Ar'Drakho

PROLOGUE

DATE: 1-0-2-3-14-9

      From the depths of fantastic dreamscapes, he wakes slowly...rising into the waters of consciousness due to hearing the constant drumming sounds of the earth-pounders and the droning voices of the slaves and the wards working hard to repair the ramparts after the last battle interrupting his slumber. It seems so long ago...lost his sense of time. Determining he cannot go back to sleep, he has a strong urge to urinate because of the healer's medications that he ingested the night before. Bracing himself...he groans a bit as he sits up and twists to his right, swinging out his feet from the bed to place them on the ground. 'Opening my eyes is not as hard as I expected', he thought. "It must be later than I expected...how long did I sleep I wonder?", he said to himself. Taking long breathes and bracing himself again, he rose up slowly...feeling wheezy...he falls back onto his bed. 'Damn!', he thought, 'did I say out loud...wow..I do not feel good'. He stares at the wood-colored panel facing him and then looking to his right at the sealed door that is slightly vibrating due to a breeze [he thinks].
      He sees his garments at the end of the bed as goose-pimples are forming on his arms and back. He just realized it is chilly in here. Rising slowly by placing his hand on the bedding to support himself, he stands naked. Reaching down for his tan-colored tûmë (a one-piece undergarment of woven fabric that is more similar to a subligaculum but also related to a modern day's brief) and using his bed for support, he dons his underwear. Looking at his feet, he notices how they are still discolored...painfully motleyed.
     He sees his clean green and brown-patterned swoñë (a lower outer garment with a built-in belt and loin-skirt combination that wraps around the waist). [Thinking to himself, 'I guess the healer does not want me to wear my uniform...today.'] He sets one end of the garment on his right hip, at the same time, sliding the belt and loin-skirt backward, around, then forward and centered--but sliding the overlap to his right hip. He fumbles at buttoning the two side snaps (leaving the third alone)--then finally, he tightens and sets the belt. He slowly squats halfway down making sure the swoñë is comfortable.
    Looking down at his chest, also feeling sharp, sprite-like pains in his neck and shoulders, wincing he sees his wound linen-wrappings around his upper torso. Shifting his sight to the slight right and down, he sees his solid dark green-colored shirt. He angles himself, reaching down, he grabs it and dons it slowly (groaning a bit as he does). Again, he fumbled through the buttoning [he thinks, 'the drugs are still working']. He really needs to go now--he quickly grabs his nalpë (a cloak-like all-weather outer garment) and drapes it over his right arm. He exits his quarters by pushing through the center of his quarter's door, a layered fabric-like portal. 
    He steadies himself after he steps outside by bracing himself at his door. He turns to his left and quickly heads to the lavatory moving as best as he can, which was about 38 surdi (a distance unit of measurement that equates to about 76 cm) away. He enters the facility and makes a beeline to the closest walled-trench urinal. As he relieves himself, he looks around and seeing about 20-plus men and women relieving themselves, washing or bathing themselves, and others are disrobing after their shifts are completed to ready themselves before retiring to their quarters. Once he finishes with his urgent business, he resets his swoñë and he slowly moves toward an open wash-basin two rows down and four positions on the left from where he stood.
    He removes his shirt and places his cloak and shirt on the hanging hooks above the wash station. He pours fresh water into the basin; bending over slowly--lightly groaning and wincing, he partially fills his mouth with some water and swishes water around in his mouth and then, straightening, he gargles to clear out his throat. Bending over again, he expels the water into the cuspidor that is on the right side of the basin. He shifts left; dipping his cupped hands into the basin, scoops water to wash his face. 
    A slave wearing a simple short mid-thigh white tunic and black-tiered pants (a trouser-like garment native to her people where fabric squares are used to form the legging and seat sections of the garment) stands next to him and hands him a towel to dry. Seeing her, he quickly scans her. He notices her bright hazel eyes, lightly pimpled face yet it was pleasant to look at, smooth healthy skin, and her dark-auburn hair tied back, held in place by a loop and a hook, that dangles just behind her head and neck. He smiles at her therefore acknowledging her--making her feel appreciated and smiles back at him--for she is usually ignored or abused. As he continues to wash his face a second time, he then scoops more water onto the top of his head soaking his hair wet. He runs his fingers through his wet shoulder-length dark-brown hair and uses the towel to dry his face and head. The slave hands him a hairbrush and he brushes out his hair. Finishing he hands back the hairbrush, she hands him his shirt--holding his cloak. After he dons his shirt and placing his cloak over his right arm, he starts to leave where he sees the slave starting to clean the wash station for the next person.
