From the Ashes from the Yavapai
28
AUG/20
Mar’iya stared in the mirror and was aghast at the monster that he found reflecting back at him. He had caught fleeting, rippling glimpses of his own likeness in the waters of the oasis those weeks past, and he had thought himself to be a handsome and striking – if totally unfamiliar – figure. But the creature glaring back at him was a monstrosity: skin burned by weeks in the sun – lacking the dark pigmentation of the tribe, he glowed with a ghastly reddish hue; his hair was an unruly mop of black and grey; his eyes were mostly white, with a faint impression of blue irises barely evident upon the blank ocular canvas; but it was the burns that ravaged his chest, neck, and chin that were the most upsetting. The skin here was mottled and rubbery, and it made his beard only grow from the left side of his face. He looked terrifying, but at the moment, he was kind of thankful for his grotesque visage as it made people not want to engage him in any more conversation than was absolutely necessary. He could sense their palpable relief when they turned their gaze from him. Looking menacing provided another bonus as well, as it helped to mask his identity a bit further from those who might have recognized him as this Lord Vashir. The Gardiward’s son Zevi, a strapping young teenage boy, would quickly avert his eyes whenever he found himself alone with him. After several meetings, Zevi, fortified by the impertinence of youth, asked him what had happened to his face with a look of horrified fascination. “The red head of Tiamat rules Balic. Her most ardent followers will baptize themselves in flames to show their devotion to Her,” he had lied. The truth was much simpler: he had gotten his ass kicked by a defiler.
It was a miracle – if Vashir even believed in such things – that he had survived that battle. The Yavapai had gone in after Rain and had all died horribly, save Oni and Pakka. Vashir had seen Rain’s limp body dragged back to the hideout and heard his groans of pain and confusion, but he had consoled himself with the thought that the young waterbringer was most likely dead soon anyway. It was delusional – the young cleric was far too valuable to be allowed to die – but the thought felt better than the acceptance of the fact that Vashir had left the young cleric to his fate. He was mortified, yet relieved, when he stumbled upon Oni and Pakka in the desert sands outside of the den. Shame washed over him from his cowardice in hiding during most the fight, but this emotion paled in comparison to the relief he felt that he would not have to fend for himself in the harsh desert wastes. Weakened as he was, he did not feel he would have lasted the day on his own. Instead, the three of them found themselves spirited aboard winged horses and headed towards the magnificent city of Raam.
That whole day was surreal, but it was even more so when he had been so quickly recognized inside the city by members of the Gardiward household – even as burned and haggard looking that he was. Vashir Tenewrath. Vashir Tenewrath. The name felt foreign to his tongue; like he was forming the words with a mouthful of sand. This name was a bygone relic of a dead man; a corpse discarded in the desert to rot. Mar’iya had only just grown to accept this name and his place in the Yavapai tribe, beginning to view them as friends and family rather than lording over them with an inflated sense of self-importance; and now that had all been ripped away from him. He would now have to possess this body; this stranger; this…Vashir. Like an amateur puppeteer, he frantically worked the strings and mouthed the words of this flesh marionette. Somehow, the guards seemed satisfied by this ruse, and he an Oni were escorted to the Gardiward manor home. It all seemed too easy – and nothing in this world was ever easy – and that realization ate away at Vashir. He tried to maintain an aura of calm and authority, but inside he was in a panic; assured that they were being led away to inevitable torture and death.
But that did not happen. The Gardiward’s were very giving, if suspicious. He did get some clues about his life prior to being left for dead in the desert, in addition to his name. Apparently he had been a Templar of Balic, in service of one known as the Thir-King. These words meant less than nothing to Mar’iya, but the seemed to instill a sense of fear and reverence in those in the know. Mar’iya learned to hone his psionic abilities, and he read the thoughts that danced upon their host’s subconscious minds in an effort to learn more, and finding there fear, uncertainty, and….hope? The Gardiward’s craved an alliance with his family, Vashir realized, though he had no recollection of who his family was. Their eyes lit up as they spoke the Tenewrath name – the mere mention of it bringing to their mind wealth and power and prestige – Vashir noted with a sense of pride, as he read their thoughts and the hope in their eyes. Tenewrath meant nothing to Vashir, though; he would say his name over and over in the mirror, hoping that the incantation would magically cause memories to bloom; but the soil of recollection always remained barren and dry. Still, the thought pleased him. His family were people of means. He was someone to be feared. It would be a simple matter to promise the Gardiward’s an allegiance and have them arrange for passage back to Balic; back to normalcy. Back to….whatever his life had been, prior to being deposited in the desert to die.
That last thought gnawed at Vashir persistently. He was a person of means, from a family of wealth and privilege; but he had clearly made a very powerful enemy somewhere along the way: someone powerful enough to burn the very color from his eyes and drop him ignobly in the desert hundreds of miles from his home. That level of power was awe-inspiring, and it meant that he needed to get as far away from people who knew this Vashir Tenewrath as possible. He stopped suddenly. If word got out that he was still alive, then this powerful foe would most certainly come after him to finish the job. Having an enemy of this magnitude was one thing, but having zero idea who it might be was something else entirely. He would need to find a way to make Lady Gardiward keep his reemergence a secret, and instill fear in her household staff that they not speak his name to anyone. By the Five, I should have had them use the name Mar’iya this whole time, I had just been so tantalized by the revelation of my name and title, he realized ruefully. It was too late now. There was no way they could keep this secret without killing everyone in the Gardiward household, and that was not an option…was it?
No. They needed to win over the Gardiwards over so they could keep his secret as long as possible. Mar’iya hadn’t any idea how this Vashir character acted, so he just brought to mind a coiled viper that could strike at any moment. He assuaged their unease with calm platitudes and empty, vague promises. He treated Oni with the narcissistic elitism that he had displayed in the desert, and only recently tried to lay to rest, disturbed by how its reemergence fit him like a tailored glove. Oni, for his part, played the role of his subservient very well, but Mar’iya knew that it ate the proud warrior up inside. Mar’iya felt immense guilt at this master servant role, but he also knew that if he broke the façade for even a moment, their lives might be forfeit. He spent his waking hours reading the thoughts of the Gardiward household, and most of them reacted as expected to his presence, and he hardly needed his psionic senses to detect the fear and unease that radiated off of them when he was around. Only the silver dragonborn warrior who acted as the Highguard for the Gardiward household, and David, their councilor and mage, seemed immune to from displaying a sense of reverential fear when he was around; this was a tantalizing bit of information. These two showed great promise, for their free-thinking and bravery; and it also meant that they were very dangerous. We need to win them over to their side, lest they betray us, Mar’iya counseled Oni in his mind. The young monk smiled wryly, never dropping the guise of a servant, and silently responded Not to worry, I have a plan…