QADIRA

“We stand on the edge of civilization, precarious, fragile, and under constant threat from the enemy. That Qadira has never fallen to this enemy should not be taken as a guarantee that we cannot be defeated, for the warmongers of Avistan and Garund are plentiful. Without constant guard they will seek to take from us that which makes us great. Our riches. Our culture. Our history. To not strike first is to invite defeat, yet to strike first is to embrace war. Neither is the better choice. Neither is the right choice. But to make no choice is the worst option of all.”

—Ghadir al-Gohar, archery trainer at Omash

To understand Qadira, one must understand its dual identity as a bridge between two very different cultures. Qadira is an Inner Sea nation, fully engaged with the regional politics and history, as well as shaped by its disasters, climate, and social struggles. It also forms a part of the Padishah Empire of Kelesh, an ancient and powerful empire—wealthy beyond the imaginings of most Inner Sea nations—with priorities and beliefs that are alien to the average denizen of the Inner Sea region. Qadira anchors the westernmost end of the Golden Path, the primary Keleshite trade route that spans the massive continent of Casmaron. As such, it is of vital importance to Kelesh. More riches cross Qadira’s borders in a week than most Avistani nations have ever held in their coffers. Yet while Qadiran cities like Katheer appear luxurious by Inner Sea standards, most of that wealth does not remain in Qadira. It is a common saying among disgruntled Qadirans that Qadira makes do with glass while the rest of Kelesh drowns in diamonds.

In the eyes of Kelesh, Qadira remains something of a frontier region, even after millennia of existence. Keleshites see Avistani cultures as primitive and bloodthirsty, but no satrapy is more acutely aware of the danger they pose than Qadira. Stranded at the edge of the empire, sharing a border with avaricious and often hostile Avistani, and separated from its nearest imperial neighbors by a harsh desert that prevents easy travel, Qadira believes that its existence hangs by a thread.

As the westernmost satrapy of Kelesh, Qadira provides a potent reminder of the strength of one of Golarion’s most powerful empires. Though Qadirans have long been at odds with neighbors who fear them and mutter jealously over Qadira’s riches and culture, the region is not the death trap her enemies spread rumors about. Yet visitors should remember a few key points during their stay in the so-called Gateway to the East. The tips outlined below are taught to new Pathfinders before undertaking missions to Qadira, but any adventurer would do well to take these lessons to heart.

Listen carefully. Qadirans are a silver-tongued lot, likely to bewitch an unwary listener. If conversation is an art form for Keleshites, then haggling is a spectator sport. As skillful with words as they are with blades, Qadirans can often do even more damage with the former. They speak Taldane as well as you do—probably better—and your Kelish isn’t as good as you think it is, so learn to listen more than you talk.

Family comes first. If you ask a Qadiran how she is, she’ll answer with how her family fares. So when you talk to a Qadiran colleague, remember you’re not just dealing with an individual. She speaks for herself and her interests, but she also represents her family, tribe, and empire. Keep that in mind when negotiating. Similarly, Qadirans show intense curiosity about the families of foreigners. Tell them your mother’s name and give them a tale or two about your most eccentric relative, and they’ll warm right up to you.

Don’t expect straight answers. Keleshites know that information is power, and they like to answer questions with questions. You can sit in a Katheerite bazaar for an hour or more before you hear a single declarative statement. It can unsettle visitors at first, but once you become accustomed to it, you’ll realize that the answer is usually contained in the responding question.

Find a patron as quickly as possible. Qadiran society comprises a dense tapestry of family and business ties, tribal affiliations, and religious allegiances. These relationships rival the hypnotic patterns on their carpets for complexity. Almost everyone requires a patron or patron family. As a foreigner, you’ll need a patron to conduct even the most basic business in Qadira, let alone gain an audience with anyone of importance.

Register as a foreigner as soon as you arrive. Foreigners enjoy some basic protections so long as they register immediately upon entering the country. If you fail to do so, don’t expect help from the authorities when you’re robbed. And absolutely never pretend to be a citizen. Citizenship in the Padishah Empire of Kelesh comes with a host of privileges and protections, and Keleshites guard that status fiercely.

