The House of Andalusia

[Guest Andalusia]

(( Welcome! Feel free to join if you'd like. Some things I might end up changing in my posts after a while as we go along.. but of course I will ask you if this is alright, those of you who are planning on joining. I will explain things after they are said in the character settings. ))

 

 

 

Amox-Clav

 

 

The city of Myran

"Two cazas!" shouted someone from afar, the eyes of those on stand shifting back and forth between an anticipating, anxious crowd. Their chains clinking noisily, yet soundlessly towards the vast sea of whites and silvers, the colors of the crowds clothing a swirling array of various shades.

"Four cazas!" shouted someone else.. a woman? The people turned to stare wide eyed at the woman who was brave enough to shout out such an outrageous price for a slave.

"Going once!" shouted the auctioneer.. the crowd aghast at the womans appearance, much like their own, with aquatic eyes of startling insight, and pale blonde white hair falling against the womans brightly colored Kimono. Such pride, such.. innapropriate measures.. No woman was allowed

"Going twice!" in the slave market, let alone a woman of high class society.. born and raised in wealth and comfort.. Noone would dare! Noone

"Going three times! And.." but her. "Sold!" shouted the auctioneer.

"Done." stated the woman, her voice barely more than the whisper of the wind, which lay blowing softly about the crowd in the square.

"Which one would you like.. er.. Mistress?" asked the auctioneer, his voice questioning and unsure of how to react to such a thing.. never done before.

"I would take... all of them. Four cazas a piece." stated the woman with comfort, moving slowly towards the stand, her hair cascading down her shoulders in an unretained manner, her sandals clicking softly on the stone tiles along the walkway.

"All of them, for four cazas!?" the man asked in shock, staring at her as though she were mad. Yet the woman simply removed her purse from her sash and began to remove the rcazas, the small, crystal coins clinking together and shimmering in the half lighting. The auctioneer hurrying to count the price, murmering beneath his breath all the while to count..

"Eighteen slaves, four cazas a piece, one caza worth twenty crucibles.."

"That would be seventy-two cazas." she stated clearly, handing him a handful, which he placed in the registration box beside the podeum.

"Yes.. seventy-two." was his final response. How? Why?? Why would such a woman need so many slaves? What would she do with them? Women did not own property.. not.. unless they came of heritage and great old fasioned family.

"Actually.. I do." she prompted, smiling broadly at him from behind baby pink lips, her pearly teeth straight and true.

The man stared at her, unsure of what else to say and certainly unsure of what to think... a woman who read minds was a dangerous thing. Yet he recovered,

"And.. what name do I put the ownership under?" he inquired.

"Well, I should think you might put it down under Willow." she prompted hastily, eyeing the man before letting her aqua gaze slide towards the milato prisoners, smiling at each of them. Letting them become nervous and shift in their bonds.

"Willow?" asked the man, before recovering his wit, "Willow -"

She was ahead of him, yet again, "Willow DreamBringer." she smiled once more at him, her gaze locked on his as he scribbled it down hastily, messily in his notebook.

"Here.." he handed her a piece of parchement that read when translated:

 

The ownership of these slaves whose names are listed below, are legally paid and signed for by Mistress Willow DreamBringer on the date of Mart 52, Bilandow. In the marketplace of Myran, T'Sandrel:

Macholi Unab

Resch Truande

Sherib Unab

Nuya Koda

Sayra Niteshade

Nawari Pitsube

Mi'il Tuwa

Kael Mitsohofft

Nuguyan Lubada

Dec'Ad Lorbado

Hetarue Tischt

Tsuch Mitan

Metanus Que'Run

Xander Mifstoffen

Morina Caelwater

Itsa Miwado

Terrad Mifstoffen

Draken Mil'Etone

 

 

She smiled blankly, folding the parchement and placing it neatly in her purse, patting it, then signalling with her fingers to bring them along. Which the gaurds did, without hesitation. They knew it was undone, they knew better then to question her though.. after all, she had just bought a fortune worth of slaves.

 

Willow took her time, wading in and out of the crowd who broke apart slowly as she did so, walking towards the street, where carriages sat ready to leave upon word. Five per carriage, they fit comfortably in them. The seats of wood so that they would not be spoiled by dirt.. the lanterns unlit as the sun was always in the sky.

