Outlands update
Everyone, meet Cloud!
The city is larger than he thought. From the mountain it had gleamed like a shining stone blanket. From here, right outside the gates, the sheer massive weight of stone and wood and steel and humanity presses into the earth.
Seifer is dressed in yellow and orange silk and white leather, finery that allows him to move but shows off his musculature without being vulgar. It makes him look less like a ruffian and more like an Outsider. The sorcerer as well is dressed in silk, colors matching the green, black and silver flags on the ramparts. He can only assume this means that the sorcerer is a part of the royalty of this country. The addition of a red crest on his tunic means nothing to the slave.
The gates are large arches of stone with iron gates and guards checking the people coming and going, one arch large enough for two wheeled carts to pass abreast of each other.
It takes a while for the line of people in front of them to be processed but eventually the three weary travelers are met by sharp-eyed guardsmen. The sorcerer does most of the talking and presents papers that are looked over carefully and tested a few times with magic powders.
“Tseng, Court Mage to his majesty the King, along with Seifer Almasy, ambassador of the United Clans of the Outlands, with a gift to his Majesty; the slave Prophet Son of Rain.”
It takes a moment for him to figure out that the sorcerer is speaking about him. It has been so long since anyone has mentioned his mother’s name he’s nearly forgotten it all together. It makes sense he supposes, to have a title as he has no name, but really, he isn’t worth as much as the title seemed to claim.
Seifer holds out a hand with a single carnelian ring displaying his birthright, and lack thereof, as an Acadian. The slave himself, still seated on Seifer’s red male, is given a bare glance before being ordered to dismount.
Unsteadily, trying to hide the weakness of his limbs, he slides down and leanes heavily on the bird. It is a nice docile creature and holds still under his shifting weight. One guard gives him a brief pat down, as though he might be someone pretending to be a slave, though that is an absurd thought.
Finally they are allowed through and the sorcerer pays a pair of young boys to take the chocobos to a stable yard. Seifer again has to carry the slave, who watches the hustle and bustle of the people. There are merchants, traders, servants and other people he has no names for running around and doing many things, wearing bright colors and dull, shouting, laughing and talking and generally being people.
There are few slaves he can pick out. Sometimes he pickes out a collar or the telltale body language of one who is owned body and soul, but there seem no pattern to them, no distinctive chains or the sounds of whips falling. Everything is thriving but he can't tell where Vallhalla falls and Hel's land begins.
The streets twist and bend, never in straight lines and he finds himself a little relieved that the city is at least a maze against strangers. It is paltry defense truly, but the meandering pathways and alleys mean that the picturesque purity hold all the scum and rats of human nature that he is familiar with. And it also soothes him, this back and forth zigzagging; it is more natural, more like the wind that guides his life than the rules and precision humanity tries to force upon nature.
After a while the edifice of the palace loomes before them, the outermost guards nodding and passing them through without changing expressions. The gleaming stone walls tower above the ground so that to see the top he’d need to lie down and they are gently curved, each stone placed carefully and the slope at the base of each wall a deterrent to tunnelers and rams. Clearly this place had been designed against siege even if the walls around the city had not been given the same attention. Arrow and gun slits grace the walls and the larger ones could be for the canons he’s heard about though never actually seen.
The gates are three men tall and there is something about the walls themselves that peak his interest.
“That’s Tseng, I’m Seifer Almasy on behalf of the Outlands and this is the Princess, erm, the Prophet Son of Rain. He uh, doesn’t talk much.”
“We seek audience with his majesty the King. Please.”
A servant in blue and black stands behind the open gates. He had seen the sorcerer repelled by an unseen wall, much like the walls around some of the temples they’d passed, but this is stronger than those he thinks, or greater in size. Both perhaps. A part of him, long lost in the darkness, wants to touch the walls and see if they feel warm. Walls made not from stone and mortar but of power, god's power.
He isn’t paying much attention to the servant, there is something of an undercurrent here and he grippes the bronze chalice hard, trying to listen to the wind without the buffer of water to ease the strain. Something is making it harder here.
“Is he expecting you?”
“I thought you said he was?
“I sent the letter two days ago, that doesn’t mean he’s had time to rearrange his schedule.”
The servant is edgy, a blond and blue eyed creature who jingles. He does not give a name and that could be for many reasons, perhaps servants do not give names to nobility. Regardless, he bears no collar and so the Seer focuses on the more interesting task of feeling the wind. With a frown the servant calles for another, this other in bright colors, and murmures to him. The slave does not bother to ask the wind what words are used, it does not matter.
