain and getting blinded 
  by the straight-forward simplicity of it. She'd dream of mice being on the 
  serving-platters as well, but...well, even Most High's caterers probably 
  couldn't arrange them appetizingly. She's exceptionally well-mannered 
  tonight, though -- she still doesn't look anywhere that makes her gawking 
  readily apparent and, always, the greengold eyes settle upon the dais or the 
  boots resting thereupon.

It is apparent from the impassive regard that the Orcinus Decemvir-Apparent 
  pays towards the Seneschal that refreshments are the least of his concerns, 
  but he recognizes the need for protocol and he looks to his companions and 
  raises a hand...wordlessly releasing them to their desires. He then turns 
  about and then speaks his of his offer, "When we were informed of our 
  audience with the Amir-Al...It became a matter of much consideration of what 
  manner of homage should we pay." He turns partially in the direction of his 
  sister and he continues, "Of course, all sorts of earthly possessions were 
  considered...but nothing seemed worthy."
The Orcinus then holds his webbed hand up towards his Sister and states, 
  "However, I decided upon something suitable...the Crown Princess Orcinus 
  Shinjukou is an Artisian of some note amongst our people." He is silent once 
  as he regards her and he states, "It is our desire that she plays for 
  you...memories of beauty in song and in form our rare treasures in this 
  world and it is fitting for one whom is of majesty enduring"

Outwardly untouched by the undercurrents rippling through the room, Shinjukou 
  places one small foot forward, allowing the slight step to bring her more 
  fully into the regard of the figure on the throne. Slim fingers slide 
  beneath a fold of the loose billow of fabric she has chosen as gown, gently 
  pluck loose a binding invisible beneath the material and withdraw holding a 
  small conch shell. The lovingly polished surface of the object - gleaming 
  with muted pinks and tans as well as a delicate tracery of gold leaf that 
  enhances its perfection in an understated way - is held cupped in both hands 
  and lifted into consideration. In a voice that calls to mind soft winds 
  teasing over the surface of sun-touched waters, the woman says, "A simple 
  gift, Amir-Al, one meant only to offer some of the beauty we ourselves have 
  found above the waves. The Takara, simple treasure - it requires that a wind 
  be present to fill the chamber of it, however, and is an expression of 
  Pasiphae's beauty rather than of the holder's expertise with creating music."

At these words, the forever-silent woman scribe peeks up through her lashes. 
  Her copper-flecked eyes seeks out the form of Shinjukou and there is a 
  surprised curiosity in them. Song. It seems such a strange contrast to 
  recent memory: the images, caught out of the corner of her eyes as she sank 
  in the bone-chilling cold waters of the sea, of the Princess' form arrowing 
  after the whale, of her clinging to the side of the leviathan and driving 
  her dagger into its side. Of the warrior, seemingly insignificant, battling 
  on despite her insigificance, and proving to not be insignificant at all. 
  This woman makes music?

"I am honored by your graciousness, Heir Apparent and would readily hear this 
  gift. Music is one of my passions; the sitar and vina stir my soul like few 
  other things in creation. You have chosen wisely." Khalid allows another 
  smile to creep upon his firm, full lips, before turning his full regard upon 
  Shinjukou. Leaning forward, within the grand throne, the God-King rests both 
  of his hands on the marble armrests. His long, silky black hair falls 
  forward, nearly hiding his face from view, but this does not seem to bother 
  the Lord of Fire. He seems interested only what the Crown Princess may do 
  next.

At Kuronbo's proclamation, first, and then the words of the sister to that man 
  whose skin is as white as his own, Yoritomo subtly shifts his head from the 
  former to the latter, the first real change in his outward expression 
  visible to the crowd at large within this room. His lips, thin and pale, 
  slide upwards in a very poised, reserved smile as she brings up the mention 
  of musical tradition, an infusion of gentle pleasure lights his eyes as this 
  recognition of his peoples' tradition is brought to light. Although he would 
  never -dare- visible, overt pride in the present company, he nonetheless 
  takes simple joy in the art being shared with his host. This is no small 
  thing itself, to be sure.

Oh, yes, how splendid. A passionate God-King is about to emerge, and Elania is 
  around to witness it. Then again, he now seems intrigued with the Crown 
  Princess, rather than her. She takes a half-step back as Shinjukou steps 
  forward, watching with a rapt, anticipatory expression as the shell is 
  brought forth. She remembers the eerie, haunting music skirling through the 
  Iruka. The Iruka. A glance to Kuronbo, curious-wondering; what will he be 
  saying about the poor battered ship, tonight?

Farouk looks from Khalid to the princess, and then around the crowd, noting 
  reactions.

The four shudra awaiting some sign that the foodstuffs they diligently guard 
  are designed might be begging for a glimpse of divinity... but if they are, 
  they're all hiding it fairly well. Only the occasional stolen peek towards 
  the candala nobles and the Amir-al break the stoic calm of these youths and 
  maidens; not so impassive of regard as the Agni-Haidar are they, not even 
  remotely. Aye, these are mere youths and maidens, two mongrels and one 
  unfortunately born pureblood... and a halfbreed. They are vulnerable to 
  curiosity.
And Faanshi, hearing music spoken of, just barely controls the urge to look 
  up, to see what fine gift the visitors are bestowing upon the dark-winged 
  Son of the Dawn. _Music_. Yet another wonder she has discovered, since her 
  coming to Atesh-Gah; will there be music tonight?
And beside Faanshi, that unfortunately born pureblooded Varati youth slides 
  her a narrow-eyed glance, catching the undisguised wonder in those green 
  eyes, frowning jealously to himself.

"Unfortunately, Amir-al," and briefly Shinjukou's eyes lift from the expanse 
  of marble at her feet, gaze touching then dancing away from the God-King's 
  shadowed countenance with the suspicious hint of amusement shown before, 
  "The winds of the seashore are not available here and so this humble 
  musician begs your tolerance in what may well be a less than adequate 
  performance within such slendor," That said, the small delicately curving 
  shell is held cupped in one hand and brought to pale lips. The tapered end 
  of the instrument is set to the curve of lower lip, free hand settling over 
  the shell so that fingers can find smoothly drilled holes that are now 
  apparent in its surface. A breath is taken, filling her lungs, then slowly 
  expelled -- causing a shiver of alien sound to swell within the chamber as 
  it passes through the shell and spreads out to whisper against the inner ear 
  of its listeners.