 

The gaurds turned after doing their jobs, and began to fumble, and talk in murmers to one another as Willow seated herself in the first carriage, the horses having been trained to follow the one, with distractions added. And so she made a motion to the driver, and the carriages began to move, swaying with the strides of the horses whose hooves clipped and clopped lazily on the stone.

 

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Ceili, Home of Willow DreamBringer

 

The slaves had been introduced to their Mistress formally, and had been cleaned by the water from the spring and by blessed water out of the shrine, they had been placed in freshly pressed dresses and pants, each of light cotton and vibrant colors, each had been seated at Willow's dinner table, and served a variety of things: venison covered in a bitter sweet chocolate sauce, banana and wafer puding, golden buns smothered in honey, sweet leaves filled with honeyed black nuts the size of a hard candy with a dish of honey sauce for dipping, roast beast in garlic and rosemary, thyme goose, baked ribs in tang sauce, and all to be washed down with spiced cider, red wines, white wines, blood wynes for those who cared, spring water, and lemon water.

 

Much to the prisoners delight, though they ate cautiously, unsure of how to respond to such a gracious hostess, they enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

Yet Willow spoke up, tapping her fingernail on a crystaline goblet form her chair at the head of the table.

"My guests.. or.. servants, whichever you will choose to be called. I bring you here not to work you like the dogs that you have been sold as- and not at petty prices at that, but to become my friends and my companions and to work here and live here as though it is your own house. You have all been arranged rooms, two to a room I'm afraid, though I am sure this is fine with you?"

she stopped and gazed around, the servants murmering responses, their once gloomy faces having lit like the candles that blazed the room, shadowing pictures of flowers and places on the walls.

"I expected as much, do not be shy, for I do not have patience for those who do not speak their minds." she prompted, stating it just so they would understand. And they did, and began to smile. They looked different then they had when she had bought them, cleaner, happier.. relieved.

"You will clean and manage this as your own house, though remember that there are those who you should have more respect for, such as I."

They smiled at her, nodding as though they understood, which she was sure they did.

"Good.. then, you may finish your gestation and retire to your rooms." She pulled her chair slowly, begining to walk away.. Yet she stopped at the step at the door, "Oh.. and.. You may call me Andalusia while you are here. But away, you may call me Willow.. I have my reasons, should anyone ask."

 

(( In Greecian times, which I have based this on.. to a point, families had two names for each person, one that the family and close friends called them, and one that others called them. This was to confuse the gods and spirits so that they would not suffer consequences for sins accused. ))

 

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Shalimar Temple

 

Willow looked about her, tugging her cloak on over her head, pushing the silver locks that strayed into her aqua eyes behind her pointed ears. She tugged lazily on the overly large sleeves, letting them drape across her hands, her nails gittering like glass in the dimmed lantern lighting.

 

To the temple she must go.. Like she had done since the day she was considered a woman, since the day she was allowed in the temple.

 

The dirt path beneath her crunching as she made her way towards the temple, the mud-brick walls smoothed over by hand, the dry and caked mud sanded over. She opened the heavy door, stepping in the airy building..

 

(( Will continue later.. By the way- Nice to see you again, Mina! ))

[Guest Andalusia]

(( Continuation of the last post. ))

 

The mingled scent of insense and candlewax met her nose, making her close her eyes momentarily to take it all in. So many memories of this temple, so many generations of prayers and spilt blood against the floor.. so many things she remembered having seen or been told.

 

She lingered for a moment, before striking a match and lighting the nearest burner with a loud ssssszzzzz and crack! followed by an immense flame that towered above all. From this, she carried a piece of blessed lotus stem, taking the stem and dipping it into the flaming oil, she walked to each of the candles lining the walls in their copper lotus shelves and casings, lighting each of the white, flower pressed candles so their flames danced and wiggled in their perfect little hobbles of wax.

 

She lit an insense slowly, before waving it out with a simple gesture of her hand, as though she was annoyed with something, the smoke wafting into the air in circles, before she set it into it's stand, the birch wood having been shined, the flame having an image against the smooth surfacing. The ash tray beneath it funneling into a crystal jar through an opening in the caps.

