Weaving Within The Rasha'Shing (Nimavel)

[Gossamer]

TS: Month of Optia in the Season of Summer, Era XIV

Silence. Was this how it was supposed to be? Perhaps. Stone aged slowly, and so too did the small bronzed skin Monk as he rested in Lotus position upon an enormous slab of timeless gray marble that overlooked an empty gray marble courtyard. The Rasha'Shing sang all around him, announcing the presence of a stranger, but not someone wholly unwelcome. Life would be foolish to reject death, even if it came in the form of living. Even here, among the hush of the gray marble, life existed. Tendrils of jasmine climbed stoic pillars that dominated each corner, which in turn held twin pergolas aloft on each end of the fairly large space. It wove its green carpet up and over the carved stone archways, softening the quiet simple kemite lines of architecture.

The monk wore nothing but a pair of simple loose pants and a soft passive expression. His feet and chest were bare to the blistering summer suns. His slab, the little kingdom of gray he quietly lorded over, had room for another to settle opposite of him if they so desired. If one drew close enough, they could well see the Sunn Monk tattoos of rank that rank up and down his forearms, mimicing the swirling patterns of The Rasha'Shing. He was... one of the most skilled there, and if one knew how to read his inkings, he was also an advisor, spiritual leader, and a priest of The Rasha'Shing.

There could be no other. This had to be Kimsan.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The air, stirred by the sweeping steps of the Lord Mynendil, broadcasted the elf’s arrival into the aesthetically pleasing courtyard. The scent of jasmine tickled his nostrils, inflaming his senses with the deodorant of nature and reminding him of the purity of the Kemite monastery. His rare violet eyes, dotted with malice, shifted predatorily from one side of the room to the other, regarding the stunning, picturesque scene with unexpressed admiration.

The bulk of the assassin’s intrigue, however, was riveted by the meditating form of the Sunn Temple’s monk. Tattoos that highlighted the Kemite’s distinguished career were visible along his muscularly-toned arms, accentuating his sleek physique and contrasting with his sun-kissed skin. It was the man’s steadfast concentration, though, that betrayed his identity.

The elfin lord paused a short distance away, his feet alighting gracefully upon the marble floor without whispering the faintest sound. Even his obsidian robes, thick and flowing, came to a sudden standstill about his sinister form as he waited in place. He neither announced his presence nor interrupted the man’s reverie. The monk likely knew that he was there already.

Waiting to be addressed, the assassin merely stood in silence, his eyes never falling away from the bronze Kemite. Respect naturally dictated that he not disrupt the man, and if there was anyone who was intimately familiar with patience, it was Nimavel Mynendil.

[Gossamer]

"You should join me." The monk said quietly after what seemed a half candlemark or more. He opened his light green eyes and looked up to Nimavel's height, meeting his dead expressionless eyes. "There is no benefit in standing in the silence unless one truly enjoys the silence. Barely leashed violence serves no purpose here. This is a place of within, and even those who wish the quiet emotionlessness of death upon themselves cannot linger long without understanding such things. One must touch the stone to truly experience its age. Such things cannot be done without a sense of wonder, even if it is jealously guarded within. So come. Share the words with me that you hold within yet so close to the surface, and set aside your ego for a moment. It serves no purpose, not here with the Children of the Sunn." Kimsan said gently, gesturing to the space across from him.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

There was undeniable wisdom in the monk’s words, the likes of which reminded the assassin of his intuitive uncle in Daltina. Unlike the latter, though, Kisman was less direct and far more cryptic. Nevertheless, the bronze-skinned Kemite was equally as insightful as the assassin’s long-lived uncle.

Dropping to his knees on the cold marble floor across from Kisman and tucking his feet beneath his bottom, Nimavel’s callused hands alighted atop his thighs. His eyes, leveled with the monk’s own, studied the man with latent intensity. Nilmalas had always said that much could be discerned by simply evaluating another’s stare, and Kisman was no exception to this generalization.

Even now it was self-evident to the Lord Mynendil that this was a true master of the arts sitting in front of him.

“And what has the experience taught you?”

He asked. It was a peculiar way to indulge in a conversation, but one that was surprisingly common to the well-traveled elf lord. Unlike the norm of society who conformed to the rules of general discourse, those of the martial world perceived things that were otherwise usually missed and subsequently their discussions and debates could be categorized as a class of their own.

[Gossamer]

Kimsan's green eyes brightened, crinkling the fine bronzed skin around them. He nodded as the elf lord settled himself gracefully and asked his question. Though the man projected a certain image, often the image was vastly different than what was contained within the whole of the package. Bright gifts given in seasons of celebration could contain treasure or poison in equal measures.

The question was like a first glimpse of what was inside... and there was no inherent reek of sickness or spoilage. Instead, it was sincerely asked in a polite contemplative manner.

