"Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth"

Log Date:
	9/1/99, 9/2/99, 9/7/99

Log Cast:
	Eranthe, Faanshi, Devaki (NPC emitted by Faanshi), Maat, Jerrik
(NPC emitted by Eranthe and Faanshi), Drusus, assorted other NPCs

Log Intro:
	With plague running rampant in the streets of Haven, Atesh-Gah has 
been sealed and all loyal Varati ordered by decree of the Khalid Atar to take 
refuge within its walls. In this state of crisis every healer of the Children 
of Fire is needed to insure the health of the Varati people -- even a 
halfbreed shudra healer whose existence most Varati would prefer to ignore. 
But the Atarvani have been aware for some time that the Amir-al has taken a 
healer into his Clan, and now they have finally acknowledged Faanshi, 
commandeering her out of her usual shudra chores and putting her fledgling 
magic to work.
	Denied the freedom to leave Atesh-Gah and meet with the Sylvan who has 
only recently agreed to teach her, all too aware that if she is to provide what 
aid she can to those unfortunate souls stricken down by the plague, Faanshi has 
uneasily submitted to being assigned to the supervision of the Nabi Devaki. But 
the priestess has made no secret of her resentment over having a halfbreed 
thrust into her care. Even though Devaki has begun to teach her control over 
her fractious power, she has done it by punishing the maiden for any sign of 
failure or weakness rather than encouraging success. She has not stinted in her 
venomous reminders of Faanshi's lowly status. And she has driven home to the 
young shudra all over again that even a healer of her own people can without 
remorse abuse her because she is a halfbreed.
	Stoically and disheartenedly certain that no one in Atesh-Gah -- not 
even her mistress Kiera, who has unexpectedly returned in the midst of the 
plague crisis -- will come to her defense against a Nabi, Faanshi has resolved 
to endure the woman for as long as she can bear it. The tiny embers of 
strength kindled in her heart by her sojourn in Avalon and by the inspiration 
of Thomas Murako have thus far helped her stand up under Devaki's vicious form 
of teaching. But it has soon become evident that even when she can control her 
magic very few Varati will permit the halfbreed girl to heal them; thus, Faanshi and Devaki have been given permission to go to the Tent City now that it has been re-established farther away from Haven, and give what help they can there.
	In the Tent City, at least, there are a large number of Mongrels who 
have no prejudices against letting a halfbreed purge them of their sicknesses. 
But even here, Faanshi cannot escape the snubs of those who claim pure blood, 
whether they are of Empyrean blood or Varati -- and even the odd kindnesses 
directed to her by Varati like Nefer Maat Al'Samar are tinged with bias...

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Night (Duskside)
          Date on Aether:  Wednesday, March 11, 3905.
           Year on Earth:  1505 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waxing Crescent
                  Season:  Early Spring
                 Weather:  Clear Skies
             Temperature:  Comfortable
*==========================================================================*

Tent City - East of Haven(#649RJMn)
     The east side of the camp harbors a stream and a large pond with several 
  stone buildings on their banks. Extending from the stone structures is a 
  wide square, large enough to serve as a central gathering area. Tents and 
  more permanent wooden structures are arranged in orderly blocks with wide 
  lanes; each group is centered around a firepit. There is a covered water 
  barrel at the corner of every 'block' both for potable use as well as for 
  firefighting, if needed. The latrine pits are south of the camp, a fair 
  distance from the pond, and protected by screens of rushes for privacy. 
  Flagpoles pounded into the earth fly colorful banners with simple images to 
  show were water fetching, laundry and bathing should occur.
     Refugees can be observed moving throughout the encampment; all are 
  Empyrean. Mongrels, Praetors, Velites, Hounds and Varati form a far smaller, 
  but significant, portion of the population. A huge pot-- precurser to the 
  soup kitchen--, manned by Velites, provides hot sustenance. Near the pot is 
  a gorgeous tent fit for royalty flying the Empyrean flag.
     At the tail end of winter, the Chinook has blown and the chill air 
  carries with it the hint of spring moisture. The lines leading away from the 
  Delphic healing building-- at the far east of the encampment and against the 
  pond-- never diminish but are a constant reminder that disease has reared 
  its ugly head. At the end of the downtrodden lane that leads back to Haven, 
  a cadre of Caduceans stand with Hounds wearing the garb of the Death Patrol. 
  While the Hounds discourage the idle from wandering out of the camp, the 
  Caduceans check those with business allowing egress afterwards.
Contents:
Maat
Ranjeet's tent(#2830Vae)
Optio's Tent
Obvious exits:
Path <P>

Flushed and coughing, another Empyrean refugee joins the long line outside the 
  healing clinic.