Rabi's breath catches in her throat. She isn't quite sure she likes the sound 
  made by the shell. It sounds a little like the hunting call of demons in the 
  night.

Nodding his acknowledgement, Khalid does not speak in answer to Shinjukou's 
  remarks, but rather contents himself in listening to what the Crown Princess 
  may play. Cocking his head slightly, the God-King of the Varati studies the 
  Atlantean woman for many moments, before allowing his fiery blue eyes to 
  hood over completely. In utter silence, he absorbs the powerful sounds 
  emitted from the shell.

Farouk tilts his head, and his eyes close a trifle, as if he were about to 
  lose himself in the sound. Still, he keeps his gaze on the room, and notes 
  the reactions that the crowd has to the strange Atlantean offering.

The Orcinus Heir concedes the floor to his Sister as the first tone of Takara 
  echoes in the chamber, the acoustics of the Throne Room giving a throaty 
  resonant sound to the Music. He merely stands next to his Major Domo and his 
  face echoes the regard of the Amir-Al's...except that his black on black 
  eyes are far less evocative.

The hand of the scribe begins to move again: Rabi has work to do. She lets the 
  shiver work its way out of her system and gets back to her task.

The rich, full, whispering shell-song provokes the tiniest of gasps from the 
  shudra girl in Khalida red, blue, and gold. Faanshi's green eyes go round as 
  coins, in what can only be undisguised delight -- indeed, another Wonder, 
  and so thoroughly is she captivated that she misses the vindictive little 
  smile of the boy kneeling at her side. Only when a silken murmur of "If you 
  keep gaping like that, halfbreed, they'll put out your eyes with 
  spikes...!", pitched to carry to her ear and no farther, sounds immediately 
  next to her is Faanshi's attention roughly dragged back to reality. Or, 
  rather, her station outside _this_ particular grand reality. Blushing 
  scarlet under her veil, she slams her gaze back to the shimmering floor, 
  while the shudra boy, his barb delivered, resumes his own kneeling stance.

At the first escape of sound from the shell, Yoritomo's light, unconscious 
  smile is righted and subtly replaced by one of simple conscious absorption 
  and concentration. The water-grave eyes set deep in the lines of his face 
  narrow slightly as the white hoods of eyelids sink downward for a moment. 
  He, in turn, remains beside Kuronbo while standing stock-still. Those same 
  eyes drift again towards the performing figure of the Princess and then 
  methodically drift to certain others of the observers in the room, in turn, 
  either for idle study or gauging of reaction, it is truly difficult to tell.

The melody called up is haunting indeed, akin to whale song and the steady 
  rush of waves rolling in to glide over sand smoothed by eons of the moon 
  plucking tides from the ocean. The first softly piercing note is modulated 
  after a heavy moment of sound by the play of slender fingers over the holes 
  along the shell, causing a gentle undulation that manages to reach to the 
  far corners of the great chamber -- eerie and mournful but constant, 
  ageless. Pasiphae's will given voice the Orcinus murmer at the playing of 
  this through the years, by one honored musician or another, plucking at 
  souls that are drawn to the heart of secret grottos and lightless depths. 
  The ocean is not merciless though and after the meoldy has been allowed time 
  enough to 'lull' its audience, Shinjukou brings a stormy fury of notes from 
  the shell with another deeply drawn breath, rising to a sharp crescendo -- 
  and then silence. Weighty in ears that had been attacked by the last violent 
  press of sound before lungs are emptied fully, causing a slight flare of 
  bright crimson at the woman's throat as gill slits flutter reflexively.

"Mmm," Elania says; or perhaps she simply sighs. Her head downturns slightly, 
  eyes fixed at some middle distance between herself and the floor, other 
  senses shunting their sharpness to her ears. Her fingers unclasp from in 
  front of her, and absently toy with her shark'stooth necklace, thinking of 
  the night she was honoured with the 'totem-gift'. Her breathing catches as 
  the crescendo strikes, lips parting in a silent 'Ohhh...' of purest 
  appreciation and delight. When the silence falls, it's deafening to her; she 
  looks up at the Princess with shining, awed eyes, unable to hear anything 
  save her own heart.

It is difficult to discern the God-King's reactions to this soulfull song 
  played by the Crown Princess of the Orcinus Decemvirate, yet his expression 
  seems content, pleased and perhaps even intrigued. Or maybe it is 
  melancholic? The only outward reaction to the entire affair is the slight 
  rise in the flames of the oil lamps situated by the throne.

Rabi is pinned in place by the writing, by the need to write, by the honor 
  given to her in being allowed to write. It keeps her from shrinking away 
  from the eerie music and all its silver-edged, haunted reminders of other 
  sounds heard. Yes, it sounds like a whale in places. Rabi has heard a whale. 
  And she heard the furious defiant cries of one, like the crescendo. She 
  pales beneath her veil, thinking of the wasp's whine of the slivers of wood 
  that raced across the deck of the Iruka and cut down half of the rowing 
  crew. The staccato thunks of those slivers finding home in flesh, a sound 
  not too unlike the tapping of slender fingers against a shell instrument. 
  /It's only your imagination,/ she tells herself. /The music is so eerie./ 
  And, /you have work to do./ She looks down and finds that she has paused in 
  her work. An unforgivable thing, to be daydreaming in the middle of such an 
  important duty. So hard to concentrate...but she forces herself. Blessed 
  silence then -- not even the Varati audience makes a sound. The end of the 
  song marks the renewal of Rabi's focus. The pen moves again, steady and sure.

The conch is lowered slowly, air drawn into emptied lungs even as Shinjukou 
  inclines in a deep bow and takes the step backwards needed to bring her once 
  more into the circle of those she arrived with. Straightening with eyes 
  serenely affixed upon the floor, she returns the instrument to its hiding 
  place beneath her garment then twines fingers gently about each other and 
  presses them to her midriff. Content to return to her calm observation of 
  the marble even as body falls into a still emulation of the material, 
  becoming the statue once more.

Silence. Utter silence. Not a single sound interrupts the silence that comes 
  in the wake of the music crafted and created by Shinjukou. On the throne, 
  high upon the dais, Khalid Atar is motionless. Neither blue eyes open, nor 
  black wings stir. And then, suddenly, without warning, the God-King pulls 
  himself out of his throne and rises to his full height. Slender, strong 
  hands beat against one another in a fervent clapping, showing his full and 
  complete approval for what he has heard.

