”Precisely, so let us not dawdle. Lead on, humble guide.” Caio gestures down the street with one hand while using his the gloved thumb of the other to wipe the last bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth.
Beschcadik's streets unfurl before the Septem Mortale in layers, each corner revealing another glimpse of the empire's splendour. The air is thick with the scent of spice, oil and dust, which somehow leaves every breath tasting faintly metallic. Traipsing through the narrow arteries of the capital, they curl up past marble balconies and latticed archways. Sandstone buildings loom close on either side, their ochre faces carved with geometric Sarameian motifs, while the domes and minarets atop them sparkle with inlaid lapis and gold.
Further from the markets, the street criers fade into the hum of caravan bells, rattle of distant wheels and whispers of fabric and prayer. The cobblestones here gleam faintly with the sheen of ritual polish and silver-threaded banners bearing the crescent sigil of Khonsu flutter from lampposts. The people here still part for the outsiders, but not as dramatically as before. It's subtle, like water bending around an unknown shape. Mothers tug their children closer, merchants murmur about ill omens and a few hands sketch protective signs in the air. Every set of eyes that dares linger longer than a heartbeat feels like scrutiny. Even the bead-counting priests, barefoot pilgrims and watchmen with their halberds, who seem devoutly absorbed in their routines, all keep the newcomers at the edge of their vision.
Through Ghoul’s sight, Caio notes that the rhythm of surveillance has changed. The urchins and hawk-eyed vendors have thinned out, replaced by figures more practiced. A patrol at a corner that doesn’t approach, an acolyte who pauses mid-sweep of the temple steps to glance at the group and then at a nearby obelisk etched with faintly humming wards. The locals whisper words like djinn, half-spirit and false saint as the Septem Mortale pass. One small boy stares up at Alaris until his father hurriedly scoops him away, muttering apologies.
Iskander keeps a brisk pace, his clipped tone and proud bearing marking him as a man of the city, even as he bristles at his companions' unfiltered tongues. Every so often, he gestures discreetly to slow, to turn, or to avoid a patrol that might take too close an interest. His irritation is the group's shield. He plays the weary handler of foreigners so well that guards avert their eyes rather than engage.
At last, the thoroughfare opens into a broad avenue of moonstone and white marble, leading to the temple complex itself. The Temple of Khonsu rises at its end like a celestial mirage. Tiered colonnades of pale stone shimmer under the pale evening sun and the temple's domes are carved with crescents and orbiting stars. In the courtyard, lines of worshippers kneel before a reflecting pool, where light and shadow dance across the water's surface. The temple bells begin to toll a deep, resonant rhythm that marks the hour of dusk prayer. The sound rolls over the city like the beat of an enormous heart. For the those new to the city, it is the first time that Beschcadik feels almost quiet. The noise of the city fades, replaced by a haunting pulse of devotion.
Iskander's unease has been building the longer their journey drew on. It's not his first time under so many watchful eyes, janissaries drew them too but this was something entirely different. He sees the looks his travelling companions are receiving and wonders what happened to his city to make this ugliness arise. Was it always here and he was simply blind to it? Had he ever travelled through the city before out of uniform and in the company of a foreigner? He couldn't recall any instance of that.
The bells interrupted his reverie and he wheeled back to face the group with a finger over his lips. "Do not raise your voices," he instructed, "until the second bell, avoid idle chatter. When we get past that gate do not speak unless addressed, save to thank the Traveller for a safe journey."
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Caio lets out an a short, exasperated sigh.
”Precisely, so let us not dawdle. Lead on, humble guide.” Caio gestures down the street with one hand while using his the gloved thumb of the other to wipe the last bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth.
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
Beschcadik's streets unfurl before the Septem Mortale in layers, each corner revealing another glimpse of the empire's splendour. The air is thick with the scent of spice, oil and dust, which somehow leaves every breath tasting faintly metallic. Traipsing through the narrow arteries of the capital, they curl up past marble balconies and latticed archways. Sandstone buildings loom close on either side, their ochre faces carved with geometric Sarameian motifs, while the domes and minarets atop them sparkle with inlaid lapis and gold.
Further from the markets, the street criers fade into the hum of caravan bells, rattle of distant wheels and whispers of fabric and prayer. The cobblestones here gleam faintly with the sheen of ritual polish and silver-threaded banners bearing the crescent sigil of Khonsu flutter from lampposts. The people here still part for the outsiders, but not as dramatically as before. It's subtle, like water bending around an unknown shape. Mothers tug their children closer, merchants murmur about ill omens and a few hands sketch protective signs in the air. Every set of eyes that dares linger longer than a heartbeat feels like scrutiny. Even the bead-counting priests, barefoot pilgrims and watchmen with their halberds, who seem devoutly absorbed in their routines, all keep the newcomers at the edge of their vision.
Through Ghoul’s sight, Caio notes that the rhythm of surveillance has changed. The urchins and hawk-eyed vendors have thinned out, replaced by figures more practiced. A patrol at a corner that doesn’t approach, an acolyte who pauses mid-sweep of the temple steps to glance at the group and then at a nearby obelisk etched with faintly humming wards. The locals whisper words like djinn, half-spirit and false saint as the Septem Mortale pass. One small boy stares up at Alaris until his father hurriedly scoops him away, muttering apologies.
Iskander keeps a brisk pace, his clipped tone and proud bearing marking him as a man of the city, even as he bristles at his companions' unfiltered tongues. Every so often, he gestures discreetly to slow, to turn, or to avoid a patrol that might take too close an interest. His irritation is the group's shield. He plays the weary handler of foreigners so well that guards avert their eyes rather than engage.
At last, the thoroughfare opens into a broad avenue of moonstone and white marble, leading to the temple complex itself. The Temple of Khonsu rises at its end like a celestial mirage. Tiered colonnades of pale stone shimmer under the pale evening sun and the temple's domes are carved with crescents and orbiting stars. In the courtyard, lines of worshippers kneel before a reflecting pool, where light and shadow dance across the water's surface. The temple bells begin to toll a deep, resonant rhythm that marks the hour of dusk prayer. The sound rolls over the city like the beat of an enormous heart. For the those new to the city, it is the first time that Beschcadik feels almost quiet. The noise of the city fades, replaced by a haunting pulse of devotion.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Iskander's unease has been building the longer their journey drew on. It's not his first time under so many watchful eyes, janissaries drew them too but this was something entirely different. He sees the looks his travelling companions are receiving and wonders what happened to his city to make this ugliness arise. Was it always here and he was simply blind to it? Had he ever travelled through the city before out of uniform and in the company of a foreigner? He couldn't recall any instance of that.
The bells interrupted his reverie and he wheeled back to face the group with a finger over his lips. "Do not raise your voices," he instructed, "until the second bell, avoid idle chatter. When we get past that gate do not speak unless addressed, save to thank the Traveller for a safe journey."