The Summons of the Qarmzi Tumtir (July 3010) - [One-Shot]
Mar 2, 2018 21:58:49 GMT -5
Post by Chief Maalik Asad on Mar 2, 2018 21:58:49 GMT -5
“What do you mean she escaped?” Rashida snapped, turning so quickly from her vanity that her inky hair tumbled from the up-do she was trying to pin in place. Brown eyes flashed, and lips twitched in a snarl more suited for a wolf than the Lady of Kahf Al'asad. The rich, deep hues of purple silk poured over her tan, shapely body, and as she rose quickly from the ornate golden seat, Rashida’s skirt billowed and the sewn bells rang out in her quarters.
Kamal and Hamid exchanged tentative glances, though the oldest’s brow bent to match his mother’s dark expression. “It is what they say,” Kamal countered, tone equally as rough. “One of the Black Lands sent word in secret. It seems Amira was unhappy working the Dark Lord’s farms.”
Hamid snorted, crossing his arms. “Father has not heard,” the youngest son assured. Maalik, as far as anyone in Kahf Al’asad could tell still mourned Amira Ikraam’s disappearance as a death.
“And he will not,” Rashida grunted. She turned bending to once more peer her painted face into the looking glass. Hurriedly her hands worked, setting the pins into her hair. She had needed to dismiss her ladies when her sons wished for private council, so now the task of preparing for dinner was hers alone. Added aggravation for the evening, it seemed. “They said she would die under lash,” Rashida frothed in a hiss. “Such was too good a fate for that eahira!” That girl had tried to slip in and replace her at Maalik’s side. She had come in, a sorceress, and manipulated the man with charms—there was no other explanation. Maalik had given Amira Ikraam more attention and loyalty than anyone in Kahf Al’asad, except perhaps himself.
And those worthless mongrels she had convinced Maalik to take as heirs…as if that son of hers could ever best her own! The throne was for her bloodline, not some token prize of good faith.
“Perhaps you should have just killed her then, Mother,” Kamal reasoned. “There would have been many ways to make it look natural.” Althaelab, one of the herbs Father had planted in the green oasis about the palace, was toxic in large doses, and took much time to wash from the system. Amira, like many of the harem women, took the black-bean drink, qahua, daily. If properly prepared, athaelab was tasteless, and would have slowly worn her down until the heart in her chest died. None would have been the wiser, the healers would not have been able to help—not if Mother had offered to pay them, anyway.
“And risk your Father’s wrath?” Rashida glared. “This plan was far better for you. For you both. My sons, do you think Maalik Asad, Lion of our people would not first blame you and your brother for a strange illness upon that woman?”
Kamal’s deep eye flashed and he tilted his head faintly, the motion almost defiant. “No, I do not,” he said simply. “He would have first blamed you.”
His mother’s eyes turned to daggers and she lifted one of the trinket boxes within reach and hurled it full strength toward her son. Kamal, though, was used to his mother’s wroth, and merely ducked out of the way. The box splintered into many pieces, rings, brooches, and various beads raining down upon the floor from inside. “Watch your mouth,” Rashida warned. “I am your mother, your life giver. I work to ensure you are not forgotten! Or have you forgotten of Bahadur? Of Hala?”
At the mention of the young boy, both Kamal and Hamid growled and exchanged tired glances. That son was the reason both brothers yet lived, and each knew it. Had Bahadur not been born, Hamid and Kamal would have long ago decided who was the strongest, most suited seed of Maalik’s to ascend some day to the throne. As it was, both brothers had vowed to figure out how to dispatch the imposter first, for both knew that should one of them fall, their father was likely to help Bahadur take out the last. “We have not forgotten,” Hamid hissed. “But we wish to not sit around and rely on others to take care of our future! The orcs are mindless. Why Sauron the Great Necromancer thinks them worthy to serve…”
“Because they are fools, as you are a fool,” Rashida scoffed. She had hoped both of her sons would inherit a tactician’s mind. Kamal, though, was the closest she had born, and even he fell short. Rashida could see the brightness of the other son very plainly. Perhaps that was why she needed him, and his cur of a mother gone from these halls soon. “You cannot control those with minds, that is not how it works.”
Kamal took a few paces forward. “Well, then, Mother. Since you seem intent on doing things your way, what is your plan? Amira Ikraam has escaped the Necromancer’s lands—if she lives, she will return.”