The applause of the God-King is a signal to the attendant throng of attendant 
  kshatri and vaisya within the mighty hall that they are free to express 
  their own approvals, and once Khalid Atar has chosen to break the silence 
  that fell in the wake of Shinjukou's music, others venture to echo His 
  approbation. Hand to hand, palm to palm, applause spreads out through the 
  chamber. Three of the shudra -- the pureblooded boy and the two mongrels -- 
  join in. Only after a few moments does the badly rattled halfbreed shudra, 
  Faanshi, dare to do so as well.

Lost somewhere in the sounds of godly and mortal applause alike is a soft 
  squall-trill that thrums in the back of a fox-graisha's throat. Quiet, so 
  quiet it perhaps doesn't reach to Shinjukou, even; nonetheless, it is there, 
  the truest form of pleasure and pride that Elania can express.

If Shinjukou's icy composure would allow for a flinch, she may well do so, but 
  other ways of showing mild surprise and startlement push forward. Etiquette 
  and respect is forgotten long enough to allow eyes that widen just slightly 
  to fly up from the floor, fasten firmly upon the hands of the God-King - 
  what in Pasiphae's name is he doing? There appears to be nothing between 
  said hands to crush, and the fire she was warned of has not appeared, so 
  perhaps this clapping is not a sign of displeasure. Puzzlement only grows 
  however as others join the cacophany of sound, the gills at her throat now 
  flaring uneasily with that explosion of crimson color as gaze shifts to take 
  in the audience. Rememering herself, hands are just barely kept from rising 
  to cover her ears at the noise so unaccustomed in her ears and she instead 
  leans into another slight bow of...acknowledgement? Simple polite confusion? 
  Difficult to say through the mask of her expression, eyes being lowered to 
  hood whatever may lurk in her gaze.

Not a stir from the Major Domo, it was as though the eerie silence that hung 
  over the room after the Princess finished with the shell enveloped him, as 
  well, as his own hands remained pressed into one another behind his back in 
  a deathlike 'grip', of sorts. Only at the actual initiative taken by the 
  God-King himself, with his odd..applause, yes, that would be it, stirs him 
  into changing his expression and pose, to one of notice, as he finds himself 
  craning his head to one side like some sort of fish-bird attracted by a 
  sudden sound. He then straightens and shifts deliberately towards Shinjukou 
  herself that he produces a quite unexpected and oddly full smile, as though 
  he had finally broken through his composed reserve to add this expression of 
  delight into his repertoire of behaviors appropriate for his stay in this 
  court.

The Orcinus Decemvir notices the discomfiture of his Sister and his brow 
  furrows briefly, creasing his features...the incongruity of the scene and 
  his Sister's reaction to the homage that is paid to her speaks volumes of 
  the Alien Culture that they come from. His cants his head briefly in the 
  direction of Yoritomo, and he then takes a few steps forward...and he states 
  simply, "Most assuredly a small thing, but we are honored that you find 
  pleasure in the music, Amir-Al"

"I am pleased." Shinjukou's reactions are not lost on the ancient God-King, 
  either. Fiery blue eyes regard the Crown Princess under that veil of silky 
  lashes. "Thank you for the performance, Princess," he states, in more 
  reserved tones. The clapping has stopped. He resumes his seat with a 
  flapping of wings. "Your gift has been received, Heir Apparent, and 
  appreciated. I would hear now your petitions."

The bow is risen from, hands again settling comfortably at her waist. A reply 
  is needed, yes? A soft murmer of wordless sound - thanks, perhaps, or simple 
  acceptance of the honor - comes from Shinjukou's lips before silence and 
  lack of motion are captured and held to once more. One might think after 
  that initial confusion, those around her had been forgotten yet again by 
  this alien mind while the true business of this meeting is approached by her 
  brother.

Honor? In the music of an alien culture, honor in the arts of a *candala 
  woman*? Truly, the Amir-al has lost his mind - as the applause dies down, 
  the ripple of shock can be felt as it reaches the walls and is reflected 
  back upon the listeners. It rises in a wave that crests over heads with 
  hushed whispers and sharp-tongued remarks; the aural wounds sting like 
  infected cuts, indigant spit of the conservatives burning deep with each 
  whisper.

The Orcinus nods once, his eyes remaining upon the carpet in front of the 
  Throne. Despite his downcast eyes, his stance seems to widen slightly and 
  his jaw sets as he states, "The first petition of the Orcinus is the lesser 
  of the two...but one of great significane to us culturallaly." He lifts one 
  of his hands towards the Graisha and he states, "We would implore your 
  recognition of one whom is Orcinus but not born of us..." He turns his head 
  slightly towards her and he states, "One is chosen ceremonially to be the 
  harbinger of the Decemvirate...one whose inner essence speaks in manners 
  both obvious and subtle of the worth of the ruler to be. That person, for 
  better or worse, is adopted into the line of sucession."
His voice then rises in a manner that is proclaimation and 
  challenge...proclaiming to the masses and challenging them to be accepting, 
  "Elania of the Sylvans is no more...There is now only Orcinus Shinzou and 
  she is of my people, having proven her worth!" His head rises slightly 
  towards the Throne, not to Khalid (Whom he still avoids looking at), but to 
  the Scribe that is near him.

That scribe slowly raises her eyes as Elania is named; she can feel the 
  orientation Decemvir-apparent's voice towards her and for a moment her gaze 
  touches him somewhere around the chin, perhaps, confirming that indeed he is 
  looking her way. She bows to him over her work gracefully as her hands busy 
  themselves with the task of replacing the filled sheet of paper on her board 
  with a fresh empty one. Her attention skitters away from the Atlantean 
  nobleman and his cave-black eyes to the smaller, more familiar figure behind 
  the Princess. Rabi smiles again, expression hidden but for the way it 
  softens her eyes.

Silence begins to fall again over the Hall, indeed, a restless silence. The 
  shudra by the food table subside as well; the two mongrels, twin brother and 
  sister and uncannily alike for all that the veiled sister's resemblance to 
  her sib can only be gleaned from her like stance and eyes, wear identical 
  placid expressions. The Varati boy, bent on proving himself a worthy youth, 
  bravely ignores the stiffness entering his knees from prolonged contact with 
  the floor. And Faanshi, mindful of her duty to insure that the cold, fresh 
  things upon the table remain cold and fresh and the warmed things -- the 
  bread and the spiced drinks in their carafes -- remain warmed, stiffly rises 
  to cast an anxious glance over the array of food and drink. As she does so, 
  she does not see the pureblooded shudra boy sneak something out of his 
  pocket, something small and hardly detectable unless you're right up close. 
  Whatever it is, he dribbles a bit of it right on the place where Faanshi had 
  been kneeling. And when she comes back to resume her position, she slips on 
  that suspicious patch, going down hard on one knee, her face draining of 
  color in her shock and embarrassment. A few nearby vaisya eye her 
  disapprovingly, and she blanches even further, while the boy beside her now 
  kneels a very polite and very respectable distance away from the apparently 
  clumsy halfbreed.