Eranthe arrives along the two mile path that leads back to Haven.
Eranthe has arrived.

When she'd first come to Atesh-Gah and been put to work doing a shudra's 
  menial chores for Clan Khalida, Faanshi had thought that that was as hard as 
  a girl could work day by day. In recent weeks, however, she has come to 
  learn differently. With the stern, baleful eye of the Nabi Devaki overseeing 
  her every action, with the woman's power pressed over hers as inexorably and 
  unmovably as locked iron shackles, the halfbreed healer maiden has worked 
  harder than she'd ever been able to conceive in eighteen years of life. Days 
  have been spent within Atesh-Gah, while the priestess of the Amir-al has 
  forced her to practice, over and over and over, checking a man or a woman 
  for any signs of illness... and forcibly restricting her flow of power to 
  exactly no more and no less than is needed to expunge the sickness from any 
  body that inhabits it. Only when Faanshi has succeeded in doing this without 
  buckling under the exertion of her own magic has she been permitted out into 
  the Tent City.

Here today, the Nabi has continued these forceful lessons, repeating what has 
  been done in Atesh-Gah. The Varati priestess and the halfbreed who is her 
  charge have kept long duty hours within the clinic, and by the time evening 
  begins to roll around, they've shown no signs of stopping their work.

The lines outside the clinic are long, though not as long as in weeks past 
  and, due to the hour, closer to the concept of short. The Shakir of Clan 
  Al'Samar ignores the lines and enters the clinic, standing framed within the 
  doorway which was not designed for one of her height. Behind her, the light 
  of the setting moon silhouettes her form. showing how the woman fills the 
  entire entry. Tall, and rumored to be terrible, Maat strides across the 
  clinic toward Faanshi and her guardian Nabi. She greets the Atarvani and 
  then asks, "Would it be possible to speak with Faanshi Khalida for a moment, 
  Imphada?"

Darn it. And just as she got to the head of the line, too. Eranthe watches 
  Maat stride into the tent, not joining in with the low, disgruntled 
  complaints of the other people waiting. The woman next to her, an elderly 
  Empyrean who appears to be blind, croaks out a question. "Is it our turn?" 
  The young woman turns her attention there and pats her arm. "Almost. We just 
  have to wait a little bit longer, domina. Would you like to sit?" Indeed the 
  old crone does and is helped to the ground after a great deal of coughing.

The Nabi Devaki is as physically imposing as any Varati woman, tall, built 
  like flowing marble, towering by several inches over the comparatively 
  slender halfbreed maiden who has been thrust into her care. And it is 
  clearly a job Devaki finds distasteful. Oh, she's been polite enough... 
  considering that the girl is a shudra. But there's been thinly veiled 
  contempt in her ebon eyes and in her stern voice every time she's addressed 
  Faanshi, and that contempt is subtly discernible in her eyes as she turns to 
  mark the approach of the Shakir. "The blessings of the Amir-al rest upon 
  you, Shakir," she declares, piously enough. But that's in sharp contrast to 
  her next words, which are archly delivered. "If you have a complaint against 
  the halfbreed's attention to her duty, I will accept that myself." She 
  doesn't even look at Faanshi, who is currently kneeling on the floor with 
  her hands gently cradling the shoulders of a frightened-eyed Mongrel child. 
  The little girl apparently hasn't quite decided whether the lady in crimson 
  is more alarming than the maiden in scarlet and blue and gold.

Maat is the very picture of health, for those who can see under all the layers 
  of cloth that wrap her body in protection from the cold. No coughs or even a 
  sniffle issue from her as she speaks with the Nabi. "Nay, Imphada. At this 
  time, I have no complaint, but I would speak with her if you permit. 
  Considering her performance last she was near the refugees, I would like to 
  know for myself that she is progessing in her studies. Indulge me, if you 
  please, Imphada. I will take responsibility for her for a short interim and 
  you can catch a spot of rest." The Shakir does not even look at Faanshi as 
  she speaks, as if the shudra is simply some object to spoke of, rather than 
  spoken to.