“You're a mage.” The servant addresses this statement to the sorcerer, not quite an accusation.
“Yes. That's part of why I'm here. I don't recall you from my last visit, but then it's been some time.” The sorcerer is choosing his words with care now.
Seifer holds him easily and for whatever reason, most likely to upset the sorcerer, throws in his own words. “I'm a bastard.” This is not knowledge that the slave would assume is worth mentioning to a lower class, but he can not assume anything with these Outsiders.
“I've been here for years.” The servant tilted his head, then glanced away as the messenger came back. “You have to wait a bit longer.”
“That's quite alright. And yes, it's been... five? No, seven years I think since I last was here. I don't suppose you could deliver a letter for me could you? No, that wouldn't, ah never mind, it can wait.” The sorcerer mutters to himself. This waiting after rushing is leaving him on edge it seems.
”You can say hi to the nice man you know, I don't think he bites.” Seifer addresses the slave but it doesn’t register for many moments. He does not know what to say, and so remains silent.
The servant does not trust them, remaining on the other side of the strange walls. “Why should I let you past my wards?”
“We can wait here if you prefer.” The sorcerer blinks and gives the blond strange looks, as though this is not something he is accustomed to. Do the Outsiders change their ways so often in a life time that they do not know the protocol for each other?
”I'm new to the country, I'm more than happy to do whatever doesn't get me thrown in prison. Um? Princess?” Seifer is a pawn in these games, and the slave less than that, but he thinks he has figured out the trick of the walls now.
”The wind is bending around.” He had not meant to speak it, but the words come anyway.
The earth could tell him more if he had the gift of speaking to rock and plant, but he can only hear the wind and water, and while there is water here, it runs under the city and around it, not up at the surface where he can touch and ask. So it is left to the wind to tell him of the walls and it speaks of mountains where there should be none, of having to move around where once it moved over and through. It is unhappy to be diverted, but divert it must.
The servant focuses his attention sharply on the seer, moving closer to study and speak. “Do you know what they are?”
The other two watch in befuddled silence as he is forced to reply. “No. But the wind bends around, not through. It doesn't like it. Like a mountain in the way that isn't supposed to be there.” He withdraws from the scrutiny. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place.”
The sorcerer is giving him sharp looks and he wonderes if they are actually going to go within the walls. It is not a pleasing prospect.
Beyond the fact that he has never been within such a structure or near such lords, it is the lack of wind and water that daunt him. His power is his gift, his only worth. Taken from that, he is not even a useful slave. He has no purpose, no existence within walls that block the wind. Deep in the darkness a child cries out in terror but nothing reaches the still surfaces he keeps.
The servant shakes his head slightly. “Only higher ranking through placement. Right path of Freya.” The sorcerer nods in understanding but the words and flare of magic mean nothing to the slave and he stays silent. Seifer answers for him.
“Um, he's an Outlander. I don't think he gets it. I don't think I do either but that's normal for me.”
“Hmm, you can pass.”
”Okay, um, do we just follow you then?”
“I'm just a harem slave, I have no say.” Those words bring a frown. One could speak with such assurity, could give orders to others, and be called slave? He wore no collar! What slave was allowed to roam and greet visitors as though an equal? The Outland slave does not want to think about what it might mean, to walk in bondage with badge unseen.
The sorcerer at least, is an Outsider who does not seem to be confused. “The regular audience chambers? Or the Grand Hall? I'm not sure if he's changed the protocol for waiting visitors in the past few years.”
”The Princess is practicing in the Grand Hall right now.”
“Princess...Lockhart?” The sorcerer makes a frowning face and ponders the wall a moment.
“Isn't she from Wutai?”
”We're not even remotely related.” He absently remarks.
“Yes, Princess Lockhart. So you might do better in the other room.” Tseng nods to the blond man walking away and leads them into the complex, a feeling of being trapped slowly descending on the seer.
“Princess, I hope you can do your mojo without passing out.”
There are pathways even walls can not cover, breaches that shift and weaken, places that are deemed safe without walls of god’s power. Nothing stops the wind forever. A mountain may rise in a plain but the wind and rain will tear it down again. That is the truth of Hyne. Nothing survives forever, everything fades and falls and dies. I will exist until I end. Then I will be no more. Thank you, great goddess, for your wisdom.
He grippes the cup and sinks further into the dark, letting it chill his blood and still his thoughts. If he is to display his powers from within the confines of stone and power, he will do so, even if the effort killes him. He is, until he is no more.
