10-27-2016, 02:59 PM
Armande watched the interplay between the old man and Valeriya. The sound of the waterfall in the other chamber seemed punctuated by their declarations, the man's voice dour and tired sounding, a pity she had not measured up. The tension was palpable, and he could almost reach out and caress the currents. Human nature, of course. Over time, no matter the devotion of its followers, politics and power always became paramount.
It was not a game he had played, at least not consciously. He had not campaigned or curried favor to achieve his elevation as the Regus of the Atharii. Yet it seemed he had risen in the ranks consistently, noticed by those above as someone of potential. More than that, he could inspire fear or loyalty, especially in minds weaker than himself. That was, perhaps, one of the greatest and most terrible of his gifts. He knew few true equals in this life.
Valeriya, to her credit, did not cower before the older man or display weakness by being defensive. The man was clearly someone of note, to hold such power in their group.
His eyes flicked over the carvings, alighting from one image to the next. These people had not devolved. They had merely been in waiting. And somehow, it was him they were waiting for. The Atharim histories spoke of visionaries. There were ancient Atharim prophetic works. But that ability had not manifested itself, to his knowledge, in millenia.
He turned back to watch the girl carefully. He wondered what visions danced behind those eyes. The sound of the cascade faded into the background as she spoke and her words were rhythmic. What had she seen? Aside from his coming. Not as Rasputin reborn, certainly. He could not believe that. Still something wormed its way into him. Curiosity as to what he shared with Rasputin, to be cast as his return. Their lives had not been parallel, though there were a few points of convergence. Only a few, though. Rasputin's reputation was drenched in far more carnality than his own.
Still, he was suspicious. This could all turn out badly. He would be no lamb, to be feted and celebrated only to be sacrificed on some altar. And yet...it was hard to believe that Fate had drawn him- made his coming known ahead of time- merely to meet that end.
The two men went to their knees in obeisance. Armande's mouth tightened. Leader he was and leader he would be. But worship did not appeal to him. "Rise. I do not need nor desire your worship." The older man's mouth tightened. He understood. Meeting their Messiah always caused discomfort for people of power.
Valeriya indicated that he go with them, to treat his wounds. And the need for herself to change. More than that: 'sin'. What sin? Her clothing was not overly tight, though they did reveal a curved and lithe young woman's body that was not unattractive. The Khylsty had been preoccupied with sin. Asceticism often produced a strange blend of the most rigid of moral strictures with sometimes violent and hedonistic sensual group release. A pendulum swinging from one extreme to the other. And yet such a flow of energy was capable of producing incredible power, if it could be harnessed. He could almost hear the primal drums in his mind, feel the galloping hooves.
He nodded to the girl, then turned to the man. "Please lead the way." The journey wasn't long. Soon he was in a large room lit by torches that cast that same bluish white light over everything. There were chests along the walls supporting what looked like apothecary's instruments. The man must have been what passed for their healer- part doctor, part shaman. No wonder there was tension between him and the Eye. Both were positions of prestige.
Items hung from the ceiling by straps or woven cord. There were what looked to be shaped obsidian and stone, carved bone and horn in a myriad of shapes, from containers and cups to knives, axes, needles and utensils. Some of those containers contain fetid liquids that burned his nostrils. There were also large hollowed out sections of the floor along the back, creating the bowls in which still other liquids stood. Woven mats made of what seemed to be leather covered other parts of the floor and walls, some displaying artistic patterns made with dyes. Chairs made of bone and leather also were scattered around the room. And over in the corner were two mats that were probably for sleeping.
The man's voice no longer seemed pitying, though it was still reedy. "I am called Matvei, Father...Regus. I am the Hand of the Khylsty. This is my apprentice Timur."
He broke into a thick and phlegmy cough. Obviously, handling these liquids had done damage to more than the man's hands. "You are hurt. Please allow us to treat your wounds."
Armande was skeptical that their treatments would leave him anything but septic and infected- and dead. Still, he had no desire to offend them, not if he would use them. Not if they were his people. He heaved his pack to the unused chests and pulled out some of the supplies he'd stolen from the homeless camps above, including a few bottles of water. In particular, he selected the first aid kit that had been provided by social groups to meet their needs. "I have tools here for that- gifts- that can only be used by myself at the moment. But I will teach you to use them."
The men's eyes looked skeptically as he removed its sealed contents. Bottles of liquid, bandages and packets of pills and ointments, second skin adhesives and tablets, and so much more. Rasputin returned he might be- to them- but what he did could be seen as a threat to their position. Armande was not a fool to believe he could physically take on an entire underground colony. Nor did he have any such desire. He would use the proper tool of the proper job.