Eranthe makes certain that the elderly Empyrean is settled and as comfortable 
  as can be expected before she moves down the line. It seems that she is 
  tending to a whole group of people who have come to see a healer, 
  accompanying them in order to make their wait as manageable as possible. 
  It's mostly those of the winged race she tends to but there are a few Varati 
  and mongrels under her care as well. From the way she tends to them, it's 
  not due to any racism on her part. Bringing water to this person, adjusting 
  another's shawl, she continues to flicker a watchful gaze over to Maat and 
  the halfbreed on a constant basis.

Devaki seems to consider Maat's words, and then at last she inclines her head 
  once, regally, with a terse economy of motion. "As you wish, Shakir," she 
  replies, though soemthing in her tone suggests she isn't at all certain why 
  the other woman wishes to waste her time actually conversing with the girl 
  under discussion. Certainly _she_ doesn't appear to find it an activity she 
  wishes to waste any more time than absolutely necessary upon, for her words 
  turn shorter and sharper as she addresses the kneeling Faanshi, "Finish with 
  the child, girl, and then attend to the Imphada Shakir." Back to Maat, and 
  more politely, she appends, "I shall take a moment to refresh myself, if you 
  will excuse me." With another nod of her elegant head, the Nabi withdraws to 
  the door and outside, bound for the small tent she has claimed as her 
  personal working quarters within the Tent City.

This leaves Faanshi, there on the floor. As she brings a dainty golden hand up 
  to ruffle the hair of the little girl, she can be heard to murmur very 
  softly, "You should feel better now, little one. Ushas bless you." 
  Anxiously, the child lfits herself to her tiny feet, eyes enormous and 
  liquid and trained on the girl in the blue veil, before she abruptly 
  scampers off into the waiting arms of her exhausted mother.

And at last, Faanshi, too, shifts position. She doesn't stand, not yet; 
  instead, she keeps her kneeling stance. But now her demurely lowered gaze is 
  pointed in Maat's direction. "How may I serve, Imphada Shakir?" she asks. 
  Her voice is clear enough, but soft and toned low and a trifle hollow, as 
  though she cannot spare much strength for the act of conversation.

The Empyreans in line before the blind old lady have taken a look at Faanshi 
  through their sick eyes and each, as his or her turn has arrived, has 
  ensured that he or she can been seen by a full-blooded healer. Thus, it is, 
  now that Faanshi is available, the next person in line is the blind Empyrean 
  with Eranthe.

Maat looks over at the line. "Can you heal without the Nabi to watch over you, 
  Faanshi Khalida? It would be more efficient if you could continue while we 
  spoke."

The line stretches off to some distant point, even at this hour, and those who 
  have made it to the head grumble discontentedly. The blind woman rocks a 
  little were she sits and merely hums to herself, not taking part in the low 
  swell of complaints. Eranthe moves down the queue until she's beside the old 
  Empyrean again, resting a hand on her shoulder and looking up at Maat as she 
  poses her question to Faanshi.

Faanshi is a truthful girl, and honesty dictates that she inform the Shakir of 
  her inexperience with juggling conversation and healing at the same time. 
  Honesty, and the fact that if she claims she can do something and fails to 
  do so, Devaki has already demonstrated that she will quite cheerfully have 
  the shudra beaten. Swallowing hard behind her veil, Faanshi answers huskily, 
  "My... attention may be more required by anyone who wishes my help, Imphada 
  Shakir, but I can attempt to do both at once. I ask your forgiveness in 
  advance if I do not answer you immediately." As she speaks, she steals a 
  glance at the line, wondering if the next plague-stricken person is going to 
  avoid her. No, indeed, Faanshi has not missed the fact that most of the 
  Empyreans here have been avoiding her ever since the Nabi started calling 
  her 'halfbreed' in public.