There was a sheepish knock upon the heavy, dark wood of the chamber door, and immediately all voices stilled. Rashida cast a cool stare to the entry as if her very eyes could bore through the intricately carved door to whomever was on the other side. “Speak,” Rashida ordered, voice far colder than the lands she called home.
“My lady, the Chief demands to know where you are,” a small, timid voice came from the hallway. It was one of Rashida’s handmaids, and the lady clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes.
“He can wait a while longer,” the woman purred. “Go tell him I said so.”
There was a squeak from the other side of the door as the young girl swallowed. Kamal and Hamid listened to the rustle of fabric as the girl curtsied even away from sight, and listened to her utter an, “as you wish” before her footsteps skittered off down the hall.
“You know, Mother,” Kamal said, his voice as thick and succulent as the qahua drink of Near Harad. “If you were sweeter, Father might not spurn you.”
“Or us,” Hamid grumbled in agreement.
Rashida’s eyes flashed. “Well. I had little choice today. My fools of sons came with news and demanded a solution. I have thought of one, but we cannot speak of this before your father,” the woman hissed, her voice like a viper. “Now. Do you want to know, or not?”
Kamal shifted, and though he was not sure why, he tilted his head in interest. “Please. Enlighten us.”
“Rumor long ago reached our court of a man that spread death, though he himself could not be touched by it,” Rashida hummed. “He works mostly in the west, though for the right price, he shall lend anyone his blade.”
“The Qarmzi Tumtir?” Kamal asked, brow raising incredulously. Hamid himself scoffed.
“Mother, that is folly,” Hamid said. “It is unwise to ask a bringer of red rain to—”
“Do you want that cur crawling back in here?” Rashida snapped. She could see from both of her son’s faces they did not. Knowing she had won, she straightened her shoulders and reached for her beaded veil to lay upon her head. “Then find men loyal to us and our cause. Men of my father’s house, perhaps. Send them in search of the Qarmzi Tumtir. We shall send six men into the west, if we can, each with a letter in contract. They will find him, for it is said that he hears all who need him.”
She took one last glance into the mirror, as if double checking she was presentable for Maalik’s dinner feast. Satsified, she began a sweep for the door. “I will write the contract after my duties tonight,” Rashida said, setting hand upon the doorknob. “If he is good, if he is discreet, perhaps I will hire him to do what you cowards cannot. Bahadur and Hala have no business parading around our halls. And we should take care of it.”
Kamal shifted his weight uneasily, casting a glance toward his brother nervously. Hamad was the one who nodded. “It will be done, Mother,” he observed.
“And that is the least foolish thing you have said all evening,” Rashida snorted. And with that, disappeared down the corridor toward the feasting hall.
Kamal and Hamid exchanged tentative glances, though the oldest’s brow bent to match his mother’s dark expression. “It is what they say,” Kamal countered, tone equally as rough. “One of the Black Lands sent word in secret. It seems Amira was unhappy working the Dark Lord’s farms.”
Hamid snorted, crossing his arms. “Father has not heard,” the youngest son assured. Maalik, as far as anyone in Kahf Al’asad could tell still mourned Amira Ikraam’s disappearance as a death.
“And he will not,” Rashida grunted. She turned bending to once more peer her painted face into the looking glass. Hurriedly her hands worked, setting the pins into her hair. She had needed to dismiss her ladies when her sons wished for private council, so now the task of preparing for dinner was hers alone. Added aggravation for the evening, it seemed. “They said she would die under lash,” Rashida frothed in a hiss. “Such was too good a fate for that eahira!” That girl had tried to slip in and replace her at Maalik’s side. She had come in, a sorceress, and manipulated the man with charms—there was no other explanation. Maalik had given Amira Ikraam more attention and loyalty than anyone in Kahf Al’asad, except perhaps himself.
And those worthless mongrels she had convinced Maalik to take as heirs…as if that son of hers could ever best her own! The throne was for her bloodline, not some token prize of good faith.
“Perhaps you should have just killed her then, Mother,” Kamal reasoned. “There would have been many ways to make it look natural.” Althaelab, one of the herbs Father had planted in the green oasis about the palace, was toxic in large doses, and took much time to wash from the system. Amira, like many of the harem women, took the black-bean drink, qahua, daily. If properly prepared, athaelab was tasteless, and would have slowly worn her down until the heart in her chest died. None would have been the wiser, the healers would not have been able to help—not if Mother had offered to pay them, anyway.
“And risk your Father’s wrath?” Rashida glared. “This plan was far better for you. For you both. My sons, do you think Maalik Asad, Lion of our people would not first blame you and your brother for a strange illness upon that woman?”
