Kedrik's eyes would never cease if there was even a small reason to hate. If there was anybody in Gu'ambiss who cared less about making yet another enemy, it was the Du Quam Kedrik—a three hundred and thirty-nine year old relic. An unpopular figure among the masses and even among his own court for obvious reasons—which the Sijarkes could also see clearly—Kedrik had a talent much like the Dove—which was peering into the abyss of the future; in addition to that, he also kept to himself atop his tower, deliberately hiding himself from the rest of the world.
Aside from that, he held the greatest contempt and suspicion of everybody he knew, even the Du Quam Umdochar, and so preferred the company of his thoughts and prejudices. Whatever made him like that, the Sijarkes could care less about that too—he was now staring her down like she slaughtered his prized chicken.
He clutched his shawl close to cover himself completely. The rabid look in his eye worsened. Something had dawned on him.
Yet her attention was elsewhere; it was everywhere but on him—to the servants, to the spoiled dishes which littered the glass floor, to the women servants who had gathered together to help the rest up on their feet. With one look, the helpless men bowed low before her.
How unfortunate; she had walked in on a scene of the Du Quam Kedrik preparing to unleash a punishment. The timing couldn't be that terrible.
"What is wrong with you?" the Sijarkes exclaimed indignantly. The Quam Helnah'm appeared behind her, seeing the hopelessness of the case, mouthed his apologies to Kedrik.
"I should've brought my servants with me since this is how it is in your stupid little frog cave."
Helnah'm turned away in defeat.
"Toad," Kedrik corrected, eyes bulging at her insolence. In less than a blink, he wrapped the shawl around his form, becoming nothing, only to materialize before the Sijarkes inches away from her face.
"The Margijer is a toad."
She stared back, sharpening her gaze to match his.
That's right: he was also known for this uncanny ability to disintegrate himself into nothingness and reassemble his form back into place. That was the first time the Sijarkes had witnessed such a feat. It just had to be Kedrik.
"I know that, moron. Anyways, where is she? She didn't even bother to greet me on the dock." The shame was too much to bear; she must not let it pass. There was an expectation set for the Margijer, yet there had been no greeting or formal welcome. The constancy of their cordiality would prove to be a challenge if they did not get along outright—so far, the prospects were not looking good.
The Sijarkes had every reason to make a big deal out of this.
"Do you know how embarrassing that is?"
But Kedrik—to the Sijarkes' surprise—didn't care. He turned to walk off, grimacing and muttering incomprehensible mumblings to himself.
That did not go exactly the way the Sijarkes had intended.
"Will you look at me when I'm talking to you?" The Sijarkes called out. When she received no acknowledgement, she pressed further, "Where are you going?'
He never once looked back. Not a peep, too. He went a distance, heels clicking as it tapped against the glass. Then on the pool, he traversed with ease, with faith that his abilities will hold his weight and pull from gravity itself. A dark speckle on jade, he stood on the middle of the pool, isolated upon its surface.
"Du Quam Kedrik!"
She felt the tremors again, the very same whenever the Tirkju'a had left the last time. Kedrik raised his arms. He kneeled, bending as he did so, planting his face under the surface of the eerily still waters. The Sijarkes knew that was not it. It was not still.
There was something under the pool. Or, someone.
Helnah'm tugged her robe slightly. "Domma Sijarkes, you must stand back." He yelped. "The Margijer is under the waters!"
Where else?
A large head emerged, lifting Kedrik's frail form on its pointed scalp, elevating him before the others as its large slimy figure rose, wrapped by a tangled web of dark hair. Between the strands, the Sijarkes recognized the glare—a glimpse from the past, the sort of thing she did not like so much.
"KEDRIIIIIIIIIIIIK!" the giant toad screeched, shaking the room, leaving the servants crouching to avoid spoiling the plates set atop their heads. Her emergence overflowed the pool, sending cascading waves unto the glass floor. It was only then that the Sijarkes noticed the servants had upside down bowls strapped to their feet in anticipation of such an event.
She had only her golden sandals, barely enough to keep her feet from getting soaked.
A slight movement from above. The Sijarkes looked up, only catching a glimpse of Kedrik hopping forward from where he stood, disappearing by wrapping himself completely with his shawl. She was then dragged back by the scruff of her neck, where she was thrown against a chair and seated.
She felt a invisible presence wrapping a bib around her neck. The waves clashed around her the next second, she had barely time to shut her eyes.
"What the hell!"
"Get her something to eat, dear." The Margijer commanded in a low voice, ringing like a hum that resonated throughout the pearlescent chamber.
"Yes, Domma Margijer!" Kedrik had somehow materialized behind the Sijarkes. With the Sijarkes seated with a bib, he ran off shouting orders at the servants. She didn't watch him leave though. Her mind was quite scattered due to the chaotic nature of their meeting. She was only sure of one thing, however: the Margijer looked as if she was in a rather bad mood; wasting her time any further might spoil the visit.