Maat gestures for Eranthe to bring the blind old woman forward to Faanshi. The 
  Shakir then turns back to Faanshi and states in a stern voice. "Do not abuse 
  my trust in you, Faanshi Khalida." The way the woman accents 'trust' says 
  that she isn't trusting Faanshi, but giving the shudra enough rope to hang 
  herself. "I wish to know that you have gained control, so that you are no 
  longer a danger to the Varati," she says, then as an afterthought tacks on, 
  "and other people." The woman then turns to looks back over at the blind 
  Empyrean, to see what progress the woman has made in crossing to Faanshi. "I 
  would hate to think that the extra attention I have paid toward your lack of 
  instruction as a wasted effort." Warningly, she adds, "Do not disappoint me."

Eranthe nods to Maat as she gestures, bending close to the elderly woman's 
  ear. "Come, domina. The healer can see you now." It's a slow process, 
  getting the crone to her feet, a process filled with cracking bones and 
  wheezed breath. But she finally manages to get to her feet and the young 
  woman helps her shuffle over to Faanshi. "Is it a Varati devil?" whispers 
  the old woman to Eran none too softly. Her question is met with a soft arm 
  pat and a non-answer, "You will feel better soon." The blind Empy's wings 
  ruffle--the healer /is/ a Varati, isn't she?--but before she can protest too 
  much, her young companion has brought her forward.

A year ago... even six months ago... it would have never occurred to Faanshi 
  to take issue with the words of the Shakir. A year ago, however, she had 
  barely been delivered from the cruel hand of the Warlord Hashim. Six months 
  ago, she had not gone to Avalon and had not yet learned that she can have 
  thoughts of her own. And so, at Maat's words, for the briefest of moments, 
  Faanshi experiences a tiny flicker of rebellion. _Extra attention? -What- 
  extra attention? She spoke with Kiera, and she told FallingStar she could 
  teach me, but that wasn't her decision to make! She speaks as if she's 
  trained me herself!_ A moment later, however, the shudra's slammed her eyes 
  shut over her veil and her slender hands have tightened, as she stoically 
  thrusts those thoughts deep down within her. _No one here cares what I 
  think,_ she tells herself in stark, stoic determination. Aloud, she murmurs 
  only, "No, Imphada Shakir."

As the blind Empyrean is helped nearer to her, the halfbreed maiden takes the 
  liberty of rising to her feet, the better to meet the winged woman. She does 
  not yet touch her, though. Determinedly ignoring the protests of her 
  stiffened legs, she sets herself into a proper maidenly posture and greets 
  the Empyrean dame earnestly, "Namaste', domina. Will you allow me to attend 
  you?"

Maat folds her arms over her chest and not a single addition sound comes from 
  her, eventhough from the dipping of her eyes, it can be seen that the Shakir 
  has noticed the clenching of Faanshi's hands.

The old blind woman balks and actually takes a step back to bump into Eranthe. 
  "'Namaste'? You did not tell me the healer was Varati!" The woman, even as 
  sick as she is, clings to her old-school thought that the people of the 
  neverending fire are little more that filthy demons and makes no move to go 
  closer to Faanshi. Eran pleads with her, trying to nudge her along. "Really, 
  domina, now is not the time to be clinging to such foolish notions. She can 
  make you feel better. Don't you wish to be healed?" No, she doesn't mention 
  that the healer is actually a half-breed. Who knows how the woman will take 
  to that thought! However, despite her best efforts, the crone will not be 
  moved and those in line behind her start to complain. Obviously, they are 
  less picky about who lays hands on them.

It is not exactly easy for a healer to have sickness so palpably within her 
  grasp and to be denied a chance to give it ease. Nor is it easy for a maiden 
  who has lived sheltered for seventeen years to deal with the simple fact 
  that her healing is rejected because of her perceived race. But this is not 
  the first time Faanshi's touch has been rejected... and she knows with a 
  sick sinking feeling to her stomach that it will probably not be the last. 
  And so, with a stoic bearing learned from many long years of such treatment, 
  she makes no effort to coax the blind old dame to her. "As you wish, 
  domina," she murmurs in resignation. She casts a glance towards the line, 
  inwardly praying that the plaintive feeling in her heart is not making it 
  into her eyes. Will someone else step up to her?

Maat has no qualms about raising her voice as the Empyrean woman voices her 
  complaints. "Foolish beldame," she says in her most insulting tone. "To 
  refuse healing when it is given freely. It would serve you right if you died 
  for your stupidity."