Don’t start fights you can’t finish. Every Qadiran serves a mandatory 2 years in the military, and even of those in noncombat roles still get basic weapons training. If you can win a fight—preferably without killing anyone!—you’ll earn back the respect you lost for starting it; if you lose, however, you’ll find yourself a laughingstock.

Don’t start religious battles. Kelesh is enormously tolerant of other religions, but the Sarenite faith is the empire’s official religion, and Keleshites expect everyone walking their streets to respect that. They won’t try to convert you unless you show interest in the faith, but if you hold negative opinions about the Dawnflower, keep them to yourself.

Be a gracious guest. Keleshites see hospitality as a sacred obligation, and those who observe the old ways even keep a special room in their homes for greeting guests and offering them ritual food and drink.

Have a gift handy. It doesn’t need to cost much, but try to choose an unusual present your hosts can’t easily obtain. Distinctive crafts from your homeland tend to please, especially if they come with a story.

Don’t approach a noble unless you have an introduction. If you want to talk to a noble, you’ll have to work your way up a chain of patronage. This holds especially true if you want an audience with a member of the imperial family. The house guards can be rough with those who presume upon their master’s time without an introduction.

The Qadira of today is a thriving Inner Sea nation through which much of the world’s wealth passes. Though Qadirans still believe Taldor plans to wipe them out as soon as it can rebuild its armies, the Gateway to the East is in the midst of one of the most stable periods in its history. The Taldan and Qadiran governments have signed a peace treaty and are attempting to repair their relationship, trade routes are secure, and the Cult of the Dawnflower has largely ceased its calls for invasion of Taldor. Yet this newfound stability is fragile: the succession in Kelesh threatens to ignite unrest in Qadira, strange and dangerous things stray out of the deserts, the Dawnflower Cult and the mainline church still compete for the hearts of Sarenites in many cities, and raiders prey on travelers in the Plains of Paresh and other deserted regions. Qadiran culture struggles to define itself, caught between the practices and attitudes of its Inner Sea neighbors and those of its parent empire.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:27, Tue 30 June 2020.

DIMAYEN

At just over a century old, Dimayen is one of Qadira’s youngest settlements and its latest attempt to recolonize the endless Meraz Desert that renders so much of the satrap’s land useless. When the nomadic Whitewater clan discovered a spring among the rolling dunes, the standing vizier granted the family exclusive dominion over its waters, so long as its resources went into transforming the oasis into a viable community.

To the Whitewaters’ credit, their first few decades were both well intentioned and lucrative—they sold the spring’s water to farmers for a reasonable price and invested their growing profits into an ever-expanding irrigation project to connect the community with the distant Meraz River. But with each subsequent generation born into greater wealth, the family’s concern for the community waned. When her ancestor’s irrigation canal collapsed nearly a decade ago, matriarch Tianka Whitewater responded by raising the price of her family’s spring water.

Once a promising boom town, Dimayen is now caught in a vicious cycle as desperate farmers, unable to afford to water their crops, flee to greener pastures, followed by many of the town’s merchants and traders. The price of food and other necessities has risen sharply as a result. Half of Dimayen’s buildings stand empty; the desert has crept in to reclaim once-thriving fields, while large desert predators such as ankhegs have begun preying on the last floundering farms. Dimayen’s remaining residents are a bizarre collection of stubborn farmers, the wealthy elite, scavengers exploiting whatever gets abandoned, and a constantly rotating transient population of traveling caravans, merchants, and mercenaries who rely on the spring’s waters to see them across the Meraz.

Sharing exaggerated tales of the town’s lost glories is a popular pastime, and nearly all residents have stories of the wonders of their youths or schemes to restore lost comforts. Most of these plots revolve around repairing the irrigation channels, but to date all engineering solutions have fallen flat, thanks to both ankheg attacks and a seemingly supernatural streak of bad luck.