The Monk was pleased. Sometimes the winds of Zinn'Sunn blew in strange travelers. This undoubtedly was one. So he answered in the only way he could think of... and so as the strangers gaze met his, he waited a heartbeat, maybe two.. and then spoke softly.

"Feel yourself standing in a vast sea of sand.. a desert of such dunes as you've never seen in your life... a hot sun blazing down, no wind, no water... only sand... then picture yourself bending down and picking up a single grain of sand... a glittering shimmering speck of dust at the whim and mercy of forces far larger than it. Yet, that same grain can wreck havok on even the largest mountains, carving them away with enough wind behind their actions. That grain of sand is what I know in life. The Silence whispers these things and reveals that the desert you stand in, the one vast and filled with only more sand... is what fills the world and comprises the world knowledge. Through silence I learn how very little I know and taste the desire to turn one grain into two and into four and on and on until what I am and what that desert is can not be separated or distinguished." He said, still holding Nimavel's gaze.

He did not ask the stranger his name. Nor did he ask him his business. In time, all things would be revealed that were necessary to be revealed. Kimsan firmly believed that.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Studying Kisman like an alchemist would an apparatus, the elfin lord settled for silence as he heeded the monk’s words. The Kemite’s salient wisdom was projected in his metaphor of the desert sand and life, two concepts that he interwove to convey a powerful meaning across to the Syl’rosyan Lord. Whereas many might have missed the significant message that Kisman relayed, the astute elf understood it perfectly.

Heeding the monk’s suggestion, the assassin closed his eyes and meditated on the scene evoked by Kisman’s direction, a desert composed of a sea of endless dunes. The image was not hard to imagine; the Temple of the Open Hand was situated in such a realm, in the heart of the Deserts of Arakmat where life was believed not to exist.

He felt the grains of sand trickling through his fingers, their mineral particles scratching his skin microscopically as if shredding the very mountains that Kisman whispered of. Nimavel isolated a single granule then, mentally constructing its diminutive size and shape. It did not multiply into two or three more, though, as the Kemite had said it could.

The assassin lost concentration shortly afterwards, his meditative abilities not nearly on par with the trained Sunn monk’s. However Kisman was able to focus on such a seemingly insignificant detail was beyond Nimavel’s knowledge, but he understood the connotation of being able to do so. Kisman was both a master of the body and of the mind.

“In what way does the silence speak to you?”

The Heru Mynendil inquired, his lavender eyes flashing open and locking with the monk’s verdant stare. He was certain that Kisman was referring to meditation, something that the assassin seldom practiced. But if he was to fully understand what the monk was talking about, he needed to know what to look for.

[Gossamer]

Kimsan said nothing for a long time, letting the stranger absorb his thoughts and interpret them for his own mind. Strange winds had been blowing lately, whispering of changes and acting as harbingers of long foretold events that time was finely bringing to pass. He did not want to convey this to the stranger though, curious as to the man's own understanding of what was taking place within the world.

"Each person exists within their own reality. Sometimes my reality will touch yours, as is the case today. When such touches happen, we tend to call this life. The silence speaks to me in this way, giving clues to reality touching. Sometimes, in the city below this monastery, parents give their children jars of water and soap mixed. Then they give them little sticks with loops of string at the end. When dipped into this mixture and then touched to the element of air, the mixture is formed by the loop into bubbles that dance into the wind. Each person's life is like that, a bubble of reality surrounding that existence. Once set loose in the wind, some touch, combine, burst, and others never linger but catch the wind and are away." He said softly, then smiled.

"Your silence speaks to me as well. You strive to master your reality, yet constantly anticipate weakness and probe to find it. Yet, you are startled when you do discover it, and in many ways you cherish such weaknesses rather than savagely eliminate them from your reality. That is a sign of a noble man, Stranger. Though some who profess to be wise would not agree." The monk added, then looked thoughtful.

"Tell me though. When you linger alone with your silence, do you let it speak to you?" He asked. Kimsan didn't ask what the silence said... no he had no desire to pry into the man's life. He instead simply wanted to know if the man listened.... truly and deeply.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The imagery evoked by Kisman’s words lingered vividly in the assassin’s mind. He saw the multitude of bubbles suspended lazily in the air, some of them mingling and others isolating themselves with the wind. In many ways the Heru Mynendil was like one of these outcasts, a bubble locked in a reality so distant to others that it was oftentimes difficult to fathom. But the reality was that the bubble, his bubble, did exist, only that it interacted with others by his choosing, not the wind’s. Or did it?

The assassin’s pale visage did not react to Kisman’s postulation of his ‘noble’ character, something that the elfin lord generally discounted whenever outside of Silrosia. It was true that he was a Lord of the Syl’rosyan Combine, but many would have shunned his prominent position in Elfhame had they known of his clandestine activities. The Council knew, of course, but his affairs were taboo in Silrosia, not to be mentioned outside of the realm of shadows.