"Please, domina, be sensible." Alright, Faanshi won't attempt to coax the old 
  woman but Eranthe gives it a shot. Reaching out to touch the crone's arm, 
  she continues to plead wearily. "The sooner you are well, the sooner you may 
  return to your family. That is what matters, right?" But, no, racism is too 
  much rooted in her core and she sniffs in Maat's direction before she 
  shuffles off, most likely to her death. The young Empyrean's shoulders sag a 
  bit but there are others to tend to and she gestures to the mongrel lad 
  who's now at the head of the line. "Come now, Jerrik. It is your turn." He 
  moves forward, stepping up to Faanshi with only hope and appreciation. "Ya 
  gunna make me feel alla bettah?"

A workgang of five Praetors, dirty and sweaty, walk to the soup kitchen. Food 
  is a plate of baked beans; hardy and nutritious but less than tasty fare is 
  provided by Emperor Drusus Jove.

A Mongrel. This one, at least, will not mind her touching him! And with a 
  ready will, the weight in her chest seeming to her to lighten, Faanshi 
  inclines her sari-covered head to the one called Jerrik. Because it is 
  expected by the Varati women who dictate her actions here, because it is 
  considered proper, she does not look him in the eye. But she does lift her 
  face slightly towards him, and her voice ever so slightly gains confidence 
  and calm as she gently assures him, "If you will permit me, I will aid you 
  as best I can." Ushas, the poor lad! She can feel heat and the abuse of his 
  lungs within him, even when he's not yet within her arm's reach.

Maat looms over Faanshi by nature of her height, remaining silent and thus 
  providing either an ominous opinion or an insouciant attitude. The opaque 
  cloth over her face hides her expression with ease and the golden eyes are 
  utterly bland.

Jerrik's strained young visage might show all of the signs of illness that 
  have ravaged so many within Haven -- he is pale and wan and awfully thin -- 
  but he's managing to keep to his feet nonetheless, and he lifts his chin 
  with as much friendliness and confidence as he can muster. Something that 
  might almost be recognition flickers across his brown eyes as his gaze 
  flickers over Faanshi, taking in her slender form and her blue veil and her 
  golden hands. And a tremulous smile blossoms across his haggard face as he 
  proclaims hoarsely, "Anythin' you wanna do, Miss Faanshi, I'm okay with 
  that."

For just a fraction of an instant, the shudra maiden freezes. 'Miss Faanshi'. 
  It obviously catches her by surprise, does that particular form of address. 
  But then she humbly murmurs, "I am only Faanshi," even as she reaches up a 
  hand to the Mongrel's brow and another to his chest. Aether begins to shift 
  in the vicinity of her dainty hands. But where, during the riot of many days 
  ago, that aether had churned into a small storm of magic, it blossoms out 
  here and now in a controlled, steady swelling -- like a flower opening to 
  the sun, or an exhalation of breath from some great beast, or a stream of 
  water cascading through a fountain. The immediate results are apparent, as 
  the Mongrel youth visibly sags with relief, drawing in a sigh and letting it 
  out again as the pain of his abused chest eases.

He has lit one of the small ceramic lamps on his camp desk. Drusus sits there, 
  as he has all afternoon, writing and reading letters. A message here, a 
  notification there, alarming news from this third place, responses to same. 
  He has occassionally paused to walk about the camp and speak with some of 
  the citizens here, some of whom do not realize that the plain-dressed 
  ancient young man is their Emperor. It suits him fine. At some point in the 
  day he accepted a shallow trencher with beans for a meal; not too long 
  after, he gave it to someone. Who? He doesn't remember. Someone hungry. He 
  hasn't been hungry lately.
His white hair catches the color of the lamplight. He pinches the bridge of 
  his nose. Tomorrow he goes to Thessalonica, to meet with guildmasters there, 
  to hear their thoughts on trade policies and economic reform. He's a soldier 
  -- he /was/ a soldier. He has a headache already. Hopeless.
No, not quite hopeless; there are always scenes of hope to be had somewhere. 
  Even in this camp -- Aurora has been spreading the news, so despite the 
  poverty there is hope of a better life in the rebuilt Empyre. And the 
  growing day has broken winter's back -- one can see the spring in people's 
  steps as their spirits, like the season, are renewed. And there, outside. 
  Someone is being healed.
Drusus looks over, glancing through the open tent flap, through the frame 
  formed by the figures of his two guardians outside, through the secondary 
  frame formed by the door of the clinic opposite. Yes, he's just moved his 
  tent several miles. But work with him, okay?

