Post by Dominion of Zabéara on Oct 25, 2014 21:59:02 GMT
Nignb Xalthya-piz stood before the metal door to the personal quarters of Azarvan Appa-pai. She hesitated a minute before opening it, instead pausing in an attempt to discern what the Azarva was doing. Focusing intently, she could just make out the rhythmic chanting of the Jazni, the meditative chanting of verses from the Yaztha. She entered.
The Azarva sat in the middle of his spartan quarters, holding only a Malekee shrine and a simple mat upon which he sat, knees bent, head and shoulders rotating rhythmically to his own chanting. His eyes were closed, his presence intense but distant. Xalthya sat in the corner facing the master of her order, and waited. Time was not important, not here, not during the Jazni, the climbing of the divine ladder to back in Azha’s light.
In time the chanting stopped, the rotations ceased, and Appa-pai opened his eyes, locking with hers immediately. “The D’kali have reacted?”
Xalthya nodded.
“And what do they choose, the sword, the tribute, the coin, or the book?”
Xalthya shifted in hesitation.
“They, ah, equivocate. Welcoming of missionaries, but without contradicting their own doctrines…to tacitly condone their blasphemy!
Appa-pai closed his eyes and was silent for some time, then spoke: “It is not blasphemy if it is true…perhaps they worship AZHA by another name, or imperfectly. Or perhaps they worship a Malekee in error. Or…” Appa-pai trailed off, but Xalthya could discern the thought. They could be worshiping the dark one. The fountain of chaos. She shuddered.
The old Azarva noted the shudder. “We do not know that. We must find out. Upon this ship are some of the finest minds of our order. Take your pick, prepare to depart for Kalisa. Teach them of the true path, but refrain from judgement until you can discern their own. Report back to the Grand Master of the Order.”
The Azarva sat in the middle of his spartan quarters, holding only a Malekee shrine and a simple mat upon which he sat, knees bent, head and shoulders rotating rhythmically to his own chanting. His eyes were closed, his presence intense but distant. Xalthya sat in the corner facing the master of her order, and waited. Time was not important, not here, not during the Jazni, the climbing of the divine ladder to back in Azha’s light.
In time the chanting stopped, the rotations ceased, and Appa-pai opened his eyes, locking with hers immediately. “The D’kali have reacted?”
Xalthya nodded.
“And what do they choose, the sword, the tribute, the coin, or the book?”
Xalthya shifted in hesitation.
“They, ah, equivocate. Welcoming of missionaries, but without contradicting their own doctrines…to tacitly condone their blasphemy!
Appa-pai closed his eyes and was silent for some time, then spoke: “It is not blasphemy if it is true…perhaps they worship AZHA by another name, or imperfectly. Or perhaps they worship a Malekee in error. Or…” Appa-pai trailed off, but Xalthya could discern the thought. They could be worshiping the dark one. The fountain of chaos. She shuddered.
The old Azarva noted the shudder. “We do not know that. We must find out. Upon this ship are some of the finest minds of our order. Take your pick, prepare to depart for Kalisa. Teach them of the true path, but refrain from judgement until you can discern their own. Report back to the Grand Master of the Order.”