Leila
An abnormally petite, for a Varati anyway, dusky-hued young woman clothed as befits a Varati woman of the Kshatri caste. This young creature's ebony hair, reaching nearly to her ankles, is plaited save a few loose strands tucked behind her ears, making her look slightly elven; olive green eyes are obscured by a silvery-hued gossamer-like veil.
She is cloaked in indigo blue and silver, long flowing saris, fashioned of the finest silk, concealing her scrawny body, leaving little but a pair of dainty hands visible. Silver jewelry adorns her wrists and ankles in the form of bracelets and anklets. Finally, upon her feet are a pair of dainty black slippers.
Sarasvati
Slight of figure, though sweetly curved, Sarasvati gazes upon you with a gentle smile which curls the corners of her mouth and brings a delighted light to her eyes. She moves with an easy gait and innate grace. As she speaks, her delicate hands trail through the air expressively, their motions betraying her training as a classical Varati dancer. Upon her hands as well as her feet are intricate mehndi patterns - swirling complex yet delicate designs - drawn in an earthy potent burnt sienna. They cover palms and soles as well as the back of each hand and foot from wrist to fingertip, ankle to toe. Large near black eyes, almond shaped and upturned at the ends, are fringed with dark lashes, framed in a heart-shaped face. Her skin is a warm rich honeyed brown, her voice an equally honey contralto. She considers the world around her with a curious and intelligent gaze. Her raven's wing hair trails down her back to mid-thigh, carefully braided and intertwined with golden chains and the occasional jewel. She wears a considerable quantity of jewelry - exquisitely handcrafted out of gold, adorning her throat, ears, ankles, and wrists, musically jingling with her every movement.
Sarasvati wears traditional attire at the moment, handed down from generation to generation of classical Kathak dancers. A close fitted choli kisses her torso with brilliant turquoise blue silk. Cutting across from shoulder to hip is a sash of blazing magenta embroidered with pale threads of gold. Upon reaching her shoulder it opens fully into a diaphanous drape of silk that trails down her back. The choli is finished high upon her upper arms by matching bands of pink silk, displaying the supple strength and grace of those limbs. The turquoise silk is embroidered as well with delicate threads of silver forming stylized blossoms. From her waist blossoms a full skirt of the same turquoise that drops to mid-calf, chased with silver and finished with a hem of magenta. Trailing in a layer above is a second matching overskirt that spirals along the length of the first, trailing in its wake a trickling line of magenta that drizzles about her legs in ever extending swirls. Beneath her skirts are a pair of magenta silwar that finish in a wide cuff of tiny bells that have been wrapped again and again about her ankles, rising up to nearly mid-calf. Her slightest motion is accompanied by music, the bracelets upon her arms jangling against each other with each expressive gesture of her hands, the bells about her ankles ringing out with her every step.
Over this array of silks and jewelry is yet another layer. A deep emerald green cloak wraps about her frame, keeping her warm during the winter months and cold nights.
Sumai
This man is large by most any person's estimation as he towers over a room with broad shoulders and a stone-hard face. A deep complexion like that of bloody mud is the hue of his face and skin, as though holding a manner of fire inside his own body has deepened its coloring. Brown-olive eyes watch the world around him with a hard, yet thoughtful, sense to them as they shield the man's thoughts from being physically read. His face has chiseled, sharp features which make him appear very planar and level while bearing several small scars from battles. Dark hair hangs from his head, long and somewhat coarse as it is braided into a sole, thick cord hanging near to the middle of his back. Braided into the long, rope-like cord are silver bands and tiny, metallic ribbons that seem to be a part of his black hair. His torso is expansive, like that of a great statue carved of some long dead warrior in remembrance of his worth. Powerful arms are corded with muscle and sinew from years of physically demanding training as well as being lined with sometimes criss-crossing scar flesh.