Of all that Kisman said, however, nothing struck him as much as the monk’s perception on his paradoxical mindset. Yes, it was true that he anticipated weakness and that he was surprised by its discovery at the same time, but now that the assassin thought about it, it all sounded absurd to him. What the purpose of his self-reflection if he only embraced his weaknesses rather than rectifying them?

Nimavel supposed that part of the reason was that these weaknesses reminded him of his mortality, of the simple fact that he was not invincible. Whereas others in the world many times disillusioned themselves with immortality, the Heru Mynendil, a death dealer himself, understood the fragility of life. And it was for this reason that he never succumbed to overconfidence; it would never be his downfall.

The assassin was of a contradictory state of mind, no doubt, but as he thought about it, he was again reminded of its valuable nature to him. Whether it made sense to the outside world or not, it was perfectly logical to the Heru of House Mynendil. He was thankful to Kisman for ‘showing’ him that.

“No. I do not.”

Nimavel realized, his eyes narrowing peculiarly as the revelation suddenly dawned upon him. He did not hear the silence because he did not listen for it.

“You have given me much to think about. I thank you for that.”

Rare. It was rare for the assassin to verbalize his appreciation to another, especially one of non-elven blood. Kisman, however, was unlike any the elf lord knew. He had never met a man possessed of so much wisdom let alone insight. And for that, the monk warranted the assassin’s hard-earned respect.

“I am Nimavel Mynendil.”

He introduced himself, nodding slightly and waiting for the monk to return the courtesy in kind.

[Gossamer]

Kimsan nodded, and took a moment to meet the Heru's eyes. He wondered if perhaps the next time the elflord was surrounded with silence, he would in fact take a moment to listen to it. Unless he was the most devoted and disciplined of elves, he would, Kimsan suspected. Curiousity would drive him too it. And if he would only listen, he'd discover far more about himself than he might at first realize. Surface level thinking one would think the silence spoke of flaws, but it did not. Not indeed. Rather, it spoke of deeper meanings and pathways that were unseen... even to those that walked the darkness.

"I am Kimsan. I hold no title here being far past such things. It is good to know your surface name, if not your true one, Nimavel Mynendil." He said softly, then reached into his pocket. He withdrew something... a tiny slip of a leaf. It looked like a deep green plant, with a white or silvery underside and veining on the top that matched.

"Part of what you seek is here. If you will trust that there is no poison, place this leaf under your tongue and let your saliva slowly disolve it. The Rasha plant will reveal, for a short time, the Rasha'Shing to you. Then, if your wish is still the same, I will comply with your desire. Then perhaps you will learn your soul name." The monk said, stating neither the desire nor what he was going to do in order to comply. He simply waited, palm outstretched, unobtrusive little plant leaf placed upon it as if offering it up to the Gods.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The assassin’s deadpan countenance conveyed his approval for the monk’s humility, not by contortion or sudden animation, but by the way his lavender eyes lowered briefly as if to nod. Meekness; it was the mark of a person fully enmeshed in his or her art, and Kisman radiated it through his words, actions, and demeanor. The Sunn Monk was on a level of his own.

“Well met, Master Kisman.”

Nimavel succinctly replied, deliberately ennobling the bronze-skinned man with a title he awarded to few people. Despite the assassin’s legendary prowess and perhaps his reputation as the deadliest K’Tesh practitioner since the time of Queen Michelle du Starkville, he knew his subordination when staring superiority in the face. While Nimavel was the embodiment of K’Tesh’s finest principles, Kisman breathed his art every second of the brightening.

Kisman could have slain the elf lord there, but the assassin, conscious that the monk possessed the capacity to do so without a poisonous concoction, accepted the leaf and slid it past his lips –past his guard. He positioned it on the center of his tongue, the moisture and the heat of his mouth dissolving the segment of the mysterious plant and melting it away.

Nimavel did not inquire for more information. He did not press to learn of the Rasha’Shing or the purpose of the ritual. And he did not question the authenticity of learning his alleged ‘soul name’. He merely sat there, soaking in the taste of the leaf and its subsequent smell as he open-mindedly waited for Kisman’s explanation.

[Gossamer]

Kimsan nodded his approval and let the Rhasa plant do the rest. It had a bitterly exotic flavor as it literally melted on Nimavel's tongue. Juices flowed through his mouth, and though it took a moment, his eyesight slowly began to change. The difference was subtle at first, like a shadow in the corner of ones eyes. The slowly gradually, his vision filled with light. Kimsan noted the exact moment. It was thus with everyone that experienced the plant and its unique properties. Once a person became aware of the energy around them as a tangible thing... even fleetingly, for the plant offered no lasting gift... they moved differently, and they breathed differently. Their own personal energy subtly shifted to mesh more in tune with the energy of those around them.