---

Your group approached the small farming community with its local oasis deep in the Meraz Desert after you have heard that the recent strange occurrences in the southern desert have their origin somewhere near Dimayen. Maybe Sayid Aaban of the Fabled and Forgotten bookstore could be of help, or the Sarenite priest Arakor Shonar, who runs the Shrine of Overflowing Joys could provide some assistance.

On your way through the desert you have already seen plenty of evidence that something is very wrong here. Abandoned caravans with no trace of their travelers save for a few gnawed bones, starving vultures fighting over human remains half buried in the sand, and unusually aggressive infestations of desert parasites. You have just reached the outskirts of the village and it is clear that something unnatural plagues the area.

---

I usually like to start my games with a bit of a slower pace and give everyone the chance to get a feel for their character in a short inner-party conversation, instead of throwing everyone right into the action from the very start. So maybe your characters could briefly discuss their journey here, what they seen and what they think might be going on.

Rictor circled high over the town of Dimayen. His dark eyes moved in an active, assessing search over the failing town, garnering clues and learning much even from his great height. He swooped low over the ruined aqueduct, claimed not by disaster but by disrepair and neglect. He saw abandoned buildings bleached grey by the unforgiving sun and tilted at listless angles into the dunes encroaching on the outskirts. He saw spreading fields that were more a patchwork of fallow earth and strangled yellow than burgeoning green. He saw desperate, huddling figures hustling through the outer town and the slow, luxurious sway of palanquins and nobles in gauzy silk in the inner.

A stab of rage pierced him but he forced his grip to loosen on the reigns, his angular jaw to unclench.

It was the never ending duty of the nobility to serve and to protect the people that were their charges. Dereliction of that duty weighed heavily in Rictor's mind of late.

Perhaps sensing his mood Alsbet broke into a keening, piercing cry. It was the screech of an eagle, proud and defiant, but deepened and broadened by that great feathered chest, booming like thunder and with the lingering hint of a growl. Rictor reached forward to stroke a hand down the great griffon's neck, the rough leather of his gauntlet scratching at her beneath her snowy feathers. She shook herself and warbled in a low burble, mollified.

Her cry caused Thunder to flap over and investigate what had agitated her. Thunder had been Rictor's true and constant companion since the doughty falcon had saved his life so many years ago. He swooped low and then flared his wings, jetting upward on one of the desert thermals and wheeling over Rictor's head. He seemed wryly amused at Rictor and Alsbet's dark mood. But then again, he always seemed wryly amused about something.

Rictor fished in his pouch for a bit of dried meat and tossed it over Alsbet's shoulder. She snapped at it and missed. Thunder keened and dove like his name. He had told Rictor his name, once. Not the word Thunder. But images. Impressions. A Moment on a Cloudless Day with a prey bird Idling and suddenly Struck like a Thunderbolt from the clear Sky. Thunder pulled back up, circled above Alsbet's beating wings, and spat the morsel of jerked meat onto the back of Rictor's collar. Rictor suppressed a smile. Thunder preferred fresh meat.

He shook off the tidbit and pulled down on the reigns. Alsbet came in for a low pass over the outskirts of the city, great wings cupped to catch the air, and landed with barely a puff of dust on the hard packed earth of the southern road into the oasis. As he dismounted she settled back on her haunches and nonchanantly began to preen. Rictor loosened the girth and pulled off her saddle and bridle, tucking them into his magical pack and retrieving a stiff brush. Alsbet gave a rumbling purr, stretching low with her paws splayed in front of her and her tail lashing with pleasure as he gave her a vigorous scrubbing.

"Off with you!" He said when he had finished, giving her a slap on her tawny rump. She snapped at him with that razor beak and turned her head in mock affront. She shook out her coat and feathers, spread her wings, and pushed off into the sky. Thunder circled her, keening a cry that Rictor could only think of as a laugh. The two had not began that way, but now they were as close friends as they were rivals. They winged off to the south to hunt, although he knew that they would stay within a day's flight of the city.

Rictor turned back to his pack and retrieved Qvan's letter. He unfolded it for the umpteenth time.