A simple white shirt adorns his torso, loose and easy to move in around the arms and shoulders. This is, in turn, covered by a navy blue vest, which buttons up the front with silver tabs engraved with delicate flames. Most of his wrists are covered in silvered, metallic bracers from just above the joint to just below the elbow, each is inlaid with a bit of reddened gold in fine, tiny rivulets. A thick and wide, nearly eight inches so, black, leather band wraps around his waist to be held by silvered catches near the base of his spine. His pants are loose flowing and a solid navy color, though they disappear from sight just below the knee as they are tucked into a hard leather boot. Around his left thigh are two very simple, pristine silver bands about a thumb's width each and about an inch apart.
A large weapon sling rests upon his back is made of supple, though heavily blacked, leather. Held in the sling, when not held by his side, is his wicked war-axe. Made of a single, expertly crafted, piece of steel the black axe is etched with runes invoking the power of righteousness and strength in silvered emblems. The haft is wrapped with a tough, serpent-hide, leather so that its owner may grip it easily.
Zahrah
If the Varati are a stony people, a people of Neverending Fire, this striking woman is a combination of the two. Molten lava. While there is a veneer, a thin one, of proper feminine submission about her, no one could mistake the strength of her will. It shows in the forcefulness of her charismatic gaze, her luminous dark eyes fierce and exultantly alive above her veil. It shows in the way she carries herself, as well: 5'10 inches of sinuous grace, held with the poised confidence of a dancer. Even her voice, a smooth, self-assured alto, conveys the depth of fire within her. And she's young yet. Her bronzed skin is smooth and silken, her hands elegantly slender and long-fingered.
An elaborate choli of heavy, flame-colored silk fits her upper torso like a second skin, caressing womanly curves not quite disguised beneath the matching sari. Its intricately embroidered borders are worked with black flowers, highlighted with beadwork, and her thin silk veil is held with clips of gleaming gold. Only when she moves is any other part of her visible. Each long, lithe stride reveals leather-soled satin slippers, the toes extended upward to curve back over her slim feet.
You have been summoned to the Messala suite by the Warlord himself, the information delivered via a quiet and polite shudra girl. The promise of soldii or gifts offered to enhance your financial status. Greeted at the gates of Atesh-Gah by the same, kindly and soft spoken and led through the lengthy, deep bowels inside the core of Atesh-Gah to the Messala suite. There you see the miniature artworks and figurines sculpted by Messala's famed shaper mages. Glittering and extravagant it is a mere shadow of the primary Messala hall in their vara so far away. The vast frame of the Warlord waits in the hall patiently for the necessary arrivals.
A slight figure, by Varati standards anyway, Leila remains, quietly, in the background. The petite creature is cloaked in long flowing saris of blue and silver, the majority of her face obscured by a silvery-hued gossamer-like veil, olive green eyes aloof and unfathomable, as she watches in the shadows, so to speak, almost hiding among the other women in the suite, allowing them to dominate the scene rather than her.
Zahrah enters from the hallway outside.
Zahrah has arrived.
Uncertain of which talents the Warlord of Messala desires of her, Sarasvati excused herself briefly to gather all that she could carry in anticipation of the duties required of her. It is with a tremble of uncertainty and a gaze of awe and reverence that Sarasvati entered through the gates of Atesh Gah, allowing each servant and guard in turn to guide and lead her footsteps until at last she stands in the vast hall of Messala. She traverses the cool marble, carefully setting down veena, tabla, and a silken bag before straightening before Sumai. Her hands come together, palms kissing as she bows deeply over them, greeting in clear and musical tones, "Namaste' Imphadi Warlord ... I am told that you desire my services on this day and thus I present myself to you for further instruction." She raises up slowly, henna-patterned hands embracing before her as she faces Sumai, unveiled and anxious to hear what he has called her to Atesh Gah and the Hall of Messala for ...
Flanked by her own naraki guard and one of Messala's, Zahrah steps within the suite in time to see this tableau. One dark, smoothly arched brow lifts but she merely halts and waits, not interrupting. Having been seen to by a Healer, she's not looking nearly so... green as she has been, and though her sari's extra loops are known only to herself and her servants, the looseness of her choli indicates that she's most likely lost weight recently. There is fire in her eyes once more, though a tempered flame for now, and one that flickers with enigmatic amusement at the moment.