Nimavel took a breath, and then another, and by the third, both him and Kimsan were breathing together. The Sunn Father rose, gracefully, his energy entwining with that of the stone he was resting upon... and gestured, inviting Nimavel to do the same.

And then he started to stretch, gesturing to the place beside him. All practitioners of Zinn'ka knew their bodies limitations. Each muscle needed to be carefully cherished, each worked independently, and the Sunn Father knew how to work them all.

Slowly, once they'd stretched, he turned and bowed deeply to Nimavel. "This is what you came here for, no? A test of your own self, your own strengths and weaknesses. You do not doubt your abilities, your pride is strong in that regard. I can see it in the Rhasa'shing about you. But you obsess with perfection and your mind stretches to what can be. Both are good traits and bad traits. Moderation is important, though in truth you have only learned to see this. You will see more of it, as time passes." He said, his words pitched to his breathing... his breathing pitched to the movement of the world.

"The first move, Nimavel, is yours." The Sunn Father said, facing him.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

An instant of clarity dawned upon the assassin as the leaf dissolved on his tongue. His lavender orbs flashed open, suddenly taking in the energies exuded by his surrounding environment. Much like a mage transcending the mind into the Astral Plane, the Heru Mynendil pervaded a level of awareness akin to his self-developed Shadow Gaze, only that unlike the intricate technique, the leaf-induced trance made him conscious of the energies at all times.

It was during this moment that the assassin’s breaths fell in rhythm with the monk’s own, inhaling the crisp air and allowing it to expand in his lungs before releasing it from whence it came. Nimavel’s orbs suddenly affixed to Kisman’s rising form, and he watched as the monk stooped and adjusted his posture to generate a greater blood flow throughout his body.

At last, their duel was about to begin.

Alighting to his feet, the Heru Mynendil responded similarly, performing a ritual of stretches that tested the parameters of his flexibility. His upcoming endeavor was not going to be a painless one, but the assassin welcomed the inevitable possibility of defeat. Victory was not always found on the winning side.

“Thank you, Master Kisman.”

The assassin humbly replied, bowing lower than the monk to indicate his utmost respect for the man. Within the span of a short conversation, Kisman had disarmed the elf lord of the normal safeguards that surrounded him, but even more importantly, he had understood Nimavel.

Moderation. It was going to be key.

Standing across from Kisman, the Heru Mynendil’s gaze steeled as he observed the monk with the eyes of one who had stared death in the face countless times. He neither rushed nor advanced upon the monk, instead deferring to the primary source of his many victories: observation. He studied Kisman’s posture, the angle of his knees, the positioning of his hands, and the presence that he emanated. All of these would determine the elf lord’s angle of approach.

It was not merely a battle of strength. It was going to be a battle of wills.

[Gossamer]

That Nimavel did not take the first move didn't surprise Kimsan. He didn't mind, for there was no true first and last within the Rasha'Shing. Indeed, there were rather circles upon circles interwoven together. He could see some of those mentioned circles that brought the elf before him. And further than perhaps Nimavel could see, Kimsan could see the broken line of uncertainty and change behind him. The elf lord was standing on the brink of a new life, something far different than he'd had before, and within that particular circle the elf stood uncertain. The monk also saw the circles radiating from the here and now into the future. There'd be more change, drastic and irreparable. The life before him was not an easy one, nor one who lived comfortably within what he had defined as his world.

In some ways, such encounters reminded Kimsan of why his place at the Sunn Monestary was so important. Here, his circles were always grounded. Never did they cut loose and drift uncertainly like Nimavel's did.

Suddenly, the monk moved, but it wasn't an attack. Because of the plant that had disolved on his tongue, Nimavel saw clearly what the monk did. He spun in place, arms open, and drew the energy of the Rasha'Shing to them, weaving a barrier around them. It was a vast barrier, but it was one of privacy and protection, allowing them to have their conversation alone and unwitnessed by either outside eyes or outside ears. The Sunn Father gave Nimavel a pointed look, and then smiled slowly.

"This is as much of a confessional as it is a spar. Let your body talk for you, Nimavel, and dance within the Rhasa'Shing... let it tell your story, for I see your broken circles and uncertainty stretching out from here, and back into the past. Your life will get harder before it settles down. That much is certain. " And with that, The Sunn Father gave him the opening words. Once the protective weave was in place, The Sunn Monk stepped up onto the energy and let it hold him up, aloft, within the air... and challenged Nimavel to do the same.

And as he did so, Nimavel realized something suddenly. Their battle wouldn't be bound to the ground. It wouldn't be bound at all. The feeling was... as if a hawk was suddenly unfettered and released into the sky to soar in a three dimensional space filled with air currents and winds more than willing to buoy one up.

The Sunn Father waited, delight upon his face. Battles were not about pain and strength, no... they were about self discovery.