The city is larger than he thought. From the mountain it had gleamed like a shining stone blanket. From here, right outside the gates, the sheer massive weight of stone and wood and steel and humanity presses into the earth.
Seifer is dressed in yellow and orange silk and white leather, finery that allows him to move but shows off his musculature without being vulgar. It makes him look less like a ruffian and more like an Outsider. The sorcerer as well is dressed in silk, colors matching the green, black and silver flags on the ramparts. He can only assume this means that the sorcerer is a part of the royalty of this country. The addition of a red crest on his tunic means nothing to the slave.
The gates are large arches of stone with iron gates and guards checking the people coming and going, one arch large enough for two wheeled carts to pass abreast of each other.
It takes a while for the line of people in front of them to be processed but eventually the three weary travelers are met by sharp-eyed guardsmen. The sorcerer does most of the talking and presents papers that are looked over carefully and tested a few times with magic powders.
“Tseng, Court Mage to his majesty the King, along with Seifer Almasy, ambassador of the United Clans of the Outlands, with a gift to his Majesty; the slave Prophet Son of Rain.”
It takes a moment for him to figure out that the sorcerer is speaking about him. It has been so long since anyone has mentioned his mother’s name he’s nearly forgotten it all together. It makes sense he supposes, to have a title as he has no name, but really, he isn’t worth as much as the title seemed to claim.
Seifer holds out a hand with a single carnelian ring displaying his birthright, and lack thereof, as an Acadian. The slave himself, still seated on Seifer’s red male, is given a bare glance before being ordered to dismount.
Unsteadily, trying to hide the weakness of his limbs, he slides down and leanes heavily on the bird. It is a nice docile creature and holds still under his shifting weight. One guard gives him a brief pat down, as though he might be someone pretending to be a slave, though that is an absurd thought.
Finally they are allowed through and the sorcerer pays a pair of young boys to take the chocobos to a stable yard. Seifer again has to carry the slave, who watches the hustle and bustle of the people. There are merchants, traders, servants and other people he has no names for running around and doing many things, wearing bright colors and dull, shouting, laughing and talking and generally being people.
There are few slaves he can pick out. Sometimes he pickes out a collar or the telltale body language of one who is owned body and soul, but there seem no pattern to them, no distinctive chains or the sounds of whips falling. Everything is thriving but he can't tell where Vallhalla falls and Hel's land begins.
The streets twist and bend, never in straight lines and he finds himself a little relieved that the city is at least a maze against strangers. It is paltry defense truly, but the meandering pathways and alleys mean that the picturesque purity hold all the scum and rats of human nature that he is familiar with. And it also soothes him, this back and forth zigzagging; it is more natural, more like the wind that guides his life than the rules and precision humanity tries to force upon nature.
After a while the edifice of the palace loomes before them, the outermost guards nodding and passing them through without changing expressions. The gleaming stone walls tower above the ground so that to see the top he’d need to lie down and they are gently curved, each stone placed carefully and the slope at the base of each wall a deterrent to tunnelers and rams. Clearly this place had been designed against siege even if the walls around the city had not been given the same attention. Arrow and gun slits grace the walls and the larger ones could be for the canons he’s heard about though never actually seen.
The gates are three men tall and there is something about the walls themselves that peak his interest.
“That’s Tseng, I’m Seifer Almasy on behalf of the Outlands and this is the Princess, erm, the Prophet Son of Rain. He uh, doesn’t talk much.”
“We seek audience with his majesty the King. Please.”
A servant in blue and black stands behind the open gates. He had seen the sorcerer repelled by an unseen wall, much like the walls around some of the temples they’d passed, but this is stronger than those he thinks, or greater in size. Both perhaps. A part of him, long lost in the darkness, wants to touch the walls and see if they feel warm. Walls made not from stone and mortar but of power, god's power.
He isn’t paying much attention to the servant, there is something of an undercurrent here and he grippes the bronze chalice hard, trying to listen to the wind without the buffer of water to ease the strain. Something is making it harder here.
“Is he expecting you?”
“I thought you said he was?
“I sent the letter two days ago, that doesn’t mean he’s had time to rearrange his schedule.”
The servant is edgy, a blond and blue eyed creature who jingles. He does not give a name and that could be for many reasons, perhaps servants do not give names to nobility. Regardless, he bears no collar and so the Seer focuses on the more interesting task of feeling the wind. With a frown the servant calles for another, this other in bright colors, and murmures to him. The slave does not bother to ask the wind what words are used, it does not matter.