"Watch and I will teach you."
Edited by Regus, Oct 27 2016, 04:27 PM.
It was not a game he had played, at least not consciously. He had not campaigned or curried favor to achieve his elevation as the Regus of the Atharii. Yet it seemed he had risen in the ranks consistently, noticed by those above as someone of potential. More than that, he could inspire fear or loyalty, especially in minds weaker than himself. That was, perhaps, one of the greatest and most terrible of his gifts. He knew few true equals in this life.
Valeriya, to her credit, did not cower before the older man or display weakness by being defensive. The man was clearly someone of note, to hold such power in their group.
His eyes flicked over the carvings, alighting from one image to the next. These people had not devolved. They had merely been in waiting. And somehow, it was him they were waiting for. The Atharim histories spoke of visionaries. There were ancient Atharim prophetic works. But that ability had not manifested itself, to his knowledge, in millenia.
He turned back to watch the girl carefully. He wondered what visions danced behind those eyes. The sound of the cascade faded into the background as she spoke and her words were rhythmic. What had she seen? Aside from his coming. Not as Rasputin reborn, certainly. He could not believe that. Still something wormed its way into him. Curiosity as to what he shared with Rasputin, to be cast as his return. Their lives had not been parallel, though there were a few points of convergence. Only a few, though. Rasputin's reputation was drenched in far more carnality than his own.
Still, he was suspicious. This could all turn out badly. He would be no lamb, to be feted and celebrated only to be sacrificed on some altar. And yet...it was hard to believe that Fate had drawn him- made his coming known ahead of time- merely to meet that end.
The two men went to their knees in obeisance. Armande's mouth tightened. Leader he was and leader he would be. But worship did not appeal to him. "Rise. I do not need nor desire your worship." The older man's mouth tightened. He understood. Meeting their Messiah always caused discomfort for people of power.
Valeriya indicated that he go with them, to treat his wounds. And the need for herself to change. More than that: 'sin'. What sin? Her clothing was not overly tight, though they did reveal a curved and lithe young woman's body that was not unattractive. The Khylsty had been preoccupied with sin. Asceticism often produced a strange blend of the most rigid of moral strictures with sometimes violent and hedonistic sensual group release. A pendulum swinging from one extreme to the other. And yet such a flow of energy was capable of producing incredible power, if it could be harnessed. He could almost hear the primal drums in his mind, feel the galloping hooves.
He nodded to the girl, then turned to the man. "Please lead the way." The journey wasn't long. Soon he was in a large room lit by torches that cast that same bluish white light over everything. There were chests along the walls supporting what looked like apothecary's instruments. The man must have been what passed for their healer- part doctor, part shaman. No wonder there was tension between him and the Eye. Both were positions of prestige.
Items hung from the ceiling by straps or woven cord. There were what looked to be shaped obsidian and stone, carved bone and horn in a myriad of shapes, from containers and cups to knives, axes, needles and utensils. Some of those containers contain fetid liquids that burned his nostrils. There were also large hollowed out sections of the floor along the back, creating the bowls in which still other liquids stood. Woven mats made of what seemed to be leather covered other parts of the floor and walls, some displaying artistic patterns made with dyes. Chairs made of bone and leather also were scattered around the room. And over in the corner were two mats that were probably for sleeping.
The man's voice no longer seemed pitying, though it was still reedy. "I am called Matvei, Father...Regus. I am the Hand of the Khylsty. This is my apprentice Timur."
He broke into a thick and phlegmy cough. Obviously, handling these liquids had done damage to more than the man's hands. "You are hurt. Please allow us to treat your wounds."
Armande was skeptical that their treatments would leave him anything but septic and infected- and dead. Still, he had no desire to offend them, not if he would use them. Not if they were his people. He heaved his pack to the unused chests and pulled out some of the supplies he'd stolen from the homeless camps above, including a few bottles of water. In particular, he selected the first aid kit that had been provided by social groups to meet their needs. "I have tools here for that- gifts- that can only be used by myself at the moment. But I will teach you to use them."
The men's eyes looked skeptically as he removed its sealed contents. Bottles of liquid, bandages and packets of pills and ointments, second skin adhesives and tablets, and so much more. Rasputin returned he might be- to them- but what he did could be seen as a threat to their position. Armande was not a fool to believe he could physically take on an entire underground colony. Nor did he have any such desire. He would use the proper tool of the proper job.
"Watch and I will teach you."
Edited by Regus, Oct 27 2016, 04:27 PM.