"I see." Two words, an unknown opinion. Khalid's gaze shifts from Kuronbo, so 
  as to study Elania. His regard is intense; fiery blue eyes almost pin Elania 
  to her position as the God-King studies the graisha. Ebon wings, grand and 
  beautiful, rise over their owner and even the throne itself, so as to soak 
  the dais in shadow. It is now all but impossible to see or read the Amir-al's 
  expression and his mind and emotions are cut off from all; none can 
  penetrate his iron-will. "I would hear her speak for herself. Perhaps she 
  may make an introduction and tell the court a little bit about herself, 
  yes?" A solitary -look- is spared at Faanshi.

Elania of the Sylvans is no more? She doesn't do it subtly this time, she 
  doesn't peek; she /looks/, over and up at Kuronbo, her thought processes 
  effectively faceplanting as this unexpected conversation-carpet is pulled 
  out from under her. Her eyes fly away, looking over the nearby courtiers for 
  a familiar face -- not finding it, her expression rapidly grows distraught 
  and rather upset. An...unexpected honour to be shown her, for certain, 
  and...perhaps...unwanted? But then, O Fiendish Gods, /He/ is talking about 
  her, and she looks to him, looks up at /His/ face, and tries to remember how 
  to breathe.

Tranquility touches the hint of a smile curving Shinjukou's mouth as eyes 
  drift again towards Elania - the same silent reassurance of before being 
  sent with but a look and the marked contrast of warm expression where there 
  usually is none. Recovered enough from first startlement then the revery the 
  woman had fallen into to see to the emotional wellbeing of her charge as 
  well as is possible given the circumstance and racial boundry.

All can receive the blessings of Pasiphae. Yes, this is most definitely true, 
  especially of those that prove themselves noble and worthy through deed and 
  thought. Yoritomo now shifts his own field of vision languidly in the 
  direction of the graisha herself with a keen narrowing of his eyes, after 
  the God-King himself implores her to speak. He lets his gaze linger upon her 
  with apparent patience.

Faanshi doesn't miss that -look- from the One who sits on high upon his 
  throne, and her entire being goes cold with dread. She will die, surely, 
  right here and right now, and be reborn as someone even lower than a 
  halfbreed shudra -- though, to be honest, she cannot for the life of her 
  think of how she could be reborn any lower of rank and station. _Forgive me, 
  Amir-al!_ she prays desperately, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood 
  behind her veil as she strives to ignore the flare of pain in her knee that 
  slammed into the floor. She doesn't relax, not even when the disapproving 
  eyes of the vaisya return to the important matters at hand.

Rabi switches pens and begins the long task of filling another sheet of 
  nothingness with somethingness.

Breathe. Breathe. Elania visibly struggles with herself, silent sweet-talkings 
  to her furry half that she can't, /won't/ get out of this by hiding under 
  the food-cart. Mustn't shift. She starts feeling light-headed, and belatedly 
  adds 'Mustn't faint' to the list. She clears her throat -- does it sound 
  that loud to everyone else? -- and tries to speak, her voice quavering and 
  solemn-soft. "El-" She stops. /So/ confused. It's not her name anymore? She 
  flounders with all the grace her furry half shows in water, struggling for 
  words. "S-student to Imphadi Vayu, A-amir-al, and student to the Crown 
  Princess, a-and True Heart of the Orcinus." She'll just skip her name for 
  now. I-as-object. Some True Heart she's managing to be, right now.

If, in fact, Vayu has decided to take it upon himself to teach Elania anything 
  at all, he certainly disguises it well. His head, bowed in introspection,  
  moves not a whit as Elania speaks; his eyes shift from Khalid to the graisha-
  girl, however, but that could be simply because she's talking. Be one with the 
  stone - feel it, and make yourself part of it; with its strength and 
  endurance, you shall become strong, and endure.

Blink. And another. And another. Khalid stares at Elania for a considerable 
  amount of time. Seconds become minutes. The God-King seems to be waiting for 
  something or the other. Or maybe he is just stunned. Finally, words flow 
  from his mouth, forming a question, "You are graisha?" He has yet to give up 
  that unyielding study of the Sylvan girl.

The Orcinus Decemvr Apparent takes an unobtrusive step to the right and to the 
  rear, allowing the Graisha the floor...but remaining very close to the 
  Sylvan.

Two tiny bobs of the head, eyes fluttering up to the God-King's and falling 
  back down a second later, like a greengold moth veering too close to an 
  impossibly blue flame. "Fox-graisha, A-amir-al," she affirms.

If Elania is doing a poor job of...explaining herself, Shinjukou gives no sign 
  of it, radiating that same calm confidence -- brushed with possibly a hint 
  of pride though only the very observant might see it -- while listening to 
  the graisha's fumbling. Her smile is lost again, in the pause between 
  answers, the mask sliding into place once more as gaze finds its way to an 
  idle inspection of the stairs leading to the dais.

Those foamy eyes, now more blue than green, remain firmly centered upon 
  Elania, no, Orcinus Shinzou's form as Yoritomo remains locked within his 
  immobile posture. With one outward step, he shifts his stance and alters his 
  center of balance minutely, one of the first truly idle-seeming movements he 
  has allowed himself the luxury of thus far.

Wait a minute -- graisha? And Sylvan? Faanshi had slammed her eyes shut in 
  mortal terror, but the word 'graisha' penetrates her consciousness enough 
  that she finds the courage to peek in Elania's direction. Now, though, she 
  cannot quite manage to feel the same wonder she had felt before at the music 
  of the seashell; now, mostly aware of her throbbing knee and of the jibes 
  she is bound to receive next time she sets foot in the kitchens, dreading a 
  beating from Farouk and wondering if he will find someone who will beat her 
  as hard as Hashim had done, she mostly just feels miserable.