 

With this done, she looked to the roof, it was thatched with small openings of willow thatching for tiny splotches of the neverending light to seep in and shine on the smooth brick floor, the rays caught by tiny suncatchers of crystal and dancing against the walls, which were painted with lotus blossoms and pussy willow, reeds and trees of all types. Generations had painted these, using the same recipe for paint as the ones before them had, crushed blossoms for paint. The paintbrushes themselves set in tiny jars, their tweed heads glittering in the light.

 

She turned slowly, the click of her sandals dulled against the brick and clay of the flooring tiles, to face a sculpture that stood on a pedestall four feet from the ground, made of granite and marble, painted in gold swirls. The sculpture placed farthest from the heavy door whose gold handle glittered oddly in the lamplight. Lamps shining from clasps on the cieling, in the corners of the room, had remained lit, as they had since the first day they were ever lit. If anything should blow them out, it would mean that the spirits who looked to guidance would be lost.. and that would not do at all.

 

The sculpture of stone showing both a man and a woman in an embrace, the woman in a sculpted kimono and robes, the man in breeches and apparently loose shirt. Animals and plants springing at their feet. A fresh trickle of holy water flowing from a fountain between them, the source being a pitcher in the womans arms which ran from the spring beneath the ground, tilted downward, letting clear water flow onto the plants, down into a gold dish on the floor where Willow now kneeled, her head between her hands, a lotus to her forhead in prayer.

 

She sat up slowly, her aqua gaze focused on the sculpture, her ears trained on the silence, broken occasionally by the crackle and hiss of the oil in the burners. She dipped the lotus' petals in the dish, letting the water bead against it. She raised her hand, being sure to be extra careful with the water, touching both the man and the moman before she whispers prayers softly for the souls who needed to be helped, and for their guidance through the other world. She removed a vial from the shelf beside the sculpture, and uncorked the cap, letting it pop! in the silence, before placing a single drop of the liquid, wine, in the second, smaller dish on the womans head- balanced perfectly. A piece of dried bread moved from the oiled cloth beside the vial, placed in the mans open hands. An offering to the spirits who needed replenishment from a weary journey.

She stood slowly, straightening her kimono before leaving the shrine, the candles and burners left lit.. A ritual to bring good.. and devour the bad, to protect the wandering and lost who needed guidance to beyond. The man had been known as Shiro. The woman as Etaru. The Lovers.

[Guest Andalusia]

*****************************************************

T'Sandrel.. 65 years ago

 

They said the house was haunted.. the one at the end of the dirt road. The one with the circular carriage way and the large, stone fountain in the middle. The one with vines growing up it's sides and the windows dirty and some cracked. The door knobs still gleaming gold as though they had been polished not long before.

But the townsfolk knew noone lived there. Not since Anoria. Not since they had hung her for her sins. Noone went near the house.. Not even near the rusted iron gates that stood as a barier against the outside world. Noone took care of the house. Noone even spoke of it.

It was true, it had been a lovely house at one point in time. When Anoria lived there. It prospered greatly from travel and it's own inheritance and ancestry.

But not now. It was empty, cold.. almost a deadly beacon to those who wandered too near. But noone did.

Those who were brave enough spoke of the house.. but only in secret. Noone knew what the house held behind it's giant doors of carved and etched stone. Noone who had ever gone in uninvited returned, and those invited wished not to speak of it, for they said that Anoria would curse them with her power..

 

There were pictures of Anoria about the town, in the most common areas. Pictures of the beauty with flaming red tresses and startling green eyes to match her creamed skin, and her attitude. Anoria in her fine gowns and objects. Anoria in all her wicked, tempting ways. But this was the Anoria they prosecuted and hung her. Not since that rainy day she had called out from the stands that she would, with no doubt, return.. and they would pay greatly for their mistakes... And the house would remain untouched until the right one came along...

 

*********************************************************

She had inherited this house, Willow, though she didn't know who from, or what she would do with it.

