Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG
[1282] – Y06.182 – The City II

The boy stared at the board, finger within his mouth, and as he reached for the piece, a hand held his wrist, and the woman pulled her son closer to her bosom. The boy sucked on his thumb and cuddled up into the safety of his mother, who sat under the shade of the large cloths, within the open aired tents to the side of the courtyard. 

The old man stared down at the board, opposite the woman, who he did not know was young or old, for she was covered from the top of her head to the bottom of her heel, a thin sheet hiding her face from the world, even her hands were covered in light cotton gloves. 

“One big copper?” the old man, whose bald head was protected by his turban, that pinned with a small medal from his days in the army. 

“Shukhur,” the woman replied, placing down a big copper, which was slightly thinner than a typical copper, but much wider, while the older man did the same. 

They played for a short while, the older man fumbling a piece, though the younger woman had barely taken advantage of it, before a shadow emerged over the table.

“Oh ho! May I watch?” the fool asked, wearing a turban upon his head, after being convinced by his friend.

“If you have the coin,” the old man replied simply.

The young man reached into his cloak, placing down a silver beside each of them, before sitting down on the open seat, drawing it closer to the board. Meanwhile, the one tasked with watching him stood to one side, hiding within the shadow beside the buildings, though he was not hidden very well, for he was adorned in black, and his heavy armour gleamed even through the shade. The woman who approached him was also not hidden, approaching the Black Lion fiercely, though one might have expected as such, as she was that woman. 

“Who is he?” the woman adorned in all white asked, also covered from head to heel, her eyes peeking through her scarf, which was wrapped around her head and her face, but allowed her bright emerald eyes to shine through. 

“He is Executive Adam, High Alchemist of the United Kindom.” 

“Why is he here?”

“To escort Mo Dunes to Black Mountain, and to potentially form a deal with the royal family,” Uli replied. 

“There are many Iyrmen in the group?”

“If you continue to ask questions you already know the answer to, we may stop this conversation now.”

“You have worked hard, Kal Uli,” the woman said. “I will take over the role to watch over them, so you may return.”

“I decline.”

“Kal Uli, Mulazim, do you intend to disregard my request?”

“The Mustashalur has granted me complete authority in this matter,” Uli replied simply. 

“You?”

Uli narrowed his eyes from behind the mask, though the woman did not budge under his glare. After a long moment, she stepped away, since she was wise enough not to trouble the Mustashalur. Uli wouldn’t have the courage to lie about such an order, though she would need to confirm it. 

“Oh?” a figure playing dragonchess nearby mused aloud. He wore a black turban with a medallion of a soldier, one that he had not earned. “She is the one to walk away?”

“Which one is he?” the other replied, wearing a white turban with a medallion of a soldier, one that he had not earned. 

“Kal Uli, I think.”

“Kal Uli…” the other replied, trying to recall why that name sounded familiar. “The one who failed with Bloody Viper?”

“No,” the figure replied, only to pause. “Yes, but there was the matter with failing to bring down cousin.”

“How can they blame him for such, when our cousin is so slippery?” The man moved his piece after a moment of thought, each betting a silver, though the silver represented ten gold, and though they wanted some lighter attention, too much attention would have revealed who they were. 

“He is a slippery bastara, but not as slippery as you,” the black turban said, moving his piece to try to keep his farisi in place. “I told you to keep your hands off of my uthur.”

“Cousin, how can you say this? I keep my hands off your uthur, like you keep your hands off my wine,” the white turban fellow’s eyes gleamed knowingly. 

“It would be a big problem if this continues.”

“Shukhur,” the white turban fellow said, shrugging his shoulders casually, but the threat was clear. “What can we do?” 

“Hmm,” the black turban fellow replied, holding the glare for a long while, before returning his attention back to the board. 

“Oh? Look, it is Shabah.”

“Shabah?” The fellow with the black turban looked aside towards a woman who definitely wore a chain shirt under her loose black clothing, but it was the blade which brought most of her attention. 

Shabnam, or the Ghost Blade, Sayf adh Shabah, was adorned in all black, her wrinkled skin, like crinkled bronze, was covered in lotion to protect her from the sun, the woman fixing her scarf lightly to provide more shade for her eyes. Her lips were painted white, matching her lashes, and the single white dot upon her forehead. At her side she wore a hilt with no blade, or so one might have thought, but everyone knew who she was, and everyone knew how terrifying it was to face against her. 