    Stepping out into the amber-colored, lighted dimness...he looks up into the sky overhead. It is a deep dark maroon amorphous sky with a few lower dark-grey and with faint white bordered clouds being pushed by breezes above. It must be late evening as night quickly approaches [he thinks]...because he cannot see the image of the sun disk shimmering through the clouds in the sky above or on the horizon. He looks westward past the gap in the forest--looking ['so it must behind the mountains', he thinks to himself]. He suspects the glow of the 'little one' (i.e. moon) should be rising soon into the night sky. As it is, it is very humid here again and the night's mists are beginning to form. "It is gonna be another wet night!", he says to himself.
    It sounds like the earth-pounders and the workmen are farther away from him now still working on the damaged stations and the lines...he takes a moment as if listening to them. Looking to his left, he strains to see their completed work in his area...it is too dim for him to properly see but he thinks, 'I will inspect the ramparts tomorrow'. He feels very tired now with his wounds beginning to ache.
    Suddenly, he hears a voice calling out his name and he turns right to see. The individual is about 20 surdi away from him walking on the tree-lined stone and graveled road and it is moving toward him as everyone on the road are making sure they are out of its way. They slightly bow their heads toward the individual as it passes by them. "Oih!", he says surprised, realizing that the individual is an Elder! It is broad-shouldered, looks physically strong, and is about seven and half árseti (a unit of measurement for height that equates to about 32cm) tall. It is an imposing figure that is wearing a light-grey cloak and a white tunic underneath with a gold belt about its waist. It has piercing deep-blue eyes, gleaming white hair poking out from underneath cloak's cap, and a friendly smile. 
    Its voice is clear and baritone as he approaches, saying "Hail to you, Silvö, son of Halfö. May we speak?" 
    He recognizes the individual saying, "Are you Mártamö? The high-counselor to our High Princes?" The individual replies as he continues to approach him, "I am he." As he stops, a half-stride before Silvö, he continues, "You have a good memory--you were very young when you came to your capital long ago." Silvö replies, "Yes,...yes,...I was about eight tuvë (a calendar cycle that equals to 400 days) old...it was a great time as my father and family attended our grand-father's installation for his term as the High Prince for our people." 
    He further states, "Why seek you me?"
    Martamö relies, "Indeed...a very good question."
    Continuing he says, "We who serve the great houses were greater in number from the days when the Holy One tasked us to counsel the sons of Sedhö. Since the coming of Gankúrwi (the name translates as the 'Fallen Deserters') during the days when the House of Zharedö ruled, many great houses were lost. But today, we are much fewer now...only a handful of the families welcome and entertain us." He looked down as if a great burden rested upon him; turning, he smiles and says, "I hope we all remain faithful and true till the end of all days."
    "Why do you still serve man? When many reject you and openly disobey the Holy One?", Silvö asks. "Why?", he replies, "requires more than what I can speak of." He looks up, pondering or communing...Silvö cannot tell which..."let me say this: it is my privilege to serve a great house as one of the few who remains faithful in the Holy One's service before the days of men." He looked down toward Silvö and waited, "...I cannot speak of it no more." Meaning, Silvö will never get anything else from him...no matter what he does...damn! He smiles at Silvö seeming to know his very thoughts and looks up into the mountain side...scanning the forest's lines from their position as if sensing something.
    Mártamö breaks the silence between them, saying, "Since the days when the Holy Lord clothed Aðamö and Ayi in skins and furs to inhabit their cold homeland in Adamena far to east, I served there. After many generations born and pass joining their fathers, the Holy One appointed me to serve the house of Mártö, the son of Sedhö." Silvö interjects, "yes...I read and heard the stories that you met Mártö on the 'Founder's Stone' when they discovered Is'sena and it has been memorialized since"...for an calendar age [approximately 8,700+ solar years].
    They both pause their conversation as Mártamö has this look: a-far-away look; he turns to Silvö saying, "I find it interesting...meaning...I never would have considered serving one as young as you or one so distant from the Seat of his House." Silvö turns to look at him speaking suddenly, "You? I am amazed that you are talking to me...an Elder!", he pauses finding his words, "as a child I was intimidated by you--though you gave me no cause to be." He further says, "...I have not had the time to think about why you have come now...for what is your purpose here or with me?" Silvö looks away and the Elder is still looking down upon him and he continues, "Who am I that you and the Holy One seek me out? I am not a seeker like Hînokhö whom the Great One took from us or the great preacher, Nöwa, from the western coastland of Göferi far to the south from here and his words reach us here today." He simply answered, "Indeed, I too." Continuing, "I came because He told me to..." and turning to look away suddenly.
    Their peace was broken by a tremendous crashing against the rampart's walls with a thundering concussive sound-wave reaching them...Silvö throws and flattens himself on the ground covering his head with his hands. Mártamö reaches down and taps Silvö on the his shoulder, stating, "No harm will befall you when I am with you. Rise up and see..."
    The battle begins anew.