Khalid Atar, God-King of the Varati, allows the court to read him not at all. 
  There is simply no expression on his face; it would appear he is like the 
  stone that his people shape and work so well. Another solemn minute passes 
  as the God of Immortality peers at the fox-graisha who has now become a 
  member of the Orcinus Decemvirate. "Very well. We adhere to the wishes of 
  the Orcinus Decemvirate. It is not the place of the Varati kingdom to pass 
  judgement on the members of another royal household." This is all that is 
  said and it appears to be addressed to both Kuronbo and Elania.

Hepzibah passes through the sturdy doorway from the Living Quarters.
Hepzibah has arrived.

From afar, Farouk gives you a kind look.

With the first of the petitions complete, it is time for the second one...and 
  their is a slight stiffening in the posture of the Atlantean. It is a 
  momentary thing and is almost unnoticeable...perhaps a sign of nervousness? 
  discomfort? There is no telling...
The voice of the Onyx-Skinned Atlantean raises slightly as he clasped one of 
  his hands behind his back and straightens, "Amir-Al, O'Khalid-Atar...I 
  desire to speak of our second petition, but first I must speak of Truth."

Hepzibah slips in through a door at the back of the throne room and takes a 
  few steps before she realizes that she has inadvertantly stumbled into 
  something official. Quietly, she takes a step back, amethyst eyes uncertain 
  over the top of her veil, and she lowers her head in a respectful motion 
  that continues on through her form as she glides down to her knees and 
  places her forehead against the floor.

Hm. How to represent Elania. Such an enigma, she, but possessing such fierce 
  loyalty. And so small, and yet so strong. The fox-graisha seems timid and 
  nervous, but she was the first one to leap into the water after Rabi when 
  the Varati was thrown into the ocean. Rabi selects a thin, delicate reed, 
  and makes achingly slender yet undeniably stubborn letters with it. That 
  seems right.

A wide grin has stretched itself over Vayu's face; his teeth show feral white 
  against the redgold torchlight that flicker to illuminate those assembled. 
  Unexpected boons can happen upon those who were once found in a gutter, 
  gutted by thieves and left for dead.

A slender hand unclasps from its mate, beckons Elania closer in a slight pull 
  of fingers through air. Something has passed between the Atlanteans, some 
  subliminal stirring that eventually presents itself outwardly as the 
  stepping back of Shinjukou towards one of the chairs arranged before the 
  dais. With an ease that shows nothing of a certain discomfort for having 
  been standing for so long, the woman lowers herself into a seat, head bowed 
  and hands transferring to her lap where they clasp gracefully, forming an 
  opalescent shell that is almost lost against the pale of her gown.

Those kshatri women nearest the entrance to the living quarters turn and 
  regard Hepzibah curiously. They bow, although the gesture is abbreviated so 
  as not to distract from the scene at hand. The candala king is speaking, and 
  so after paying their respects to one of the God-King's chosen, the women 
  peek back at the Atlantean.

Acknowledging Hepzibah and motioning for her to rise with a twist of his 
  wrist, Khalid entertains Kuronbo's statements with an amused smile. "Truth? 
  We speak of truth? Ah, I had once been told there was no room for truth in 
  politics and diplomacy. Others tell me that truth is of the utmost 
  importance in all diplomatic matters. I am confused, I profess." If truly 
  the God-King is confused, he shows it not at all in tone or manner. 
  "Regardless, I hope you will speak of truth to me, Heir Apparent in all our 
  dealings, for it would upset me terribly to learn that you have only spoken 
  of truth when you desired to do so." Those wings, high and arched, have yet 
  to descend and their shadow is a cloak around the dais and throne and its 
  sole occupant. Only the flames of those fiery blue eyes can be seen within 
  the darkness.

The fox-graisha breathes out a very, /very/ careful sigh as Kuronbo and the 
  God-King start to speak -- good, something to distract from her -- and 
  remains where she is, bowing her head so all but the edges of her face and 
  her chin are obscured by the fiery locks. Her fingers retangle in front of 
  her, white-knuckled to keep the tremors away, as she glances sidelong to the 
  Crown Princess's gesture. She hesitates, as if prompting her feet to work, 
  then follows along after her, still stunned and visibly upset about 
  something. She sinks down nervelessly into the chair next to Shinjukou's.

Lingering a bit more, Orcinus Yoritomo Nakaya notes with perfectly focused 
  regard, the procession of the Princess towards the row of chairs and 
  recognizes her movements and presence with a singular nod, dragging his pale 
  face back to the graisha and granting her an expression, unreadable at first 
  until it spreads into a very slight smile. Repositioning his arms behind 
  himself, he returns with considerable focus towards black-skiined Heir of 
  the Decemvirate once further, and places a careful gaze upon his form.

The God-King chooses his servants after his own image, it seems. The 
  Atlanteans move in their intricate dance of repositioning, all cues directed 
  inwardly, transmitted mind to mind - and all thoughout, they are studied by 
  the redgold flames reflected in Vayu's stony grey eyes. Only those show what 
  he thinks and feels, and of that, only that he is interested in their dance 
  and studies them can be ascertained. The impassivity of face speads like 
  thick oil to cover his body; from there, it spreads in a globe of blissful 
  diffidence to those around him. The secret of indifference is to release 
  one's own ambition for more than what one already has, and merely exist 
  while denying that state - thus, self-control and objectivity can be 
  obtained.

Hepzibah rises with as much supple grace as her sinking, her crimson garments 
  slithering against her body with the gentle motion. Reverent and silent, she 
  remains where she is standing, almost becoming a colorful statue if not for 
  the subtle expansion and contraction of her torso with her breaths and the 
  ever-so-slight sway that remains in her knee-length hair from her movement.

Though his eyes have not raised to meet the Amir-Al's, there is a sense that 
  Orcinus Kuronbo would not have flinched at the words. Rather, he inclines 
  his head once and he then states, "Very Well, Amir-Al...then it is in the 
  spirit of truth that I share with you the unfortunate truth that the Varati 
  are not loved by the Atlantean people." There is outward reaction upon his 
  face, but his voice take on a councilatory tone, "There are those amongst my 
  people whom recall our alliance with the Empyereans with regard and share 
  our Aerial Brother's distrust and disdain of the Noble People of the 
  Earth...it was such people that loudly cried for our entry into the War 
  against you."

Movement again from the now seated sculpture, hand extending out, a single 
  finger reaching to graze Elania's hand. The light touch is a promise of 
  spoken reassurances later, in leiu of those that cannot be given mentally, 
  explanations and words to be offered as soothing balm for the agitation that 
  is easily read by the close presence of Shinjukou. Then all is returned to 
  the composed and elegant stillness of before, attention returning to 
  Kuronbo's words.