Esteemed friend Rictor...events of great import...meet at the oasis of Dimayen...

Until he came towards the end of the letter.

...join myself and Master Vahid al-Mavari, as well as...

Vahid. Rictor had never been a man of the mind or the spirit. He had always been a man of iron and steel. From his first education by the swordmasters and generals of his father's court, to the years that he had spent in exile with no object but the simple mission of survival. He thought of the necessities of the moment, of his concrete goals. Rarely did his eye turn inward to examine his own character, his own soul. But now he felt that the anger and sorrow driving him must surely drive him to madness. He had hope that he could resume the teaching that he had scorned before, the journey inward that Vahid had often spoken of.

Rictor turned his feet towards the center of Dimayen, moving towards a meeting with both his old mentor and his hoped for new mentor.

He drew many a wary eye, clearly an outlander. And a heavily armed outlander at that. Unstrung across his back he carried an ornate bow, and at his waist a great curved blade like a tulwar sized for two hands. His cloak was black scale, his armor glittering silver, and emblazoned on the breastplate were seven intricately worked towers. He wore a kaffiyeh, not wrapped as a turban, but loose around his neck as a ward against dust and sand. His fair color named him a northerner, even burned brown from his recent days of travel, and the clean shaven lines of his angular face were distinctly out of Kelish fashion. That many took him for a Taldan only deepened their suspicions.

He had on his person letters of registration as a foreigner, although with no country of origin they had been somewhat difficult to obtain. He had no patron to speak of but hoped that the honorable Qvan would serve that office to him. He set off to meet his longtime friend.

The road had been long, and Vahid would be a liar if he said he wasn't pleased to have met Lieutenant Al-Darea in a small town along the way. After briefly catching up and sharing stories, he had asked her if she would be willing to join him in his mission, for old times' sake. After all, if violence would prove to be needed, there were precious few warriors who could match her in skill. To his continued pleasure at having company through the journey, she agreed.

When the pair arrived, Vahid took in the town as he led the way to the Shrine of Overflowing Joys to meet with the priest there and make introductions. There was no denying it, this town was sick and dying, and not solely due to the neglect of the nobles in charge. No more though, Vahid promised himself. This place would be healed no matter the price.

After leaving the Shrine, Vahid turned to Zhira, clearing his throat as he spoke. "Lieutenant, would you mind finding a place for us to stay? I would help, but I cannot stand by and do nothing while it is in my power to offer some small respite." After saying his piece, Vahid handed her a pouch of coin, for any renting costs, he said, before heading off into town.

He didn't have to search far for people in need, not here. He introduced himself to the locals with offers of medical attention and water that was not ludicrously overpriced, if only temporary in nature. When the containers were prepared, Vahid clutched his holy symbol tightly, uttering a prayer as he brought up his other hand. "Dawnflower, I come before you a humble servant. Answer my prayer and deliver relief unto these people, however short lived it may be." As he spoke, the barrels and cups began to fill with clean water, some even overflowing a little. "Drink your fill, please. The water will vanish after a day has passed, so enjoy it now."

As he stepped away to allow the people to enjoy the water, he saw in the distance a great beast landing. Hand on his sword, he moved quickly to investigate, arriving in time to see it flying away, leaving a man behind on the road. Vahid watched him for a few moments, trying to place how he recognized the obvious foreigner before it came to him. He held his arms out in a welcoming gesture, dark eyes glittering with naked curiosity. "Rictor, is that you? I have heard of your victory, what brings you here?

OOC: Casting Create Water, these people now have 34 gallons of water in assorted containers, assuming they accept the offer of conjured water.

Dimayen has been in increasing dereliction for as long as Qvan could remember. The once vibrant community, in the age of his grandparents, was but a shadow now. The old mage had travelled through a number of times over the last decades, either to visit very distant relatives, on his way to remote places for his research, or simply to suggest the works of his student as infrastructure improvement to the townsfolk. Yet he could not remember a positive outcome, or even a positive aspect, to any of those visits. It had now been five years, almost to the day, since his last visit.

