Bringer of the Red Rains (September 3010) - [Celebros]
Mar 6, 2018 10:03:33 GMT -5
Post by Chief Maalik Asad on Mar 6, 2018 10:03:33 GMT -5
The lands of Kahf Al'asad were many weeks behind, though the purpose and fire that had sent Murad to the west was still fresh within his mind, planted in deep soils by Rashida herself. His father’s sister had been very specific on what she expected of him, and the price for failure should he return to their desert lands with his men without that which she needed. Kamal and Hamid had leered behind, looking upon Murad—a man of blood shared—as if he were little different than the orc that now frequented their lands.
A letter he had been given, and instruction. He was to find the Qarmzi Tumtir, the bringer of the red rain, deliver the contract and ensure his hire before returning home. Murad hoped he was the one to find the famous assassin, for indeed the moment the first ship had dropped them in Linhir, the small Gondorian trading settlement the Haradric traders often berthed in first, the other five of his party had split into the winds, leaving Murad to carry on the port’s trade route. If the other men found the deathbringer, he would never know. He would be afraid to return home, and continue forging west until every land was covered by his own footprints.
It had been about two months since he had left his home port; his wife had surely born their child by now, and he did not wish to spend years away from what his heart told him would be their first son. And yet, if he returned empty handed, he, his wife, and that baby were going to be killed under charge of treason. Chief Maalik did not care for Rashida’s blood; he would not look into the charges himself, he knew. Murad, perhaps, understood. Rashida was a plague upon her house, willing to trample her own kin like a stampede of charging mumak. If she was mad enough to eat away at her own kin, then Maalik likely thought such thing a blessing. It was less he had to deal with, and cleared the way for a smoother transition to the young prince, the one many called the Lion Cub, to take his throne.
Even Murad wished Bahadur to ascend. Kamal and Hamid were no better than their mother, and after this—well, his loyalty was swayed. Murad was only there, upon the docks of Dol Amroth because he wished his wife and son safe. If he found the assassin, and ever he could return, perhaps he would look into leaving the desert lands to escape his aunt’s reach. Surely his young wife would not protest, even if it meant leaving the rest of her family behind. Any could see that Kahf Al’asad was becoming unsafe for those who once thought themselves comfortable. He had heard that Tolfalas was a land of freedom, a place where one could find help if it was needed. Perhaps…
But first, he needed to be able to return home to his wife and their child.
A tan hand pressed against the pocket of his tunic, feeling the folded letter beneath with a frown. Amira Ikraam lived. It was strange to have mourned a woman for many a year only to find she had never been dead at all. Trapped in Mordor, meant to die under lash—those were the things that Rashida had growled to him. If Maalik knew…
Murad wondered if perhaps instead of going in search for the bringer of the crimson rain if he should have gone to the Chief, perhaps shown him the contract, given him what he had in information and bought goodwill with the Lion himself.
But they had threatened his wife. Their baby.
Rashida did not deserve the power she had.
Dol Amroth. A land of many pale faces, from cliff to man. The stone was gleaming whitish-grey along the harbor, the calls of gulls laughing overhead drawing his eye upward to the bright blue sky. Before noon. He would have time even this day to do a search, to see if he could catch wind of the way the deathless one had gone.
Murad had gotten relatively sound in finding the seediest looking individual upon the docks. There was a man by a cart, blue eyes, pale skin, and black hair speaking to a woman who looked as if she worked the shadows of the night. He, perhaps, would know where one would do business of his ilk, and if the Qarmzi Tumtir had passed this way. The fair-skinned man pressed a box of vials into the woman’s hand who gave a smile in return, passing hungry eyes over Murad himself before whisking off to find a better home among the shadows. “Fair winds, traveller,” the black haired man greeted with a smile. The lilt of Dol Amroth was strange, almost musical, and not in the way Murad was used to.
There was something venomous about the motion, as if the vendor was like the asp of his homeland. Pretty to see, but deadly to meet. “And to you,” Murad exchanged, his own tone of velvet. “I look for someone specific in these lands, and I pray he is here. Or has been recently.”
That had made the Belfalathrim’s eyes sparkle. Perhaps he sensed the shadow of the purpose, perhaps he lived on things such as these. “I know any who pass through these parts,” the man answered. “Who do you seek?”
“I need one who can bring a red storm,” Murad drawled. It was, he had found, the best way to find what he sought. “Do you know where someone like this might be?”
The man raised his brow. “Ah. That is quite a need, my lord,” the cart-man answered in kind. Business like that is often done from the pub there on the corner. My suggestion is to start there.”
“Many thanks,” Murad sighed. It was apparent, at least to him that none here would be able to help, though perhaps he should see if the pub itself had more information for where the Qarmzi Tumtir now dwelt. Any information was more valuable than gold to him now, for indeed he needed such success.
The pub was but a short walk, and he reached the doorway easily. The bustle of the docks was not so thick about the entry, though the sound carried well enough to hide the most plain of conversations inside. It was a dark room, the light from the windows somehow seemed dim, and Murad blinked to adjust his eyes. There were a few spotted patrons, though most looked of a rough ilk that came from the seas. Murad wondered why the Qarmzi Tumtir would have ever passed through a place like this, though perhaps business was done wherever the shadows were thickest.
He moved to the bar, catching the eye of the man behind the counter. “A wine, blood red,” he ordered, stressing the word to act as banner for his purpose. The barman nodded and turned, reaching for a long stemmed wine glass, and Murad’s eyes once more swept over the small room, praying someone caught his true desire.