Rabi switches pens. She closes her eyes and concentrates with a deep ferocity. 
  Then, taking in a shallow breath, she begins to apply more words to the 
  paper stretched out before her.

The Orcinus Decemvir Apparent turns slightly and raises his head to regard the 
  assemblage, gauging their reaction and affixing many with his black on black 
  eyes...eyes that dared not meet the Amir-Al's...His voice continues in 
  eloquent soliqueoy, "Such distaste amongst my people is not suprising...for 
  there has never been an alliance between my people and the Varati, only 
  centuries of cold regard and limited dealings." His voice grows apologetic 
  as he holds both arms wide, "There has never been understanding between us, 
  deep intrinsic understanding....there has never been appreciation of our 
  different cultures...and whenever there is ignorance, there is the potential 
  for fear and spite."
The Orcinus then turns back towards the Amir-Al and his eyes fall back towards 
  the carpet as he holds his hands forward, the webbed-palms upward, "And it 
  is why I am here...It is my desire to heal the rift of understanding between 
  our people and to dispell the ignorance that exists. We seek acceptance of 
  my appointment and the appointment of an Varati Ambassador to the Atlanteans 
  people so that the first step in the journey of mutual trust is taken"

Elania's attention stays upon the cold, expressionless marble floor, eyes 
  distantly noting the shift and sway of shadows cast by the torchlight. Her 
  breathing stays light and rabbity, giving a little stutter-hop at the end of 
  each inhalation.

Were Vayu to have a larger ego that he does - or rather, were he to have an 
  ego at all - he might have been offended at Kuronbo's request for an 
  ambassador to the Atlanteans. After all, what is the Sirat Ibn Khalida man, 
  merely a 'quick fix' solution? As it stands, however, he continues to watch 
  the Decemvir with cool curiosity and a general lack of anything resembling 
  emotion.

Hepzibah, despite the fact that her journey has been halted by the event, is 
  as placid and calm as the surface of a quiet pool on a windless day. With 
  her palms pressed together at her waist and her head bowed, she radiates 
  serenity as she keeps her post near the door through which she entered.

Pivoting on a toe, Yoritomo steps lightly to one side while listening 
  attentively to the Heir, padding slowly across the floor just one step and 
  coming to a complete stop yet again with his arms squarely held behind his 
  figure, he cants his head to one side, eyebrows rising not a hair, letting 
  his gaze rest upon the dais now as he waits for an answer aurally - rather 
  than visually.

"I am aware of these things, Heir Apparent. The plottings of some within the 
  ranks of your people did not go unnoticed during the time of war and reports 
  were made to me on such. It saddened me to see this, but I had prepared and 
  was indeed ready. One would think that the lesson of Phorcys had been 
  learned; alas it was centuries ago and I imagine it is now forgotten or 
  explained away." Khalid shrugs his shoulders, the first almost 'indifferent' 
  or 'disappointed' expression he has yet to show in court. "Since I have sat 
  in this throne, never has a war of aggression been waged against the 
  Atlantean people. Only in defense have we struck, as I did when I destroyed 
  the capital of the Phorcys Decemvirate." Allowing himself a quiet breath, he 
  states, "Yet, the Orcinus Decemvirate has treated well with the Varati 
  empire in recent days and I am inclined to indeed accept the appointment of 
  yourself as ambassador to my court. However, I have already appointed an 
  ambassador to the Atlantean court and that position is currently filled by 
  the Deputy Foreign Minister." For the first time today, his blue gaze lights 
  upon Vayu's form.

How pleasing to be off of one's feet. Not so welcome as the blanketing comfort 
  the ocean provides, but a chair is sufficient alternative for the moment. 
  Shinjukou's regard is contentedly freed from having to concentrate on the 
  task of standing so that she may alternate attention between the exchange 
  occuring between the two central figures in this -- and Elania. Few options 
  are available now to help in calming the graisha, so only the minute weight 
  of her gaze is offered between glances towards Kuronbo and the shadowed 
  figure on the throne. Mention of Phorcys' destruction gains the delicate 
  arching of a single silver brow, but beyond that the woman remains as 
  passive an observer as ever.

Orcinus Kuronbo does not look towards Vayu, but the complete lack of suprise 
  upon his face suggests that he had forseen this. He nods once and he states, 
  "The Orcinus extend their thanks...and we hope that the our actions speak of 
  our desire for peace and for understanding." With that, he executes and 
  artful bow..his webbed hand extending outward and he takes a step 
  back...waiting for further words from the Amir-Al.

"I assume, that for the moment, you are finished, Heir Apparent? Very well." 
  Khalid inclines his chin to the Atlantean King-to-Be, before pressing with 
  his own questions, "Since you now are empowered to speak for the Atlantean 
  people as a whole, perhaps you can explain to me the rudeness and behavior 
  of the Amaris Decemvirate? My Foreign Ministry has been quite irate at the 
  behavior of the Amaris Decemvir. My gifts, sent to her, now lay untouched in 
  my own treasury. My ambassador to her was treated like a fool and a child. 
  This is very..displeasing to me." There is an edge of anger in the 
  God-King's voice; a hint of true danger barely restrained and kept in check. 
  "If not for the fact that we had already been engaged in a war with the 
  Empyre, the consequences of such ridiculously uncomplimentary behavior to my 
  envoys might have invoked dire responses at the time."

One by one, each of the four shudra stationed to keep watch over the food cast 
  glances round their vicinity, eyes sharp for the first sign of anyone who 
  cares to partake of it, so that they might leap to their service. One by 
  one, they take turns making a sweep of the table, checking the ice in which 
  the bottles of wine and water are kept chilled, checking the cunning little 
  devices which hold the fire-magics to keep breads and hot drinks heated. 
  Faanshi is last to make her circuit, rising uncomfortably from her kneeling 
  position, a smear of... something now visible upon the knees of her silwar. 
  She has not yet noticed, for most of her being is focused upon executing the 
  remainder of her duties without mishap. The pureblooded shudra boy, Karim, 
  slides her a narrow little smile of satisfaction, but he will do no further 
  mischiefs, oh no, not tonight. Faanshi does not notice his smile, either; 
  the rest of her being is focused upon convincing her knee not to hurt so 
  that she will not limp. Stop hurting, knee. Stop hurting...! For a moment, 
  then, she pauses as she moves to resume her place on the floor, surprise 
  flickering across her leaf-hued eyes. And then relief. Without any sign of 
  stiffness whatsoever, she sinks back down to her kneeling.