When the infamous Feast of Dust first showed signs of its veritable nature, far from a myth or token of history, but an actual curse or malady writhing the land, Qvan had sent some of his most promising students to investigate. They confirmed his worst fears, and outlined a pattern that designated Dimayen or its surrounding as a probable source... the magician was not surprised. He pursued his research into the origins of the disease, dusting off old tomes in his library and putting the brains of his students to good use, in theoretical exercices.

When two young magicians fell prey to the curse however, he knew that the time for research had passed. Putting quill to paper he wrote to the best men and women he knew, and asked them to meet in the town that seemingly was at the core of the problem. The School was not too far, and left in the good and capable hands of the monk Valerius, his lifetime companion, and the Druidess Avhissania. The students would be safe, albeit in complete lockdown until further notice.

Qvan arrived in town that very morning. As usual he traveled in disguise, not willing to put his face on display, in or around town. His extravagant nature was not to be underestimated though. As he appeared at the caravanserai in the shape of a camel, unbridled but wearing a small hat, a few eyebrows were raised. He vanished behind a tree and soon walked through the parched streets of the town, in search of the tavern where he could wait for his companions.

The whitewashed walls all looked the same, but the magician knew too well that behind them, a very different life was unfolding for farmers, merchants, or noblemen. He found the famed tavern, settled at the far back of the room, in a private alcove, and waited for his guests to arrive. He knew all of them to be very capable and punctual, but still expected their respective arrivals to occur throughout the day. He settled with je best tea on offer, food that would last through the day, and a book on desert agriculture.

With himself, he started placing bets on who would arrive first...

Aryk had arrived in Dimayen a few hours prior; his horse unfortunately ill-suited to the desert sands, but he had lacked the time to seek other accommodations.  He had filed his visitor's papers, in the name of a patron provided to him by his organization, and the administrative items seen to previously, had nothing left to do but make his rounds; a meal, haggling for a bit in the market for some trinkets, getting a feel for the place and it's people; basic reconnaissance.  He stepped quietly into the tavern, and was surprised to see a familiar face waiting in the back.  He circled the room, and slipped noiselessly into the booth, across the table from Qvan, a clay mug of strong local tea in hand.

"Master Qvan." he said with a slight nod.

He looked the same as the last time Qvan had seen him, albeit with a new scar in the shape of jagged line down the left side of his neck, periodically revealing itself from the clothing & armor around his throat.  His hazel eyes were still sharp as ever, moving from point to point as he somehow watched everything and just Qvan at the same time.

"It would appear that noblesse oblige has fallen off locally." he said with his dry wit.
"Although there would seem to be other things at play here, wouldn't there?" he said with a wry, knowing smile as he took a long sip.

He had been sent by his masters at the Conclave, he did not know whether they were aware of Qvan's presence or not, but the coincidence seemed too providential to be otherwise.

Eric sat across from him, dressed in his gear and armor; designed for protection but not at the expense of speed or mobility, a must for the warrior who seemed to radiating a controlled energy even as he sat still.

It was obvious that things weren't right here.  Even without arcane sensibilities, he could tell; he'd spent enough time in various cursed and corrupted places to be able to feel the auras here were wrong.  Not stagnant (although they were that too), but bad, wrong, something just in the very energy was incorrect.  his masters at the conclave had been very ambiguous with the situation he was to explore, as was their way; too much information could poison his ability to develop an intrinsic understanding of the situation as he observed it.  Still though, he often wished they would tell him more that 'go here and fix something'.

As soon as she and Vahid had come into sight of the town, Zhira's gaze had started to study the area, a hint of displeasure entering it at what she saw. While she didn't ever stop her horse as she went, continuing to lead the sand-colored mare at a slow walk behind herself, it was clear to any watching that she was taking the time to study the area. Her hazel eyes, as sharp as those of a bird of prey, lingered on things with an intense gaze that seemed to carry a note of condemnation, and whenever they particularly passed over somebody armed and paused, to make sure there was no threat to her companion, those people were quick to look away. Part of it was, perhaps, the heavy makeup around said eyes, the blue lines around her eyes, with one continuing past the corner and two descending along the cheekbones, making the already piercing gaze even deeper and more unsettling; most of it, however, was just the sheer intensity of it.

