The temple due far east rose with the blazing glory of a celestial mountain. Its tiered ornate, monumental tower pierced the sky with splendor. Each level was adorned with a myriad of carvings and the tapestry of gods, demons and celestial beings locked in eternal dance and battle. The sanctum's stone walls etched with intricate reliefs of mythological tales pulsated with life, their minute details so vivid it felt as though the divinity was captured within the stone. Columns carved with twisting vines, lotus motifs and sacred symbols seemed to grow organically and reached upward in homage to the heavens.
Above was the temple's mountainous peak crowned with a golden, rounded pinnacle – and it gleamed in the sunlight like a beacon of divine presence. The temple's symmetry mirrored cosmic order with its vast courtyard reflected under the exposed heavens. The air carried the faint fragrance of sandalwood as a fitting aroma married with the rhythmic chimes of bells as flickering oil lamps casted shadows that danced across the ageless stone.
Amidst this architectural testament to spiritual and artistic genius sat a lone figure cross-legged on a woven mat, draped in vibrant fabrics that were truly a stunning contrast to his melanated skin. He drank from a small cup 'Roopsvatu Apai'. It meant "bittersweet tea" and it was made with a pinkish flower, a soft shade of violet gently brushed against it as a unique tint. By boiling it in water and only removing the petals when the boiled water had adapted the tint of the flower, were it put aside to let it cool in order to once again boil the water with additional petals. This process was to be repeated exactly five consecutive times; which as one would expect, resulted in a very brightly colored and strong tea with a unique taste and perfuming aroma. The mixture was left to cool as per custom and could easily serve a family of eight fivefold if just one liter of it were made. When cooled, a small amount, roughly one-fourth to one-fifth of the cup's volume, was poured and diluted into a lesser powerful beverage with warm milk.
"I prefer goat milk for my tea" whispered the figure underneath his breath, disappointment to be found in his tone of voice. The silence of solitude was all that replied. His coal-black hair rippled like ocean waves and framed a handsome face that spoke of beauty and melancholy in equal measure. His sugar-tinted eyes glittered in the sunlight, but the light could not conceal the weariness etched into his expression. The silence of the temple was once comforting, but now it felt like a cage. He let out a low, wistful sigh. His face said plenty without the use of words. He was a man with a dying passion locked in what seemed an endless repetition of a mundane existence. He craved a variable in his life, uniqueness and uncertainty to his predictable outcomes.
"....this...is a bore..." wailed the figure, nihilistic depression radiating from his frame as if his body could melt from the boredom into an oozing pool. He slumped against the mat and his vibrant robes pooled around him like spilled paint. "Do adventurous people not exist anymore – is that it!?"
No answer came save for the whisper of the wind through the temple's columns. The robed man straightened himself and a slow frown spread across his face. The dread washed away and it were replaced by a glimmer of dissatisfaction. This figure, whom was known by name as Aztaij Sharif Saeed, rose like a mountainous pillar from the woven mat and paced gently. The soles of his bare feet kissed the cold stone and with each rhythmic step his sweeping robe whispered in a silent hush against the floor. Portrayed on the enclosed corridor walls as pictured tales of legend and glory, hammered by nail and steel, was his triumphant victories.
"I have traveled all across the Parashumara continent" he thought to himself, not a single glare he threw over his shoulder in appreciation to the marvelous epics of his depicted victories. "I have conquered every tomb in these lands..., every labyrinth..., every dungeon", his paced aimlessly beneath the arched ceilings supported by stone columns aligned in equal intervals. "...but what of those lands?". His sugar-tinted eyes gleaming in the glow of the sun as the lonely pair stood watch in solitude to a migrating flock of birds, free as the wind, due west. "What of the land at the edge of the world...?", the birds distanced themselves evermore in their voyage to the far west and the reigning sun had soon swallowed them in its glow.
A vast, twenty-four-foot dining table stood in solemn stillness at the center of the dining hall stationed at the end of the corridor. Its polished mahogany surface gleamed like dark glass, reflecting the flicker of torches mounted along the walls. Throne-like chairs loomed at either end, their high backs carved with intricate designs that caught the dancing firelight. Four brass candle holders stood evenly spaced along the length of the table and cradled red wax candles that bled slowly as they burned. Their pleasant aroma mingled faintly with the scent of polished wood and dry aged stone. Straw-braided baskets overflowed with fruit. Their vibrant colors were muted in the dimness of the light while clay flasks of wine and glimmering sets of silverware shimmered like starlight on the mahogany surface. Towering red curtains lined the stone walls. Each mounting curtain's theatrical folds reached nearly to the ceiling, most of which denied the sun's passage and thus casted the hall in shadows. But the central pair had been drawn aside and allowed a single, sharp shaft of daylight to pierce the darkness. It fell across the table like a divine spotlight and illuminated both the feast's splendor and the emptiness that surrounded it. The torches fixed to the walls crackled softly. Their light threw countless restless shadows across the walls. The air was heavy with silence, soon chased away by the steps of Aztaij.