‘Sayf adh Mashi’aya and now Sayf adh Shabah?’ The pair thought the same thing, for though it was not uncommon to meet various legends in the capital, especially hanging together, but to see two, three if one counted the Black Lion, back to back, seemingly minding their own business.

“A draw?” White turban fellow held out his hand, and black turban fellow shook it, for they both knew it was bad luck to see two such figures in such a short time, and so they parted ways with their own silver pieces. They would need to discuss matters of business another time, hopefully before their people went to war over wine and uthur.

“Shabah, al Shabal,” a merchant called, holding up a bag for the woman. “I have packed some things for your grandson. Shukhur, I hope he recovers soon.”

“Thank you, nephew,” the older woman replied, reaching up to pat his head gently, the woman placing down a silver, buying a cheap trinket from the man, who let her pick whichever she wanted, regardless of whether he could sell it for copper, silvers, or if there was a fool of a father nearby, gold. 

“Oh! Whoa, you really pulled it back from the beginning!” Adam gasped, raising his brows towards the older man. The half elf clapped his hands. “A great game, really.”

“Do you play?” the old man asked as the woman claimed her silver, leaving behind her big copper for the older man. 

“Just a little, but my daughters are much better,” Adam said, peeking at the boy who was snoozing so peacefully, and he closed his eyes, thinking of little Xarot. 

“Your tattoo,” the old man said, as casually as he could, though he could feel his shortblade at his side hanging loosely. “Which tribe are you from?”

“Tribe?” Adam asked, reaching up to rub his tattoo. “This tattoo was a gift from the Iyr.”

“The Iyr? Betta, listen, you will get into big trouble if you say such things. If the Iyr find out, they will not kill you painlessly.”

“If they got a trouble with it, they shouldn’t have tattooed it,” Adam replied, shrugging his shoulders. “My brother will deal with it.”

“Your brother? Who is he?”

“He’s an Iyrman.”

The old man pulled back from the half elf, who was certainly insane. “Betta, please, you should not say such dangerous things standing so close to me.”

“No, no, I understand,” Adam replied, chuckling at the old man. “Don’t worry, no one believes me at first, but eventually someone will come by and prove it. I could prove it now, if that would make you more comfortable?”

“How can you prove it?”

“If there was a powerful warrior nearby, I suppose I could show how strong I am,” Adam said, only to notice the older woman in black nearby, who wore a sword hilt at her waist that reminded him of Yellow Turban’s blade, and instantly the half elf realised he had tempted Fate. “I’ll just ask Kal Uli to step forward.”

“Brother Adam, sorry to keep you,” called another voice, as Dunes appeared, with a fresh face, his beard having been lined with a professional hand, adorned in freshly pressed clothing, as another followed him, carrying his gear. It was the vestments of black with the silver writing which caused the old man to stand. 

“Perfect timing, Du-,”

“Mo,” Dunes corrected before Adam got himself into trouble.

“Right, sorry, my bad, again,” Adam said, flushing lightly. “Anyway, I was about to get into trouble.”

“What did you do this time?”

“I don’t know, I think it’s the turban,” Adam said.

“You look good in it.”

“I don’t know…”

“Who does not look good in a turban?”

Adam thought about everyone he had ever seen in a turban, from his first life and his current life. “Good point. Also, this is getting a little ridiculous, but so far, everyone I’ve seen in Aswadasad has immaculate style.”

“Not everyone, but you would not know the cultural style to understand that some people are wearing outfits which are seen as ridiculous,” Dunes replied simply.

“Oh,” Adam replied, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Good point.”

“On the way I heard Radiant Blade was nearby, so I was a little worried you had picked a fight,” Dunes admitted, though his lips twitched slightly. “I hurried back.”

“I don’t pick a fight with everyone strong,” Adam said, motioning his head to the older woman, who he hadn’t noticed had gotten rather close to him. “Is that the Radiant Sword Dragon?”

“No, the Radiant Sword Dragon is different to the Radiant Blade, who is different than the Ghost Blade,” Dunes said, bowing his head lightly to the older woman. 

“You are from Black Mountain?” the old woman asked, causing Adam to jump to the side, his heart thundering in shock. 

“I am,” Dunes replied with a small smile. “We met when I was a boy. Kal Samra is my mentor.”

“Ah!” the old woman replied with a wide smile. “How is niece Samra?”

“Shukhur,” Dunes replied, nodding his head. 

It's a big city, but a small world.