"Namaste." the huge voice greets the much smaller, which is no true surprise, Sarasvati as she presents herself before him in the 'great' hall of Messala. The basso pauses for a moment only before flowing out in an even, conversational tone. "Indeed, I had need of a great entertainer this evening for I have an esteemed guest to entertain, along with my youngest sister. You are a skilled woman in these means, so I offer you fair reward for your services." he says while looking the trembling woman over quietly. Looking up Sumai's own olive-brown eyes take in the arrival of his guest, "Ah, speaking of my guest she has arrived." he comments as he motions with one callused and knotted paw for Zahrah to approach his place at the center of the elaborate and lavish hall.
In contrast to her older brother, Leila is petite, abnormally so, and she uses this to her advantage even now in order to remain, almost hidden, in the background, quietly watching as the two women, Sarasvati and Zahrah, arrive. The reference to her by Sumai, however, makes her a little nervous.
Bowing again deeply, Sarasvati moves over to one side, making way for the invited guest. There is a small dais over to one side where her dark chocolate eyes discern a number of musicians awaiting orders to commence. With a soft breath of relief she joins them with small bows and murmured greetings of 'namaste'' passed around like flavorful treats. She settles herself upon a cushion and draws out her instruments, the veena cradled upon her lap, the tabla set to one side. She does not know what he will call for first, but music is likely, since there will be some time for greetings and felicitations. Her fingers lift with delicate elegance, testing tuning as she considers the woman of honor. Sarasvati's own figure is full and positively vibrating with good health, good fortune having her outside of Haven when the disaster struck the Dipavali celebration.
Recognized now, Zahrah lowers her lashes and her head as well, respectfully... and also most effectively concealing what lies within her dark eyes. "Namaste, Imphadi," she returns, her alto voice smooth and beautifully modulated. "I am most honored by your invitation." Lifting her head once more, she greets the other two women... Leila first and with another well-gauged inclination of her head. "Imphadas." Well-done so far, even being gracious to the entertainment, and she moves forward obediently with more than a hint of her pre-Curse gracefulness. But for some reason, she simply can't resist adding the question, "I hope I am not unforgivably early?" Rhetorical, for she knows full well that she isn't. Perhaps it's merely that the entertainment is late? Tsk.
Dipping his huge neck very slightly in an acknowledgement, not that any of the ladies can see it with their heads downcast, the voice offers the most frequently outlet for his dispersement of polite activity. "I am honored that you have accepted, you are an esteemed woman of a notable clan. I am certain you have innumerable activities with which to busy yourself." Sumai’s basso voice thrumming still strictly enunciated and controlled, but not overwhelming as it is often wielded. Perhaps the lack of the steel shell symbolizes a relaxation in some manner, "I would like you to meet my youngest sister, Leila. She is relatively new to the city." he explains as he moves out the leathery hand to Leila's own and moves her forward ever so slightly with a careful use of his power. Looking to Sarasvati the Monster of Messala speaks again, "Imphada Saravati is an exquisite dancer and, from all account, a quality musician as well. If she would do us the courtesy to play something as we settle for a brief meal?"
Drawn out from her place in the shadows by a word from Zahrah. Ah, well. Leila makes the best of the situation, nodding respectfully to the guest of honour, Zahrah "Namaste Imphada" she repeats, softly. After all, she couldn't have hidden for much longer anyway. She remains quiet, and still, if not a little stiff after having been literally drawn out by the giant of a man, her brother Sumai, listening as he speaks.
A small smile curls her lips as Sarasvati leans over to the other musicians, conferring with them quietly. She doesn't catch the unspoken slight against her, but even if she had been an Atlantean, picking up those unvoiced words over the aether, she would have done no more than laugh and shrug her shoulders. If anyone is to blame, it is Sumai, for waiting till the last minute to call for her. One brow does arch speculatively, wondering if his usual dancer was ill, thus requiring him to seek herself out instead. Thank goodness she is dressed to dance already. Her gaze lingers on the slight figure of his sister curiously, the girl very unlike her brother it would seem. Sarasvati catches both Sumai's nod and his request, a bright and obliging smile proffered in return. Setting the veena aside for later, the tabla drums are pulled toward her, ritually uncovered and lightly tuned. She begins to play then, a slow gentle raga, the other musicians joining in with oud, flute, and cittern. The drums beneath her talented hands sigh and ring, chime and swallow, undulating sound and rhythm as waves do water.