There is a pause while the Orcinus consider's the proper response to the anger 
  in the Amir-Al's voice. After a time, Orcinus Kuronbo raises his voice to 
  speak in a manner that lacks the eloquence of his earlier speech...but has 
  an inherent pragmatism that reveals another layer of the Atlantean, 
  "O'Khalid-Atar...the Ephorate is comprised not of one strong Kingdom ruled 
  by a King for which all pay unswerving homage. It is composed of ten 
  Decemvirates with their own agendas that is guided by a Ruler whose power is 
  derived from the consent of the Ephorate. Under our system, each Decemvir 
  can act as they please within reason..." He pauses for a moment, his head 
  canting as he states, "The Amaris have been the closest amongst us in 
  relations with the Empyre, and they least amongst us in regard to the 
  Varati. It is the decision of the Amaris to conduct themselves as so." The 
  Orcinus then looks at the floor at his feet and muses, "It is the hope that 
  we can offset the deplorable conduct of our brethern by our actions."

Decemvir Amaris. Greengold eyes grow sullen and surprisingly -- perhaps even 
  disturbingly -- vengeful as the conversation turns to her. What fox-graisha 
  lack in eloquence they make up in the capacity for grudges and revenge, 
  perhaps. She glances slightly upward, fiery locks stirring, and distantly 
  studies the placement of feet before her, listening.

The scribe carefully stores this information as she switches pens again, 
  working at her own careful pace.

How...delightfully byzantine a situation this has become. A pity that Yoritomo 
  would be relegated to such a position of silence and reserve, but he holds 
  it well, with a respectful dignity. The pale lips of his mouth purse in a 
  quite pensive manner as he remains standing with only the occasional 
  habitual sway. Note that the swaying never actually occurs while the 
  God-King speaks, out of an enforced tightness in his demeanor which bespeaks 
  a conveyed respect for his host. Then, after a sliver of a heartbeat of 
  hesitation, he turns and becomes motionless again, absorbing the goings-on 
  like a black rock would sunlight.

"I see." Those two words again. They cover up a host of emotions. "While it is 
  certainly plausible that the benevolent behavior of the Orcinus Decemvirate 
  will indeed make up for the disgraceful conduct of the Amaris Decemvirate 
  with regards to the Atlantean nation as a whole, I would remind the Heir 
  Apparent of the lesson of Phorcys. And have him remind the Amaris Decemvir 
  of said lesson. I, too, have learned from that lesson. Thousands died in the 
  initial attack by the Phorcys Decemvirate and thousands more might have died 
  if not for the timely intervention of my parents." One of the first hints 
  ever that Ashur Masad or Ushas had taken part in the conflict is given by 
  Khalid Atar this day. "Another city was saved by their efforts. And it 
  bought me the time to retaliate and end the war. But I know now that to wait 
  is folly. If the Varati empire feels it is threatened, it -will- strike 
  first. This is our policy from this day on until eternity; I have used this 
  policy to extreme results with the Empyre. I will not hesitate to use this 
  policy on any and all I deem to be a threat. My vengence and wrath knows no 
  bounds; the unwise tongue of the Amaris Decemvir should be stilled if she 
  does not desire to be the recepient of that attention." There is true rage 
  in the heart of the God-King and it is expressed without reserve to Kuronbo. 
  His wings flap furiously, as if he were about to take to the air and strike 
  at his enemies here and now. "I say these things to you in goodwill, for I 
  know you will understand them and the meaning I convey and because I know 
  you understand I bear no ill will to your Decemvirate."

Rabi looks up from her work and holds her breath, eyes widening as she watches 
  not the God-King but the dual shadows of his great wings cast by the two 
  flickering braziers at his side. /Parents./ And then she reminds herself 
  again of her place. Ducking her head, she resumes her task.

Translucent lids flicker over Shinjukou's eyes, shielding her from the current 
  of air whipped up by the motion of those black wing's as they would shield 
  from the passage of water over her face. Complimenting fluttering occurs at 
  the woman's throat, the gill slits there flaring briefly with a certain 
  unease for this display of anger - or perhaps more for the mention of 
  Atlantean killed, as long ago and foolish their actions may have been. The 
  memory of blood soaking the foam of the ocean, the deck of the Iruka is 
  strong, and while death may be accepted as a realistic facet of life...Lips 
  set in a thin line, conveying a certain displeasure that only deepens with 
  continued mention of the Amaris.

The Orcinus Decemvir shakes his head ruefully and a look of sorrow flashes in 
  his eyes at the mention of the destruction of the Phorcys. He says in a 
  museing manner, "It would be a tradgedy if the people of the Amaris were to 
  suffer based on the foolishness of their leader for surely such retribution 
  would be far harsher on them than on the people whom brought it on their 
  heads...such massive indiscriminate punishment would only drive a deeper 
  wedge between our people..." Was there emphasis on the word indiscriminate? 
  Whatever the emphasis, The Atlantean states, "I shall of course bare news of 
  your displeasure to the Decemvir of the Amaris in hope that she will not 
  cost the innocent and peaceful people of her realm"

Parents. In a night of stunning announcements, the fox-graisha weathers the 
  concept of the God-King talking about his divine parentage with just a few 
  moments of dull silence. The room is a blur around her, sights and sounds 
  and smells swimming in and out; her mind is, as she's often said, full of 
  mud and thorns.

Perhaps it is a good thing that the Atlanteans have never been known to be 
  a...vocal people, as it were. At the mention of Phorcrys and the general 
  topics at hand, Yoritomo simply rocks forwards on his toes once, while 
  remaining completely still otherwise. The look on his face is utterly 
  impassive - it could be carved from alabaster for all its white stillness. 
  The blue cloak billows around the swordbelt at his waist again.

"Mm." The noise escapes Khalid's lips at Kuronbo's response, before he 
  answers, "It would do your Decemvirate well to inform me of said danger 
  beforehand, then, so that I may strategically strike at the guilty parties 
  in advance of any large-scale conflict. I prefer punishing those who deserve 
  my wrath, but my first priority is and always will be my own people. Any who 
  dare strike at them, strikes at me. I will strike back and my fury will be 
  one only the my parents will truly comprehend. Yet, we speak on war and 
  insults long enough. I have made my point. I have made my displeasures known. 
  Make sure the Amaris Decemvir knows my gifts wait in the treasury room of 
  Atesh-Gah. I expect that the Decemvir or an appropriate representative of 
  her Decemvirate will come soon to claim them, lest I be further insulted." 
  Clearing his throat, he continues on, "I would speak of peace. I would also 
  speak of unity. Between your Decemvirate and my people. A bond. Something of 
  significance. Something formal."