Maat says nothing, instead choosing to continue her impression of a piece of 
  rock. Light appears to part about the woman, so tall and still does she 
  stand. Her eyes watch Faanshi and the mongrel, noting each move the shudra 
  makes.

Jerrik's brown eyes snap open, a few moments later, and a joyous smile spreads 
  across his young face, turning otherwise homely features attractive with his 
  obvious delight. He staggers for a moment, not quite able to really grasp 
  that for the first time in days he's feeling far better, until he once more 
  beholds the girl who has touched him. "Faanshi," he echoes dutifully, then 
  babbles on, "Knew it was you! Thankee, Miss, thankee, from th' bottom o' my 
  heart...!"

Her blue veil hides it, but Faanshi smiles shyly nevertheless, risking a look 
  up with eyes turning liquid and moved at the first words of kindness she has 
  received all day. Stepping back, looking a trifle shaken, she nevertheless 
  manages to clasp her hands at her breast and bow over them to the restored 
  if still tottering young man. "It is my duty... Ushas bless you," she 
  whispers gently. "Rest... find a bed... rest..."

And so Jerrik stumbles off, looking pleasantly dazed, with a light in his eyes 
  that suggests that when he next sleeps -- and it won't be long now -- he'll 
  get honest renewal and rest rather than dropping back into the throes of 
  sickness and fever.

Maat takes a step back from Faanshi, fading like a spectre at dawn, into the 
  shadows between the torches. Her movement is stealthy. Nary a piece of cloth 
  or a boot heel is allowed to betray the action. She simply waits for another 
  patient to seek out Faanshi's embrace.

Once young Jerrik is gone, what few Mongrels remain in the line are clearly 
  eying the girl in Clan Khalida silks with increased signs of anxious hope. 
  They, however, along with one or two of the Empyreans that make up the 
  majority of the sick ones in this place, are the noticeable exceptions to 
  the apparent unspoken rule that has decreed Faanshi the least desirable of 
  the healers still on duty within the clinic. Some of those other healers, in 
  between patients, cast narrow-eyed glances over at the halfbreed as her 
  efforts register themselves in their own connections to the aether they all 
  touch... but at least the healers are too busy with the tasks at hand to 
  show any more blatant signs of disdain.

In the midst of it all, the shudra strives to calm her heart and mind, to tell 
  herself that she is unwounded by the thin-lipped smirks and the cold 
  hostility in the stares of most of these patients. The few that do approach 
  her, the ones who make a point of smiling to her and thanking her, help. And 
  when her help is sought, she gives it without hesitation.

Soon, however, the Nabi Devaki returns to the clinic, her footsteps sharp as 
  she enters the building. Her red-robed figure is as striking and 
  vivid-seeming as it had been this morning, as though the fires of _her_ 
  magic and personal strength have been taxed not at all by this day's work. 
  She steps into earshot of the Shakir, and announces her presence simply by 
  saying, "I trust, Imphada, that the halfbreed has not disgraced herself?"

From the darkness which now enshrouds Maat, the woman's voice says, "Imphada 
  Nabi, the shudra has shown a great deal of advancement in her skill. You are 
  to be commended in teaching her so well and she is to be commended for 
  having learned so quickly. My mind is much put at ease that there will be no 
  repetition of previous incidents." As a sort of backhanded compliment, to 
  the Nabi or to Faanshi, Maat says, "I have not realized that anyone could 
  learn to heal so well so quickly."

Devaki casts a sour black-eyed glance in Faanshi's direction, studying the 
  maiden as though she might do a particularly loathsome insect which has 
  happened to sit up and start doing tricks. "Any hound will learn proper 
  obedience if sufficiently accustomed to the whip," comes her dismissive 
  reply, "and I have merely taught her a sufficient appreciation for the 
  consequences of failing to control her power. The Amir-al" -- and only now 
  does the priestess sketch a fervent sigil of devotion before her breast -- 
  "may He live forever, will not be shamed if He chooses to make use of this 
  particular hound again in the future."

