Post by sesnernioth on Apr 27, 2021 20:33:44 GMT
Eye of the Sacred
The Hierophant
“He who sees the calamity of other people finds his own calamity light.”
~Arabyan Proverb
Djesoset looked out over the Great Araby Desert, painted a regal golden-brown against the glorious backdrop of radiating gold. The sun between the horizon and dark shaded clouds--the clouds such a rarity in these lands, it took on a foreboding nature.
Djesoset was a man who stood like stone. He was tall, albeit lanky, but that did not mean he was not brawn. There was a strength locked beneath his tanned skin. Waist down he was locked within azure greaves, and a pure white sash hung from his waist which held the symbol of his ‘God’. The Djinn of the Sacred. A gloomy Obelisk beneath a gleaming Sun. He wore scale mail over his chest and stomach, and beneath a loose-fit shirt of white was worn. Lastly, each wrist was locked within a golden bracer, one etched with the moon, the other, the sun.
His eyes were gems of yellowed-emerald as he gazed out across hills of gold. Between his regal orbs, an aquiline nose hooked downward, ended above thickset lips, and chin. While his face was slightly skinnier than most of his kin, he held a look of inner power and intellect within him. Body, mind, and soul.
Djesoset then turned away from the imminent sphere in the sky, casted jeweled eyes upon twin pillars. Each ornate, painted in geometric patterns of blue and gold, gleamed by the sun. A silken curtain, which was slightly transparent, danced in the dry desert breeze. Moved like the Djinn the men and women of Araby so worshipped.
The Djinn of the Sacred raveled and blessed his soul.
Djesoset saw this blessed sign in the mundane world. In the way clouds shifted and shaped. The way a curtain or banner twisted and whipped in the wind. Even the grace of a shamshir slicing and eviscerating. He saw all things as real world signs. Whether a deep thought locked in his head. Or a vague thing. The universe attempted to show him something--to tell him something. For the better of his people--the better of his own goals and ambitions.
He was a man of mystery himself--a Hierophant.
Then, after he watched the curtain swing and loop, he shoved each side back dramatically, and moved through as a force prevailed.
As he reached the other side, he set his eyes upon the royal throne room. Between him and the throne, which sat atop a dais, were beautifully painted tiles set in geometric patterns once more. A deep ocean blue in the middle, surrounded by a shallow teal, and finally a natural shaded tan.
On either side of the elongated room two pools shimmered and reflected the setting sun. Gathered with handsome men and beautiful women, seemingly too busy and too lost to ignorant bliss to notice the towering man. Lastly, on the circumference of the room, ornate pillars hoisted with grandiose strength every several meters, and between each pair, another draped silken curtain.
Certainly a place of majesty, but was it all a façade? What dark secrets lie beneath such a place of beauty?
These secrets and more lie dormant in front of Djesoset, the Hierophant. There to be awakened. There to be found. There to aid lives, and there to destroy lives… with such a complexity surrounding it all. So was life, but for a Hierophant, dormant signs lie everywhere.
Then, he began the long march toward the dais, purposefully planted his feet with herculean strength. In a way to interrupt ignorance and announce his presence to the Prince at the far end of the hall.
Isma’il al-Bukhari, the Last Prince. An Amir that would be the last of his name as he had produced no heirs and never would, due to his infertility. A secret that had long been announced to his bitter disdain. Information with an even darker background, but remained vague to the Hierophant, and details had been convoluted beneath the veil of the Last Prince of House Bukhari. But why?
Isma’il was of average height and average build, with a dark complexion. In this, he was every part Arabyan. What separated him apart from others was his bronze hair, which had greyed at his temples, and his brazen eyes. His lips were always curled in a lopsided smile, which caused him to appear one step ahead, as if he knew what his advisors would say.
As Djesoset steps closer, several luscious women that sat upon the dais began turning toward him curiously. Even a woman who stood at Isma’il’s side, a woman who whispered sweet nothings into his ear held her tongue, slinked away.
The prince tore open a sideways grin, opened his arms wide in regal greetings. To show what blood and influence had given him. Shelter, women, food, a city-state, the army of Bukhari. But not everything was given as no wife had produced him an heir. A mockery to Isma’il and his father before him, and before his death, the Bukhari Elder made his gruesome contempt known.