The serene concubine near the door does make a slight movement now: a tiny 
  step back. That curtain of sable hair faintly sways and her veil ripples 
  with the tiny motion as well. One slipper softly scuffs upon the floor and 
  she grows still.

The Orcinus Decemvir nods and offers a half-bow at the waist in consideration 
  of his words and acknowledgement that he shall convey the message...but he 
  then straightens at the forward request of the Varati God-King. His eyebrow 
  arches upwards and he states, "There is power in symbols...what token of the 
  friendship between the Orcinus and the Varati is worthy?"

"I would have you give this matter some thought. There are many options. 
  Treaties, political marriages, exchange of titles or territories. I am told 
  you are an intelligent and skilled diplomat. I imagine only the best would 
  be sent to my court. I would give you the honor of forging some sort of 
  appropriate bond between your Decemvirate and my empire. I will await your 
  opinion in this matter at your convenience, Heir Apparent." Khalid retreats 
  back into his throne with a languid stretch of his powerful frame. Even 
  black wings droop, almost lazily against his body. Wrath and vengence has 
  left his mind; he seems to be content once more. "These were the only issues 
  that I had wished to bring to the Heir Apparent."

It is very easy to believe in the divinity of a being when he stands living 
  and breathing before you -- and when you have felt the earth shaking at this 
  being's beck and call. When that same being speaks of his parents, it is 
  enough -- so far as a humble shudra is concerned -- to emphasize a mere 
  mortal's place in the universe. To underscore the need to behave in a way 
  pleasing to the sight of the gods. Faanshi keeps her place, and though her 
  knee has obediently stopped hurting, several other odd little sensations 
  begin to trickle up and down her calves, provoking another flustered look 
  across what's visible of her face. Oh no... not here, not now. Her kneeling 
  figure tenses as she strives to catch and hold those tiny flickers of power.

Pale eyes cast towards her brother's back, the thoughtfulness of Shinjukou's 
  gaze half-hidden behind a veil of silver lashes. What passes between them 
  can only be imagined, little outwardly betraying the inner meeting of two 
  minds.

Paper whispers as Rabi sets aside the current sheet to dry. She clips a fresh 
  sheet of paper to her board and touches the pen to it, robbing it of its 
  purity and granting it immortality all at once.

Orcinus Kuronbo listens to the words of the Amir-Al, varying reactions seem to 
  occur as he considers the options presented to him by the God-King. Talk of 
  territories and treaties cause him to nod in concurrence, but the talk of 
  marriage causes his eyes to narrow in thought...and his head turns 
  fractionally in the direction of his sister. The reaction though is 
  short-lived and he takes a step backwards and he states evenly, "The Orcinus 
  will heed the wisdom of the Amir-Al an pay proper consideration and thought 
  to his words...we implore you now to release us so that we may go bring your 
  messages to the Atlantean people that we represent."

His lips firmly tucked within his mouth, Yoritomo most visibly mulls over the 
  newly-presented state of affairs, easing his way slightly towards the Heir 
  to Orcinus in a languid, swaying walk that bears an odd grace all its own, 
  before he comes to a complete stop.

"Of course. You have my thanks and the thanks of my people for sparing so much 
  time in discussion with me, Heir Apparent. As did your household. I am 
  honored. Crown Princess. Majordomo. Graisha." Khalid acknowledges each 
  individual with a nod, and the faintest of smiles catches his lips as he 
  studies Elania. "You are all welcome in Atesh-Gah as you may please. Perhaps 
  one or more of you may enterain the idea of a more relaxed and private 
  audience at a later date, so that we may discuss philosophy, music and the 
  mysteries of our combined people." Fiery blue eyes crease at the edges at 
  his last statement. "And I thank you for the grand gift imparted upon myself 
  and my court. It was fleeting and lasting, both. It shall not be forgotten."

Psst. Time to go soon. The fox-graisha's sludgy mind starts clearing, slowly, 
  bringing voices and other sensory input into sharper focus. She straightens 
  a little, looking up and around with cloudy eyes. Where is she? This is-oh. 
  Right. Tiny fingers fastidiously clear hair back from her face...just in 
  time for the sharp flinch to be seen at the God-King's 'title' for her. Her 
  eyes drop heavily to the floor and stay there, fingers returning listless 
  and limp to her lap.

Visibly, the address of Yoritomo directly by the person of Khalid Atar does 
  not go unnoticed by man of lesser import, and he acknowledges the 
  recognition by a more formal bow of his head. Not once does he look upwards 
  towards the dais to study the ruler's face, but goes a bit farther than 
  before. A muted, subtle smile comes to play on his lips as he does so, but 
  there is a certain joyful dignity to it as such a thing occurs. Webbed, 
  ivory hands fall fluidly to his sides not unlike the flowing of the very 
  water he was born in.

The Orcinus Decemvir Apparent raises his hand to his forehead, then throat, 
  then extends his palm outward as he bows in preparation to leave the 
  audience chamber..he expresses no outward sign of satisfaction or 
  dissatisfaction as he states evenly, "The Orcinus stand ready to assist the 
  Varati in time of need, O'Khalid-Atar" And with that, he begins to back out 
  of the Throne Room.

Rabi sets down her pen and folds her hands in her lap. She bows to the guests 
  deeply; when she straightens she remains still. She will finish her work 
  only after they have left, not wanting to insult their leavetaking.

The patience of the crimson-clad woman at the door to the living quarters 
  seems as neverending as her serenity. Head bowed, jewel-like gaze directed 
  to the floor, she is the very picture of respect and worship as she awaits a 
  time to leave without disturbing.

One movement, as rippling and graceful as the incoming tide, brings Shinjukou 
  to her feet and dipping into the same deep bow towards the throne and its 
  occupant offered at the beginning of this audience. "Blessings of pure water 
  upon you, Amir-Al," is murmered directly after Kuronbo's parting statement - 
  odd perhaps to offer a God blessings, when he is fully capable of bestowing 
  his own, but it is given sincerely. Etiquette and memorized forms serve to 
  comfort almost as well as the ocean, and silence, do. Then she too is 
  moving, straight-backed and composed, towards the exit - a small gesture 
  beckoning Elania after her.

[End log.]