“You're a mage.” The servant addresses this statement to the sorcerer, not quite an accusation.
“Yes. That's part of why I'm here. I don't recall you from my last visit, but then it's been some time.” The sorcerer is choosing his words with care now.
Seifer holds him easily and for whatever reason, most likely to upset the sorcerer, throws in his own words. “I'm a bastard.” This is not knowledge that the slave would assume is worth mentioning to a lower class, but he can not assume anything with these Outsiders.
“I've been here for years.” The servant tilted his head, then glanced away as the messenger came back. “You have to wait a bit longer.”
“That's quite alright. And yes, it's been... five? No, seven years I think since I last was here. I don't suppose you could deliver a letter for me could you? No, that wouldn't, ah never mind, it can wait.” The sorcerer mutters to himself. This waiting after rushing is leaving him on edge it seems.
”You can say hi to the nice man you know, I don't think he bites.” Seifer addresses the slave but it doesn’t register for many moments. He does not know what to say, and so remains silent.
The servant does not trust them, remaining on the other side of the strange walls. “Why should I let you past my wards?”
“We can wait here if you prefer.” The sorcerer blinks and gives the blond strange looks, as though this is not something he is accustomed to. Do the Outsiders change their ways so often in a life time that they do not know the protocol for each other?
”I'm new to the country, I'm more than happy to do whatever doesn't get me thrown in prison. Um? Princess?” Seifer is a pawn in these games, and the slave less than that, but he thinks he has figured out the trick of the walls now.
”The wind is bending around.” He had not meant to speak it, but the words come anyway.
The earth could tell him more if he had the gift of speaking to rock and plant, but he can only hear the wind and water, and while there is water here, it runs under the city and around it, not up at the surface where he can touch and ask. So it is left to the wind to tell him of the walls and it speaks of mountains where there should be none, of having to move around where once it moved over and through. It is unhappy to be diverted, but divert it must.
The servant focuses his attention sharply on the seer, moving closer to study and speak. “Do you know what they are?”
The other two watch in befuddled silence as he is forced to reply. “No. But the wind bends around, not through. It doesn't like it. Like a mountain in the way that isn't supposed to be there.” He withdraws from the scrutiny. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place.”
The sorcerer is giving him sharp looks and he wonderes if they are actually going to go within the walls. It is not a pleasing prospect.
Beyond the fact that he has never been within such a structure or near such lords, it is the lack of wind and water that daunt him. His power is his gift, his only worth. Taken from that, he is not even a useful slave. He has no purpose, no existence within walls that block the wind. Deep in the darkness a child cries out in terror but nothing reaches the still surfaces he keeps.
The servant shakes his head slightly. “Only higher ranking through placement. Right path of Freya.” The sorcerer nods in understanding but the words and flare of magic mean nothing to the slave and he stays silent. Seifer answers for him.
“Um, he's an Outlander. I don't think he gets it. I don't think I do either but that's normal for me.”
“Hmm, you can pass.”
”Okay, um, do we just follow you then?”
“I'm just a harem slave, I have no say.” Those words bring a frown. One could speak with such assurity, could give orders to others, and be called slave? He wore no collar! What slave was allowed to roam and greet visitors as though an equal? The Outland slave does not want to think about what it might mean, to walk in bondage with badge unseen.
The sorcerer at least, is an Outsider who does not seem to be confused. “The regular audience chambers? Or the Grand Hall? I'm not sure if he's changed the protocol for waiting visitors in the past few years.”
”The Princess is practicing in the Grand Hall right now.”
“Princess...Lockhart?” The sorcerer makes a frowning face and ponders the wall a moment.
“Isn't she from Wutai?”
”We're not even remotely related.” He absently remarks.
“Yes, Princess Lockhart. So you might do better in the other room.” Tseng nods to the blond man walking away and leads them into the complex, a feeling of being trapped slowly descending on the seer.
“Princess, I hope you can do your mojo without passing out.”
There are pathways even walls can not cover, breaches that shift and weaken, places that are deemed safe without walls of god’s power. Nothing stops the wind forever. A mountain may rise in a plain but the wind and rain will tear it down again. That is the truth of Hyne. Nothing survives forever, everything fades and falls and dies. I will exist until I end. Then I will be no more. Thank you, great goddess, for your wisdom.
He grippes the cup and sinks further into the dark, letting it chill his blood and still his thoughts. If he is to display his powers from within the confines of stone and power, he will do so, even if the effort killes him. He is, until he is no more.