Nasrudin\'s dream

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:

Dawn on Hevensday, Day 22 of June.

Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 16:08:03 MDT on Thu Mar 19 2009.

Dark Citadel - Central Chamber

The worship area is very dark and cast in dim shades of red and black. It is difficult to see far in this place, and what can be seen is made possible only by the glowing red light emitting from a deep and menacing pit, and small clusters of candles throughout the cavernous temple.

The ceiling above must be several hundred feet high at its peak. While standing still, the sounds of bats above can faintly be heard. Through the flickering, several protrusions from the walls can barely be made out. They may be balconies of some sort, but then again, there is no way to tell for sure.

The floor is of deepest black marble, covered in some places by a thick, plush red carpet to form aisles leading to the glow of the pit. Near the pit, the faint outline of what must be an altar can be seen.

Contents:

Glowing Pit

Oak Chest

Obvious exits:

Antechamber , Library , Priest\'s Alcove , and Out

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

At this point in time, the citadel is virtually empty, save a low-ranking priestess who busies herself in lighting countless candles arrayed hither and thither throughout the chamber, and a portley old man prostrated on the ground. He is Nasrudin, perhaps in prayer.

Quiet the chamber may be - there is something about that near-invisible ceiling that stifles speech - but the prostrate supplicant is not to have it to himself for long. The squeak of the door heralds a new arrival, a thin brown youth, his dark eyes darting warily this way and that round the chamber. His hands are empty, but a single grey feather that clings to the skirt of his outer robe is testament to the offering he has brought this day.

At the sight of the priestess his head bows, and quick steps take him toward the central firepit.

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

Nasrudin remains entirely motionless. In fact, faint snoring can be heard from his proximity.

Faced with the baleful glow of flickering orange-red, the youth halts some paces away from the firepit, dropping to his knees. His two hands clasp together so tightly that the knuckles whiten, and beads of sweat form on his brow as his lips move soundlessly in some prayer or other.

And then comes the thread of sound. The youth\'s lips stop moving, and he darts a quick glance in the direction of the nearby Nasrudin, not quite daring to lift his head lest the priestess be watching. Briefly, something flickers over his features that might be a smirk.

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

On a sudden the old fellow startles awake with a snort and a grunt. Achily he sits up and scratches his buttocks. Yawning widely he he sleepily looks around, it seems unaware of his location.

A little longer the thin youth continues his supplication, soundless speech falling from parched lips. His adam\'s apple bobbing nervously up and down when he swallows.

And then it is done. At the sight of Nasrudin sitting up he lets out a small sound that has the ring of disappointment to it, but still he moves in that direction. Dry lips part to emit a hissing whisper. \"I see you honour the Eye with your vigilance.\" The vaulted ceiling carries the words upward into darkness like tiny fluttering moths.

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

\"Hmm?\" Nasrudin mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles and yawning again. \"The only quiet place in the city, and you must come and ruin it!\" The old man stands and stretches thorougly. \"Vigilance,\" he repeats with a snort, \"and honor. I suppose you know better of these things than I do?\"

The youth glances nervously toward the priestess busy at her candle-lighting far across the room. \"No.\" The words are a rustling hiss. \"But I know more of faith. You dishonour the Eye with your lack of attention. His chamber is no lodging-house - save for those who will never leave it. Wish you to be such?\" Unbidden, his gaze slips away from the portly man and toward the baleful glow of the firepit.

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

\"Are you a new prophet of the Eye, young one? I will be sure to explain to the High Priests that they should feel free to abandon their places and find new vocations, now that you are here to speak the final authoritative word!\" Nasrudin wags a finger in Barzhil\'s face before adding, \"It so happens that I was praying in my sleep, inviting the Lord to speak to me in dreams, where I am less distracted by external influences, such as urchins of your likeness!\"

Impatiently the youth shakes his head, the motion slow and blurry in the dim light. \"No. Perhaps one day, if the Eye wills, I shall be a student.\" His gaze remains on the firepit for perhaps a dozen heartbeats before he tears it away. When he speaks again, the words are softer, weaker. Moths? Nay, little more than jittery mosquitoes. \"For now, I am but a /loyal/,\" emphasis is placed on that word, \"scribe and scholar.\"

His lips clamp shut, and for a moment it seems that Nasrudin will achieve his desire and be left in peace. But then the thin youth murmurs, \"And did the- the Lord .. speak to you in dreams?\"

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

\"As a matter of fact, he did,\" replies Nasrudin in a tone marked by the highest possible degree of solemnity. He pauses then continues hesitantly, \"I am not sure that you are of a quality of being worthy of hearing it, although it so happens that my vision included a scribe.\"

Narrow brows lift at that - the youth glances quickly away from Nasrudin, though this time not toward the firepit. A couple of breaths of staring at the pinpricks of light from a cluster of candles, and then he offers neutrally, \"Perhaps it is meant that you speak of it.\" No more encouragement than that is given.