Maat considers the Nabi carefully, but makes no commentary on her teaching 
  methods. Instead, she bends forward for a brief bow. "Thank you for allowing 
  me to speak with her." Once again, it would seem that Faanshi has been 
  relegating to being an item rather than a person as Maat no longer even 
  looks at the shudra.

The Nabi is not particularly attempting to modulate the volume of her voice, 
  and thus, her comments are well within the hearing range of the shudra under 
  discussion. As she sends another Mongrel on his way, this one a gray-haired 
  middle-aged man with a limp, Faanshi pauses for a fraction of an instant. 
  _Hound._ In that shard of a moment, a hint of something like tears glimmers 
  in the maiden's leaf-hued eyes, before she very deliberately turns her gaze 
  to the floor... a motion perhaps at odds with the stiff set of her delicate 
  shoulders.

Maat turns from the Nabi and discards her cloak of shadows. With clicking 
  steps, she covers the distance from Faanshi to the door in quick, 
  ground-eating strides.
Once outside the building, Maat stands by one of the shaped windows and looks 
  back into dim interior of the clinic. Her body bends over for a moment as 
  she leans to speak with someone outside the view of the window. Her form is 
  a dark silhouette once again, almost a shadow, and thin, as if she were a 
  ghost rather than a person. The conversation takes some time. Both light and 
  dark, from the wind-chased clouds over the moon, pass over her, making her 
  seem even less real as time goes by.

At last, the line begins to dwindle. Some of the Empyreans too biased to allow 
  Faanshi to touch them can at least swallow enough pride to approach the Nabi 
  instead, and the glint of smug triumph in the woman's eyes even as she heals 
  these grudging patients is undeniable. Most, however, veer off to the other 
  healers, those of Delphi, who have volunteered their services to the Tent 
  City to help stretch the supply of lungroot even farther. Soon enough, as 
  the clinic begins to go about the business of shutting down long enough to 
  permit the workers within time for a meal, the Nabi Devaki strides out of 
  the place. She sweeps past without much in the way of regard for any who 
  might be lurking near the doorway, even the Imphada Shakir, and brisks off 
  for her appointed tent to rendezvous with her Akhunds and be escorted back 
  to Atesh-Gah.

Rather more slowly does the maiden Faanshi emerge from the clinic. Now that 
  the Nabi is gone, the shudra allows herself to linger at the door for a 
  moment or two, fighting off encroaching exhaustion... and striving to hold 
  back the sting of tears at the priestess's recriminations.

A small boy, an Empyrean boy at that, walks up to Faanshi and holds out a 
  something shiny and bright in his dirty, chubby fist. "For you." The boy is 
  a bit too young to understand that he should not be speaking with a 
  halfbreed and thus he speak his words with pride, as if he feels like a man 
  for being able to deliver this message.

What? Her initial steps away from the clinic door are halted by the winged 
  lad's interception of her course... and Faanshi's weary green eyes go wide 
  above her veil. "Uh... thank you, little dominus," she blurts out huskily, 
  bobbing her sari-covered head down at the messenger. "But I have no coin to 
  pay you..."

The little boy continues to hold out his offering, until Faanshi puts out a 
  hand to accept it. "For you!" he says again with importance. It is fairly 
  obvious that he has forgotten the rest of his speech.

Under any other circumstances, at any other time, Faanshi might allow herself 
  to smile... though that expression could not be seen behind her veil, or the 
  extra concealment of encroaching night. Now, it is all she can do to muster 
  a gentle tone for this proud little boy, an assurance that his duty has been 
  fulfilled... even if she has no idea what that duty is. Tentatively, she 
  stretches forth her slender golden hand, murmuring kindly, "Then... thank 
  you, little dominus... thank you..."

An Empyrean woman kneels by the stream and scrubs laundry. Gossip is exchanged 
  between her and the others gathered at the bank while the chore is completed.

The little boy drops the object into Faanshi's outstretched palm and scampers 
  back to his mother who is standing by the window with a tall, Shakir-shaped 
  shadow. The mother seems quite a bit more apprehensive about the exchange 
  than the little boy who is already badgering her with, "Did I do it right, 
  momma? Did I do it just right?"

The bit of gold in Faanshi's hand is a delicate twist chain, about the right 
  size for a bracelet that entwines a ring. The ring, though extremely small 
  and without any decorative gems merely shows a serpent that is consuming its 
  tail.