Just as well that she was commanded to give herself into a Healer's care, and was forced to be obediently prompt in doing so. Zahrah would not have made a good dinner guest before. Not even briefly, much less had the energy to enjoy this, as she most assuredly intends to now. And don't believe for a moment that she isn't watching from beneath the secondary veil of those dark lashes. Little escapes the camouflaged shrewdness in her gaze, as she pauses to look once more toward Leila and to allow her eyes and her voice to convey the smile she affects beneath her veil. "A pleasure to meet you, Imphada." People note these small things, and she consummately gives them what they wish to see and hear. Most of the time. Back to Sumai, she easily returns his compliments while again lowering her lashes. "You are very generous, Imphadi... I thank you. I have heard that you are both stern and fair, but I had not heard of your skillfulness with words and your generosity with compliments." And lest she earn disapproval by not recognizing the trouble to which he's gone to secure entertainment, she turns then to Sarasvati and inclines her head a trifle. Back to Sumai again, she offers more courteous praise as she halts nearby the warlord and his sister. "I understand I am in for a rare treat. How thoughtful of you, Imphadi." Once more, she smiles beneath the veil, allowing it to color her voice.
Listening for a moment to the noises that begin to cascade from the area that Sarasvati has claimed as her own station the huge man nods his head approvingly. "A fine choice." Sumai compliments in his emotionless, unnerving tone of flat voice. Then, looking to the other ladies his huge hand motions to the small tables which lies readily prepared for three guests. High quality silver crafted by the master shapers of Messala rests about each platter which is, itself, covered by a silver dome etched with light runes and dancing flames. "Please, sit with me." he offers vocally to each of you while moving near himself. Settling down upon his knees in a kneeling position, calves and heels folded beneath him so that he is seated upon them with hardly a rustle of his own shimmering silks and jewelry. "There are many things that are not mentioned about me, Imphada, most notably any positive trait I might exhibit on rare occasions. I am easier to hate when thought of as a villain." he speaks what is a difficult sentence to interpret, perhaps it is a jest.
Leila listens, too, to the music, a soft smile, at last, adding some illumination to Leila's dusky-hued face. Still smiling, she nods, yet again, to Zahrah "Thank you, Imphada." She scarcely listens as the woman turns from her to converse with her brother, instead, continuing to listen to the music. In the same state, she makes her way, slowly, toward the table, carefully taking her position.
She is not so immersed in her duties that the compliment goes unnoted, a small smile of pleasure gracefully curling the corners of Sarasvati's mouth, a gleam of humor lighting within her gaze. Though when she first met him, Sarasvati was perhaps afraid and uneasy, now that she knows the Warlord means her no harm, she has begun to find his stoic manner and spare praise delightfully funny, though she suspects that he is not meaning to be so. The music is just what I should be, lithe and spritely, but not demanding attention or concentration. It prepares the mind, and thus the body, for conversation, whetting the appetite for food.
Moving toward the table at Sumai's beckoning, Zahrah settles as well, taking the indicated place after allowing her servant to remove her slippers. Their pointed, curling toes make them a doubtful choice for the dinner table, after all. Her gaze slides toward the warlord once she is seated, still well-veiled by her lashes, and she regards him for a moment before answering lightly, "If it truly disturbed you, Imphadi, I am positive you would find a means of correcting the misunderstanding."