Kamal’s deep eye flashed and he tilted his head faintly, the motion almost defiant. “No, I do not,” he said simply. “He would have first blamed you.”
His mother’s eyes turned to daggers and she lifted one of the trinket boxes within reach and hurled it full strength toward her son. Kamal, though, was used to his mother’s wroth, and merely ducked out of the way. The box splintered into many pieces, rings, brooches, and various beads raining down upon the floor from inside. “Watch your mouth,” Rashida warned. “I am your mother, your life giver. I work to ensure you are not forgotten! Or have you forgotten of Bahadur? Of Hala?”
At the mention of the young boy, both Kamal and Hamid growled and exchanged tired glances. That son was the reason both brothers yet lived, and each knew it. Had Bahadur not been born, Hamid and Kamal would have long ago decided who was the strongest, most suited seed of Maalik’s to ascend some day to the throne. As it was, both brothers had vowed to figure out how to dispatch the imposter first, for both knew that should one of them fall, their father was likely to help Bahadur take out the last. “We have not forgotten,” Hamid hissed. “But we wish to not sit around and rely on others to take care of our future! The orcs are mindless. Why Sauron the Great Necromancer thinks them worthy to serve…”
“Because they are fools, as you are a fool,” Rashida scoffed. She had hoped both of her sons would inherit a tactician’s mind. Kamal, though, was the closest she had born, and even he fell short. Rashida could see the brightness of the other son very plainly. Perhaps that was why she needed him, and his cur of a mother gone from these halls soon. “You cannot control those with minds, that is not how it works.”
Kamal took a few paces forward. “Well, then, Mother. Since you seem intent on doing things your way, what is your plan? Amira Ikraam has escaped the Necromancer’s lands—if she lives, she will return.”
There was a sheepish knock upon the heavy, dark wood of the chamber door, and immediately all voices stilled. Rashida cast a cool stare to the entry as if her very eyes could bore through the intricately carved door to whomever was on the other side. “Speak,” Rashida ordered, voice far colder than the lands she called home.
“My lady, the Chief demands to know where you are,” a small, timid voice came from the hallway. It was one of Rashida’s handmaids, and the lady clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes.
“He can wait a while longer,” the woman purred. “Go tell him I said so.”
There was a squeak from the other side of the door as the young girl swallowed. Kamal and Hamid listened to the rustle of fabric as the girl curtsied even away from sight, and listened to her utter an, “as you wish” before her footsteps skittered off down the hall.
“You know, Mother,” Kamal said, his voice as thick and succulent as the qahua drink of Near Harad. “If you were sweeter, Father might not spurn you.”
“Or us,” Hamid grumbled in agreement.
Rashida’s eyes flashed. “Well. I had little choice today. My fools of sons came with news and demanded a solution. I have thought of one, but we cannot speak of this before your father,” the woman hissed, her voice like a viper. “Now. Do you want to know, or not?”
Kamal shifted, and though he was not sure why, he tilted his head in interest. “Please. Enlighten us.”
“Rumor long ago reached our court of a man that spread death, though he himself could not be touched by it,” Rashida hummed. “He works mostly in the west, though for the right price, he shall lend anyone his blade.”
“The Qarmzi Tumtir?” Kamal asked, brow raising incredulously. Hamid himself scoffed.
“Mother, that is folly,” Hamid said. “It is unwise to ask a bringer of red rain to—”
“Do you want that cur crawling back in here?” Rashida snapped. She could see from both of her son’s faces they did not. Knowing she had won, she straightened her shoulders and reached for her beaded veil to lay upon her head. “Then find men loyal to us and our cause. Men of my father’s house, perhaps. Send them in search of the Qarmzi Tumtir. We shall send six men into the west, if we can, each with a letter in contract. They will find him, for it is said that he hears all who need him.”
She took one last glance into the mirror, as if double checking she was presentable for Maalik’s dinner feast. Satsified, she began a sweep for the door. “I will write the contract after my duties tonight,” Rashida said, setting hand upon the doorknob. “If he is good, if he is discreet, perhaps I will hire him to do what you cowards cannot. Bahadur and Hala have no business parading around our halls. And we should take care of it.”
Kamal shifted his weight uneasily, casting a glance toward his brother nervously. Hamad was the one who nodded. “It will be done, Mother,” he observed.
“And that is the least foolish thing you have said all evening,” Rashida snorted. And with that, disappeared down the corridor toward the feasting hall.