The first she had laid eyes upon the house.. she gasped in horror.. It would cost a fortune to repair the cracking foundation, the roof, the windows.. Clean all of it. And cost a fortune it did.. It took quite some time for the house to be restored, but when all was done, the fountain ran clear with water, letting it splash into the basin at it's base, the windows running from ceiling to floor and shining and glinting cleanly, the two moons and the suspended sun mirrored in the glass. The curtains clean and pulled back to reveal furniture of definite value and valor. The gates having been polished to a silvery color, and oiled just so they would cease to squeek idely in the sway of the weary wind.

 

Ah.. the townsfolk were quite amazed at her brave attempts, though they were vulgar to her.. Who was she to walk into the cursed house? Who was she to build where sacred ground was? Who was she to just.. up and go with all that lay behind the walls? Who was she?

 

Willow, she had called herself.. strange name.. though she was a definite foreigner.. Her aquatic eyes showing that, for none had aquatic eyes such as she. You could lose yourself in those deep pools of empty expression, though they sparkled with malice and joy when they chose.

So much like Anoria.. they whispered.. Rumors flying about the town only minutes after she had arrived. Arrived in style.. though covered deviously in a black silk cloak.. that clung mischeiviously to her curves. And what curves they were.. Her tiny waste and rounded hips to match her shoulder curve and the rounding of her calves.

 

Witch! They rumored.. surely, she had not been cursed by the touching of the gate, her fingers had not turned green and would not soon fall off like those of curious, nosey townsfolk who had even attempted touching the gate. Witch.. it must be so! It simply had no other explanation..

 

And the disliking of Willow began..

[Guest Andalusia]

They sneered at her as she passed, but often looked away when she cast her glance of ice to them.

 

Willow did not care that she was unwelcome in their world, for they were unwelcome in hers. But she did not know they considered her a witch. She really could not care what they thought. They could not cast her out, she had rightful ownership to the house- and to everything in it. The property. Those she paid to tend to it.

 

Home had become a place of security and solice for her. And in this place she was free from the whispers the townspeople often said behind her back.

 

Once the heavy stone doors of her study closed, and the dusty stained glass windows let amounts of light seep in past the creamed, pleated curtains, Willow would find herself piled high with boredome, and with that boredome, loneliness.

 

It was true; she was lonely. She argued often with herself,

"Why are you lonely? You have your money, your servants, yourself.. What more could you possibly want or need? Surely not those pathetic beings out there.. "

 

and she would answer herself,

 

"I want friends... I am tired of sneers and scoffs and shamed faces. These people act as though I am an ethereal being amongst them."

 

At this point, she would turn from the windows, remove the silver dagger from it's sheath at her sash and prick her finger- feel the bite of the cold steel break the surface of her skin, and feel the dribble of blood as its warmth trickled over the ridges of her finger to cool as it settled before she gave a heavy sigh with the raise of her bosom- her corset pressing her ribs close together beneath the crinkling satin and chiffon, the blood dripping and seperating into miniature streams- flooding towards the lace of her sleaves.

 

She tilted her hand towards the open, dusty paged leatherbound book. Actually, what appeared to be leather was really the skin of a theif who had invaded this sacred place long ago. The blood dripped- a single drop- on the parchement, trickling out across the paper in a spider-web design, connecting and splitting, seperating and spinning off to the edges of the page.

 

With the drop, she lifted her hand once more, placing her bloodied finger to her lips, letting the remainder smear across the plump plain of flesh.

 

She shut the book with a rough movement, dust spurting from its ancient pages to settle on the already mildly dusty floor. Lowering herself into the swiveling, padded chair, she placed three fingers to her forhead, rubbing her temples and murmering softly to herself, for her ears alone to hear

 

"I am mortal too.."

 

Let alone did she know that only a single person in that godforsaken town remained curious, and awake late into the early morning, his head resting on the palms of his hands, his steady gaze resting unmoving on Willow's very sanctuary.. Her home.

 

"Ah..Since that day.." his low voice rumbled from his throat, lingering in the crisp air of the early morn. The candles burning dim in their skirts of liquid wax on his table.

 

Frustration combing his mind. Being a painter, he had had no inspiration after his beloved Morinia had been swallowed by the earth, yet when that mysterious woman had appeared in the market, he could think of nothing but painting her portrait- of mixing and blending colors to perfection, colors that matched the unmarred beauty of this muse's creation in his mind..

 

A mystery she was, indeed..

 

A lonely mystery..