His feet had grown accustomed to the cold of the stone and led him to his seat. He slummed onto the table and breathed a heavy sigh against the mahogany surface, ".... I'm lonely".
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The lighting in Nils' room was dim, casted only by six candles fixed to the rim of a wooden wheel suspended by chains from the ceiling. Their flickering candlelight danced against the blue soft-fabric curtains that concealed the window and muffled the chill of the whistling winter air that seeped through its cracks. A large woven mat sprawled across the cold stone floor of which its edges were pinned beneath the sturdy wooden legs of the bed. The bed itself was neatly made. Draped with a simple cotton blanket. Across from the bed, near the door of the room, stood a small rounded table covered in a blue cloth. It held a single candleholder, a tiny wooden chest no longer than seven inches and a pot of ink partially dried with a swan feather quill left abandoned in its depths. Beside the table was a modest wooden stool, its surface worn smooth by years of use.
Next to the bed stood a wooden cabinet. Its shelves were lined mostly with books, though one corner to its left held an empty cup faintly scented with citrus tea and above it rested a framed painting of a draconic figure with its wings spread in angelic flight. The room was neither cramped nor spacious, but rather just enough to provide comfort without indulgence. The air lingered damp and cool as a faint chill crept in despite the curtain pushing back against the breeze. Yet the warmth of the candles battled it steadily, their heat slowly filling the space with a subtle and transient coziness.
This was the room of Nils Fehrenbach. A quiet, unassuming sanctuary Koshikawa took notice of as he explored it. A sanctuary that whispered of its occupant's habits, interests, and solitude of which he knew none.
The last time Koshikawa spoke with Gertrude her words had been clear and unyielding. Any further harm to what she believed was her older brother Nils would not be tolerated. She forbade him from so much as peeking out a window, from stepping beyond the house and even from pulling open the curtains of his room. Koshikawa had agreed without protest to those terms. He reasoned it was safer this way, letting his attacker believe Nils was dead. Yet, as he stood before the wooden cabinet, a gnawing shame and heavy guilt churned within him. Nils had sacrificed himself for his sister. He had willingly becoming a target to shield her. Koshikawa wondered if Nils would have accepted these terms, remaining a prisoner while Gertrude carried on with her life. He wondered if he could have endured the thought of the enemy coming for her next. Koshikawa doubted it for good reason. But his choice wasn't Nils'. Despite the fragmented memories he had inherited from Nils Fehrenbach, Koshikawa felt no particular attachment to Gertrude as his actual half-sister. Worse, those fragmented memories painted a vague, but cruel picture of this world's harsh reality; and that was that humans were weak. If magic was to be considered electricity, humans were poor conductors. Elves, vampires, dragons, angels and beings of all kinds wielded spellcraft with far greater ease and power. Against such opponents a human had little hope of triumph.
"Nils knew about this" Koshikawa thought bitterly. Yet he had ignored it entirely for the sake of his sister. Koshikawa sank onto the bed and the wooden frame creaked softly in response as the mattress caught his fall. He lay back and settled his gaze on the dim, flickering shadows that danced along the ceiling. His thoughts drifted. His mind wandered through alien emotions.
"...Is it really that nice..." he murmured, barely hearing his own voice over his breath. He paused mid-thought, the words caught in his throat, "...Having a sister?"
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the candle flames.
It had been a whole day that Koshikawa Masafumi arrived in this bold, strange new world and in but a day's time of his stay he came to a bitter conclusion; "I should leave this place and go back home quickly!". But determination meant not the lack of obstacles, the most opposing of which was his inability to return. "Damn it" he shouted angrily and in response a sudden metallic hum tuned like a song without melody, beckoning for his attention. It came from within the wooden chest on the table that glowed a beet red ominous light from the waverthin gab that split the chest in trunk and lid. Koshikawa, with discreet caution, approached the chest and gently opened it to inspect it's contents. Within was dust, its texture coarser than powder - more crystalized, like sand. Then, like a thunderclap in a clear sky, the air shifted. The dust and grains of sand swirled into a whirlwind, coalescing into a humanoid shape. That very same crackling hum filled the space and the figure solidified, its body shimmering with a strange and almost otherworldly energy.
"What... ? What is this!?" the Koshikawa demanded, his steps retreating as he gazed in fearful awe.
The newly conjured figure had not manifested in Nils' quarters, but rather in the dining hall on the opposite end of the table. It was Koshikawa, his mind and presence projected as an ethereal shape composed of sand. From the opposing edge called out a stoic voice and it demanded, "Who are you?"