"Ushas," Faanshi breathes, stunned by the delicate thing that has been placed 
  within her hand. What is an Empyrean lad doing giving her such a thing? 
  And... can she even accept it in good conscience? The halfbreed maiden 
  straightens, looking bemusedly after the child as he scampers off, following 
  the sound of his voice to the two shadowed figures he approaches. Swallowing 
  hard then behind her veil, Faanshi steels herself... and approaches those 
  figures, lowering her gaze when she is in range and after she has glimpsed 
  enough to see at least something of the nature of those two individuals. 
  "Domina... imphada?" comes her voice from behind her veil. "Please forgive 
  my intrusion..."

A pair of Caduceans leave the clinic building at the end of their shifts and 
  head back into Haven proper.

Maat is murmuring softly to the Empyrean woman when Faanshi comes into range. 
  "In the morning...lungroot...tell them...for certain you.."

The woman bobs her head to the Shakir and says to her son, "Yes, you did very 
  well, Jonah." She gives Faanshi a furtive look. "My son is up past his 
  bedtime. If you'll excuse me." Her tones are polite, but she does not stop 
  to answer whatever question the halfbreed might have.

On the other hand, Maat remains where she stands, a tall pillar of darkness. 
  "What do you want, Faanshi Khalida?" she says in her usual harsh and 
  unbending way.

What little pleasure and relief Faanshi'd felt at the friendly gaze of the 
  child evaporates at the snubbing from his mother and the tone of the woman 
  who remains. Keeping her gaze firmly lowered, the shudra limits herself to 
  saying earnestly, "I only wished to ask, Imphada... if this bracelet is 
  meant for the Nabi?" Certainly it cannot be for _her_, she tells herself 
  bemusedly. "I will convey it, if desired..."

Maat says, in her superior fashion, "Did the child say it was for the Nabi?" 
  Her voice completely implies that Faanshi is an idiot.

Well, _that_ is a tone to which the shudra has become well-accustomed. Her 
  throat threatens to tighten nevertheless -- on top of the day she has had at 
  the hands of the Nabi Devaki, it is one straw too many for the back of the 
  mule, as it were. And thus, rather than simply saying 'No, Imphada', Faanshi 
  explains instead, "He did not, Imphada Shakir, but given that I am a shudra 
  and that it does not seem proper for me to possess such a lovely thing... it 
  would do the gift no honor to be dulled by dirty dish-water or 
  stable-muck... I thought that perhaps the little dominus had not informed me 
  as to what I am to do with this gift..." Her voice remains respectful, her 
  gaze demurely lowered... but something in the girl's tone is different 
  nonetheless. A hollowness, perhaps, a resignation, a stoic detachment. At 
  last she trails off in profound exhaustion, blushing hotly, expecting to be 
  soundly chastised for daring to express her thought processes. _Foolish 
  girl, the Shakir does not care!_

Maat states, in clear ringing tones, as if Faanshi really were an idiot and 
  needed things explained loudly so that she will understand, "If you look at 
  the lovely thing, you will notice that it is made of gold. Therefore, unlike 
  silver or bronze, it will not tarnish, should it become immersed in various 
  sorts of liquids and solids. Therefore, it is an entirely suitable item for 
  a shudra, much more than a piece which would require delicate and frequent 
  care." She makes no mention of the item costing more, as if that were not 
  under consideration.

Aye, there comes the chastisement, the tone that implies that her brains are 
  muddled along with her blood. Faanshi winces before she can stop herself, 
  and blushes all the more hotly when she realizes that her expression is 
  hidden only by the presence of her veil and the merciful shrouding of 
  nightfall. She forces her face back into its impassive mask, then gently 
  closes her hands about the dainty item, and clasps those hands at her breast 
  so that she may bow over them. "I... bow to your wisdom, Imphada Shakir," 
  she says then, tiredly, "and... I offer my humble thanks for your 
  generosity. Namaste'." With that, she bows again and turns to go back the 
  way she came.

Maat does not call Faanshi back nor are there any deprecating mutters to 
  follow the shudra like curs snapping at her heels. Instead, the crunch of 
  boots over the crushed rock and soil can be heard as the Shakir moves away 
  from the area as well.

[End log.]