Servants quickly, and skillfully, swarm the table to remove the metallic domes which contains the meal and hold it warm. Filling flutes with a fiery red wine the meal is, indeed, simple as Sumai stated earlier. A small, roasted hare rests on each platter done with honey's and cinnamons along with light ruffage and bread baked with onions and garlic. Lifting a thoughtful, thin eyebrow upwards for a moment the thick finger taps at the table top in time with Sarasvati's musical endeavors. "As your brother leads his clan with charisma and favor, I lead mine with the knowledge that I am an ill man to cross and the promise of prosperity. Such rumors amongst the unknowledgeable are perfectly acceptable." he says in his lifeless toned voice, smooth and heavy as it rolls on without anything resembling emphasis.
Imitating her brother, Leila sits, her long, plaited, dark black hair, falling to the ground, olive green eyes darting from Zahrah to Sumai, as the two of them converse. She remains silent but, apparently, not unobservant.
If Zahrah finds the lack of emotion in the warlord's voice disconcerting, she certainly doesn't show it. He's a man and can get away with it. She makes no effort, however, to stifle the emotive qualities of her own voice, which she's worked hard to mold into an instrument... and even harder at learning to use it to portray what she wishes. After formally praising the wine and the dishes before her-- which gives her time to relax from whatever made her suddenly and briefly tense-- she responds to Sumai's comment with a hint of amusement. "I am sure you know what is best, Imphadi." It's exactly as she thought, of course, his answer confirming that his reputation serves him, rather than dismays him in any way. She politely waits for his signal that they may eat, choosing to retain her veil despite the slight adjustments it will force.
"Leila, you need not fear our guest. She is a woman much like you, sister to a Warlord. Your placement is not so different as you need fear repercussions of speaking with her." That signal to eat is offered as Sumai falls silent to enjoy the small meal laid before him. Curiously large for such a tiny amount of food, one could be led to wonder how he remains at such an immense size. Perhaps he eats more away from prying eyes. Looking to Sarasvati with his own olive-brown eyes for a moment, even as the light meal makes an astonishing, if politely meated, disappearance from the huge Warlord's plate. "I can see that I was not spoken to untruly as to her skill with music, certainly an excellent mood she has set."
Leila blushes furiously beneath the gossamer-like veil, the strain of her recent illness, even her recent arrival in Haven, and, now, this chastisement, in front of a guest no less. Leila, feeling overwarm, faints.
~Da-tere-kete~Dha-tere-kete~Dha-ti~dhira-dhira-kete-Ta~Ta-tere-kete~ta-tere-kete~Ta-ti~dhira-dhira-kete-Dha!~ The tabla drums are such a beautiful accompanying instrument, lush and resplendent and yet so soft and elegant that even when they are played hard, they cannot offend the ear. Sarasvati's fingers fly over the tabla and banyan, wrists flexing and her body moving over the rounded metal drum and narrower wooden one as if she were trying to dance with them. Her hands move too fast to tell accurately what she is doing to create such a plethora of sounds ... but all of this is expected for a master tabla musician. Her concentration is upon the music now, the dinner guests nearly forgotten ... and as such she does not notice the poor girl's collapse.
Smoothly, Zahrah turns to speak with adroit gentleness to Leila. "How are you finding Haven, Imphada? I was overwhelmed when I arrived not long a..." She's studying the girl's eyes by happenstance, noting the similarity to Sumai's, when the girl slumps and then begins to topple. "Catch her!," she commands the servants on the other side of the table, and with any luck they will before the warlord's sister sustains a bump on the head or any further loss of dignity by falling forward into her food.
Absently, as he continues to even focus his attention on Zahrah Sumai's hand whips out in a blur. Capturing the back of his smaller, younger sister's sari and choli to hold her aloft effortlessly. Looking slowly over to her for a moment he examines her with a thoughtful expression before explaining, "She has been ill, the poisoning at the festival." the deep basso rumble comments without emotive essence involved. Looking to an older woman, mongrel clearly, he bobs his head. "Take the Imphada to her bed chamber to rest, Tuvei." Old she may be, but the mistress of the shudra is a tough old bag and claims the burden, mild as it may be, of Leila from Sumai to carry towards her a drapery clad alcove somewhere relatively nearby. "I do hope you aren't offended, Imphada." he speaks in an apologetic manner to Zahrah.
Logged and edited by Ele.