Her hard expression ans silent demeanor only broke when Vahid addressed her, a fond smile on her lips even as she shook her head slightly; she collected herself quickly enough, but there was a small amount of warmth in her respectful reply.

"As is only natural of one selfless as you are. I shall see if the inn where we are to meet with Sage Qvan offers such as well, were he not there yet. May the light of dawn watch over you as you spread its warmth to others, Brother Vahid."

She nodded just slightly, a sign of respect among equals, before leaving the priest of Sarenrae to his good deeds and heading toward the tavern they were supposed to meet with Qvan Ibn Hamid. As she went, she settled the veil around her face to better shield her from the occasional smattering of sand the rising desert wind would throw around, her other hand gently scratching the neck of her mare to pacify the horse, who seemed uneasy, as if reacting to the decaying village's rumored curse in its own way.

Once reached the tavern, Zhira took her time to ensure her horse was settled properly, the creature responding to her touch with ease, having being trained by Zhira personally since birth, before she entered the building proper, a hand on the falcon-shaped pommel of the scimitar at her side as she did. On a first glance she just frowned, visibly annoyed at the bad conditions of the place, but then, just before she could look for the owner and inquire about accommodations, a glint of armor caught her attention. She turned to check over what sort of warrior it was, then she noticed the other person sitting there, and a satisfied smile formed on her lips as she headed that way instead.

"Sage Qvan; I am gladdened to see you made it here safely, and as always, it is an honor to share your company, despite current circumstances."

She bowed to the old man with the respect reserved for one's social superiors, before turning to introduce herself to the warrior - and pausing, a hint of confusion mixed with recognition entering her eyes.

"...we met before, haven't we? At the Qadlus' defense, ten years ago?"

OOC: as a note for those wondering what the decorations around Zhira's eyes look like, just google the images for "horus eye makeup". Anybody with enough knowledge would be aware this is a traditional decoration used by Osiriani warriors dedicated to a falcon's cult. The makeup is one of my magic items.

Speaking of which, Zhira might look like she's wearing traditional Qadiran clothes in blue and gold, with a simple quilted ocra-colored armor over her torso, and she moves as if she was just this lightly clothed as well, but anybody with active True Sight (or similar) would know she's actually in Glamered Full Plate.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:06, Wed 01 July 2020.

 The Tea House was mostly empty, save a few older men playing dominos and sipping on burning hot tea. From the alcove at the back of the room, the surprisingly vivid mage kept an eye on the rare comings and goings. In the background, a beautiful fountain was desperately silent, long gone dry and fallen in disrepair. He considered putting his magic to good use and fixing it, but thought better than to make a display that could backfire.

 When Aryk arrived, a display of food was on the low table: pastries, olives, bread and various small dishes, enough to feed a dozen people. Qvan rose to salute the warrior.
  "Master Aryk, peace be with you," he considered the man and his attire for a few moments, seemingly taking in more than the eye could see. His manners left a little to be desired, but he broke out of it before it became too awkward.
 "Please, sit with me. While I am a firm believer in meaningless coincidences, I would wager you are not here by accident. Help yourself to some food, the olives are a treat."

 And as if on cue, who would push the curtain to the Tea House but an other fierce warrior of his acquaintance, Zhira al-Darea, her striking features highlighted in blue khol. Unbeknownst to the old mage, she and Aryk appeared to know each other. He stood to welcome her at the table.
  "My dear Zhira, it has been too long. More than a year? How are you? Is your family well?*"

 He sat back down as Aryk and Zhira greeted each other, nibbled on an olive.
  "A few others will join us – I hope. We will talk about circumstances then. Zhira I see you sport a new suit of armour... very fitting to your skill set." he added with a smile.

 
*can't remember if we've established Zhira to have a family or not?