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

\"Very well, I am not one to discount coincidence, but be warned, it is not good news.\" Nasrudin hesitates for a moment, and then begins to tell his tale. \"My vision was in pertinence to profanation, of a very precise sort that I hitherto had not considered. You see, our Lord despises those who initiate themselves into his ways, learn the ins and outs of his powers, and proclaim him in every outward manner, but then,\" he pauses, \"when they chance to benefit themselves, in one way or another, they deliberately pervert their words and writings, in spite of knowing full well the truth of our Lord and his power, in such a way as to purposefully misguide those who are still searching for his truth.\" Another pause, and he adds menacingly, \"It is for this reason that the shortest path to hell is a trail of the penman\'s ink!\"

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

If the scribe is observant, he might discern that Nasrudin has more to tell.

The scribe is not observant - or rather, at this moment he is not observing. His gaze has once again shifted to a point slightly to the left of the portly man ostensibly he is looking at a trio of guttering candles. The corners of the scribe\'s mouth are twisting a little.

Eventually he responds in a hollow whisper, dry as a wind-bent reed. \"The Eye is all-seeing. I do not imagine that any can pervert His words without His knowledge. Why, do they not say that he smites the false-sayer down? Some have found their hearts stopped, while at their prayers in this very chamber!\" A pause. \"So. The Lord of Might sent dreams to warn you of false prophecy. Was that all?\"

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

\"Well, you overlook the fact that the Eye uses us to his full purpose - even those who have turned against him cannot escape the Lord\'s omnipotence, for all things in existence have their uttermost source in him. Therefore, while he could certainly strike down any such false prophet, it may also be that he intends to use that very false prophet as a test to his other followers and determine whether or not they will guard him jealously and piously, or whether they will allow his dictum to be dragged through dung. Do you understand? I hope you do, because I saw your face in my dream.\"

The faintest of furrows appears on the youth\'s smooth brow, as though he were indeed weighing the words. \"And you would be-?\" he prompts, without answering the man\'s question.

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

\"A grain of sand among thousands of beaches on thousands of worlds,\" Nasrudin replies. \"And you?\"

The youth considers that. \"A sharp blade, honed to serve its Master\'s hand. Do they not say the pen is mightier than the sword?\" He pulls his gaze away from the candles and toward Nasrudin his head remains loftily high.

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

\"It is interesting that you mention a sword, for that had a place in my vision also, because, as you will no doubt learn the legitimacy of one way or another in due time, your young face was on a disembodied head impaled upon the end of a sword.\" Nasrudin looks to the young scribe with an expression of deep sadness.

The youth\'s thin lips purse. \"A most ..interesting.. vision,\" he remarks, seemingly unshaken by the foretold doom (one might, however, notice a new sheen of sweat on his brow. Of course, in this oppressive chamber the heat is stifling. \"Perhaps the meaning is that my tongue is sharp as any sword-blade.\" Dark eyes lower a fraction to regard Nasrudin.

At this hour the temple is still quiet, though no doubt that will change. At the far side of the chamber, a lone priestess is busy relighting the candles that some unfelt breath of wind has stilled, or some unseen hand snuffed. Her task would seem to be endless.

[Nasrudin(#22125)]

The old man shrugs, \"That could be. It may also be that you will be martyred at the hands of some unfaithful usurper, or, that you are in fact a usurper yourself and cannot ascertain that fact. But pardon me, I am not entitled to interpret, I can only relay what I have seen.\" After a moment, he continues, \"Though it may make more sense to you, now or in the due coarse of time.\" Nasrudin watches the scribes reactions with careful attention.

[Jugartha(#19019)]

Stepping into the Citadel like he owns the place, even more steel now migrating from beneath his desert robes to the outside, resembling more and more like the armor of a soldier of Umbar. Jugartha strides eight paces into the temple, drops to one knee, bars his right arm and carefully inserts a metal plug into his mouth, creating a shield like shape around his lips as he stabs a thin needle into his elbow, drawing blood to drip upon the floor and carefully daubing at it he paints three dots on each cheek pieceof his gag. He doesn\'t seem to notice or even pay attention to the other denizens of this holy place as his head bows in prayer.

The scribe\'s reactions are hard to judge. Something flickers across his features - whether pride, fear or disdain it his hard to say. \"Perhaps.\" Then he shrugs. \"What will be will be. Are we not all His instruments?\" With that he turns away.

His steps take him no nearer to the firepit, but when he passes it he pauses, his knees bending and his head bowing. For perhaps a dozen heartbeats he stands in silent repose. Then Barzhil the merchant\'s son, erstwhile scribe and perhaps some day student of the Eye, turns on his heel and slips swiftly on his way, passing the praying Jugartha without pause. To decry false prophets? To pen wily writs to test the Faithful? Who can say.