The Sijarkes got up, stepping forward with her hands at her hips—her usual power pose. It worked on the Dove; it won't fail her now.
"We've got things to talk about." The Sijarkes squinted.
"Talk, talk talk," The Margijer groaned, easing back into the waters. Her eyes blinked at the ceiling. She must've been sleeping before this meeting. "That's all you Dommes do. It's boring me."
Her rectangular eyes trailed down, the corners of her mouth drooping as it did so. "Oh, so you did learn to walk with those legs..."
The Sijarkes was not going to let her get away that easily. "And you? Still being carried around by your Du Quams?"
"You think you're funny," the Margijer grinned, letting her tongue out to graze the top row of her teeth of which she had almost none of—or at least those that didn't look like tiny sticks. Unnerved beyond all reason, the Sijarkes kept her face still; she thought it was exactly how the Tirkju'a might have looked if he had seen such a sight.
The Sijarkes can't believe she'd have to bear with a downgrade of a neighbor.
"You didn't bother to come down the dock and greet me! I was so embarrassed, did you know that?" the Sijarkes repeated her complaint. "I really thought we'd get along."
Normally, this would be met by the Tirkju'a's guilt-ridden words, followed by a promise of making it up for the disappointment by bringing back more gifts.
"Was I supposed to come down?"
But it seems the Margijer was built different.
"Yes! But now you've ruined it," the Sijarkes whined, trying to claw the bib off of her neck. She was not going to move in with this wretched amphibian who was in the habit of flapping her tongue like an unstrapped weenie. Upon looking at her closely, she could see that the Margijer had lighter spots near her temple and possessed a rather pretty look in her eyes, as golden as the Tirkju'a's, but rectangular and dark.
It was still irredeemable solely by the fact that she was quite literally naked under the waters. That alone invalidated every good opinion the Sijarkes had of her.
"No requests came, no orders. I'm as free as you; so quit your whinin'." The Margijer remained unbothered. She threw her head back. "KEDRIIIK!"
Kedrik pops his head out from behind a wall.
"Go on, make the Sijarkes feel welcome," she urged, then dove under the water. The ever-obedient Kedrik approached the Sijarkes, followed by a trail of servants with bowls of food atop their heads. He attempted an amiable smile. Just like his Domma, he too, had awful teeth—sharp, yellow, and resembled a dock, with ships having already departed.
Why is she even paying attention to these pointless details?
"I apologize for not having brought in food for you, Domma Sijarkes. Truly, truly." He didn't bow. He remained there with a forced smile plastered unto his face. One eyelid, which folded unnaturally, betrayed how he felt towards her.
He flicked a ringed finger, signaling the servants to set the food down, some of which were reputable Ambissan cuisines; others, of questionable origins. Secretely, the Sijarkes preferred soup—it's convenient as a drink and customizable at a whim.
Taking on the manners of a willing guest, she grabbed a spoon and tried a slice of the pomegranate dish bowl to which she knew not the name of. If she wasn't such a fan of lemons, pomegranates would be topping her list. Its qualities are more than admirable, as she read. To bear fruit, its trees must be exposed to large amounts of heat, ripening as the seasons fade into the cold winter.
But winter in Gu'ambiss was different. As she sat in the Margijer's templeside, it was the autumn season, when light rains are to be expected; not as hot as Pomegranate trees would have preferred it, but if the colder months are approaching, pomegranates are soon to blossom—just in time!
Kedrik noticed her contentment.
"I'll bring in some more that you might like." Kedrik signaled again to the servants. He was really trying his hardest to be hospitable, and the Sijarkes can at least commend him for the effort.
"If you don't mind me asking, who's paying for this?"
"Who else?" The Margijer emerged once again. "I have more money than I know what to do with. It is what it is, being a Domma." Looking at her again as she was on eye level, the Margijer looked more toad than human. Her bumps glistened. Her eyes bulged. The folds of her skin collapsed on itself under her weight.
It is in these small moments does the Sijarkes see a reflection of how she must've appeared to the humans in Katill Broiis. She had to admit: the very sight made her feel slightly better about herself. At least she didn't have to go through life with bumps all around—she had scales for that; disadvantage being that they dried up easily and had to be moistened with oils from time to time. Still, she'd rather go through the inconvenience of maintaining it than have to live with the Margijer's features.
The Margijer must not hear of these thoughts.
But to be fair, long, black silky hair would have been much preferable than her own seaweed-esque kinky hair. For the longest time, she'd felt ashamed of it. Every day since then she had a wig of horsehair fixed to conceal that part of her biology.
The Margijer mustn't know of that either.