OOC: she does has a family, although she's very particular about talking of it. She's quick to laud their accomplishments and speaks of them with fondness, but it's clear her traveling lifestyle means she only sees them rarely, and she has never given her full family name nor the name of her hometown. Also, if directly asked for any info she didn't want to disclose, she would have politely deflected as long as needed for the argument to be dropped. Overall, the general impression is that she doesn't want the dangers of travel to follow her home.

While Aryk seemed to need a moment to collect himself and answer, and seeing as the old mage was quicker to speak, Zhira turned toward him, offering a pleased smile at his comments.

"As well as could be expected. Little Darea has grown into something of a hellion; she once more requested I teach her to swing a sword, and while glad for the gifts I brought, also had a list of many more she wanted me to find her. She's progressed enough in her lesson as well, but not yet to the point of managing an household, not that I'd expect a six years old to, even if cousin Rahum does. Still, he was at least glad I could take her off his hands for a week, and I would wager Taena appreciated having some time with her husband all for herself as well, or as much as he could spare from his affairs. Speaking of which, when I mentioned we've met, he wanted me to let you know his offer for horses trained to not be spooked by magic still stands, should you have changed your mind on it, Sage Qvan."

There was clear fondness in her voice, although at the end she switched to a more polite, interested tone as she asked back:

"And I imagine your students have progressed well in their studies in the meanwhile? Found some new ways they can persuade the gods' laws to be directed by their will and words to help people's lives?"

While there was no mocking in her tone, nor would Zhira ever mock a social superior, there was palpable amusement to the question, of the sort one would use when exchanging an inside joke with somebody about their profession.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:04, Wed 01 July 2020.

"Master Vahid!" Rictor exclaimed warmly, striding forward with open arms to clap his shoulders and wring his hand.

His first reaction was a burst of joy at seeing his old friend and finding the object of his secret aim. An aim that he had only dimly been able to voice in his own mind. Perhaps for that reason a sudden feeling of trepidation rolled over him. Was it his pride that made him hesitant to submit that secret, raging part of himself to scrutiny? Or simple fear of what he would find if he plumbed those depths?

"It is good to see you, old friend." He said, the weight of hidden significance heavy behind his words.

"I...I wanted to..."

He glanced up and down the street at the happy urchins splashing about in their newfound bounty, housewives clucking excitedly and stooping to tote buckets of water on stout sticks. That same shyness held his tongue. No. Not here, in this place, with rougher task at hand. Rictor would wait. In truth he needed time to gather his courage.

He clapped Vahid's shoulders again.

"Later, later man. For now let's go see what that old rascal has called us for, eh?"

His grin returned as they made their way to the inn, although it perhaps failed to reach his eyes. They nattered about old times along the short walk but had little time for a lengthy discussion. They were in fact interrupted by Rictor's outburst upon entering the establishment.

"Aryk! You son of a...How've you been!"

He strode forward and clasped palms, biceps straining. He clapped him on the shoulder as well and then turned to offer a deep bow to the table. Although his fondness for the old mage was equal, his relationship was more respectful.

It had been many years, but he did manage to place the dusky woman after a brief hesitation. They had traveled together many years before by happenstance, a caravan to a mystic oasis deep in the Qadrian desert. And her name was...

"Lady al-Darea. It seems that Qadria is a small place. I'm honored." He bowed respectfully to her as well, his back stiffened somewhat by formality.

For Qvan he spent a brief moment rummaging through his pack and emerged with a thick tome, yellowed with age, its warped pages held straight by a stiff cover of boiled leather and secured with a band. The words on the spine were gibberish to Rictor, written in ancient Varisian, but evidently said Being a Treatise upon the Conjunction of the Materium and Astrum through the Divinary Techniques of Hassarian of Katapesh.

This he presented with a rather inelegant flourish.

"A gift to a gracious host, Master Hamid. It is the oldest book from the library at..." He trailed off, a sudden dark look that passed over his features was quickly mastered into a wide smile. "At an ancient, fallen library."

He slid into a seat around the table and began to help himself to a plateful of dates and lamb. He leaned in somewhat conspiratorially.

"Tell me, sir, what of this plague?"