Is that why he wore this mask?
“Djesoset, of the Far Desert, Priest and Hierophant of Rabātak. Rabātak is a safer place because of your work, my friend,” his eyes grew thin, but the grin remained.
Djesoset came in for a powerful arm grip, bowed his bald head to the prince as he towered over the middle aged man. “My work is a continuous cycle, Amir. It is like the winds of change out in the Great Desert. I am a constant.”
Isma’il lofted his brows, before they grew thin and stretched again--showed a sign of dissidence. “So you are. Yes, yes! You are.”
Djesoset took a step back from the dais, said, “Your enthusiasm is welcome, but not warranted, Amir.”
‘Neither is the façade,’ he thought.
“No? Ah, but am I not your prince?” he asked, brows aloft, grin now full, formed a too-wide smile. It was almost frightening with those brazen eyes of his.
Djesoset opened his mouth to answer, to protest, but his own will was swiftly consumed by horrid visions.
Abrupt and sudden.
An upheaval.
A catastrophic disillusion.
Djesoset couldn't breathe, he looked down to find one of Isma’il’s harlots touching his hand, but no longer was she human, but rather something both twisted and beautiful. The pink daemonette rolled her breasts as she arched her back in regards to temptation, but Djesoset was strong… a rock against daemon influence. The monumental man attempted to rip his limb away, but not before he got a glimpse of the Prince, garbed in deep purple, and held a staff that wiggled at its pinnacle. He grinned, and now, his mouth truly was too wide for any human. Just so, his harem grinded up and down the dais and throne.
Last of all, the city-state of Rabātak was uproared in flames, blended with the screams of terror as a slaughter commenced below.
Still, Djesoset could not breathe, and finally he peeled away from the temptress and returned to reality.
“Djesoset, you look as if you saw a ghost,” Isma’il narrowed his eyes pleasantly, “Please, stay, I insist you partake in my hospitalities.”
Sweat doused his brow as sudden, deep breaths took him into recovery. He then shakes his head, “I cannot, for I most journey deep into the desert to the land of Nehekhara, a calling forth emerges from the land of the dead and I fear it may be foreboding to the Arabyan people, and the city-state Rabātak.”
“O-oh… when you put it that way,” Isma’il frowned as a sinister scowl reached his face. “Ask of me what you wish, and be underway.”
The brazen man bowed low and far too gracious.
Djesoset nods slowly, stepping back to make room between him and the harlot who had touched him. He spoke in his distraction, “Just know, I have Eyes, as well, Amir.”
His eyes sharpened as if cut gems, stared into those unnatural eyes, before casted a glance of suspicion to the harlot. With her submission and a short gasp, Djesoset turned swiftly, marched forthright from the confines of the Buhkari holding.
* * *
A family stood at the edge of the Great Dune Sea.
A mother; her eyes the color of honey, her face vexxed as a hunting lioness.
A son; with hair knotted to his skull, watched his mother with pride.
A babe; locked in his mothers arms, babbled and reached for his father.
A father; tall and mighty with gemstone eyes looked to his family--lifted his baby boy from his wife’s arms. He raised his child up to the setting sun with a hearty chuckle, then brought him down to kiss the top of his head. The babe squealed in joy, cued as he was kissed, then handed back to his mother.
Djesoset brought his mate in with long, sinew arms, ensuring he brought his two sons in close at the same time. The man craned his neck down, kissed his wife before he rested his forehead against her own, locked eyes, said, “Something is amiss in the palace center of Rabātak. Be vigilant my wife, my sons. The Sacred Eye will look over you, but you also must be the Eye. Stay with the priests until I return. Do it. For me, for you, our sons, for I must go, for something far worse awaits this city in the far reaches of the Great Dune sea. I must find out what it is and vanquish this amorphous mystery before it is too late.”
“I understand, my husband,” she said through a frown, rested a hand over his heart, “Go as a stalwart force.”
Her brows creased in concern, held back tears, “You will come back to me, your boys. The Eye watches you.”
He took up her hand, squeezed it tight as he looked to his lioness, to his boys, “Sacred strength to you, my wife. To you, my boys.” Then, Djesoset forced himself away from his family, offering one last glance to them, before he ventured out into the sands.
A great unknown casted before him.