Burning Nile Scene 01

Ipwet's mill is basically shut down at this point. A lone young apprentice is on staff, mainly to run for help if the mill is beset by angry citizens rioting against Ipwet's choice of grain suppliers, or perhaps they may be convinced she is to blame for the unfortunate incidents plaguing the city of late. The child is running around trying to look busy and mostly failing. With no grain coming in everything there was to do got done days ago but the child knows she is likely to get switched if caught idle, especially with strangers in the vicinity.

Ipwet does not contribute much to the conversation, she is a woman of action and with the current state of her business her patience is running thin. She scoffs at anyone suggesting a supernatural cause to the absence of the flood or the slaves, however anyone who puts forth an actual plan to handle the matter practically she will ultimately agree with. "Look, we'll be at this all night at this rate! Why are we wasting our time yammering? The only way to find out what is going on is to go investigate the matter ourselves, gods know if we wait for the Empress and her "Advisors" we'll be sitting here until NEXT flood season and I'll have died of starvation long before that!"

Adom wears a dour expression. Everything about Ipwet has rubbed him the wrong way from the very beginning. The obvious lack of respect for her betters, her close relationship with the elves who could not seem to see that the time of their greatness had passed, and, if he is honest with himself, the raw potential for physical violence that seems hidden just beneath the surface of her impatient demeanor. His fingers itch with the desire to reach for the dagger tucked into the sash at his waist, but he refuses to indulge in such a childish comfort.

Sighing heavily, he finishes the last of the wine sitting in the bottom of the plain wooden goblet set in front of him and makes a sour face for a moment. What could he expect from a host like this woman? Deciding the evening may yet drag on, and not enjoying prospect of it, he briefly contemplates another cupful of the swill, but he slides the goblet to the edge of the table and waves dismissively at the upstart ditch digger, Tefri, he recently purchased. Something about him, too, disturbed Adom, but the man had been adamant about being willing to do whatever it would take to find his wife. And having someone around who relies solely upon oneself could be... useful.

He tries not to think about the damage this may be doing to his reputation. Amenset and her connections may be doing their best to smear his name, and he fears every day he lets it go on is another step backward for his ascension to the heights of the priesthood. Consorting with elf-lovers and even an actual elf... he is desperate indeed.

"You would do well not to speak so lightly of the gods or the God-Empress... but I fear you may be right." He lets a vicious smirk grow on his face. "And as much as many people might enjoy watching you starve, I can say that I want to discover the cause of this disaster as much as you." He seems to come to a decision. "If I must, I will consult with the spirits again to see if I can discover anything new. I have not heard the voices of those who disappeared in the tomb since the moment they vanished." He glances in Tefri's direction. "And though I am loathe to admit it, the timing of all of this seems a bit too much of a coincidence."

He directs a level stare at Sabra. The elves have no reason to love men, or their priests. Vipers. He has fallen into a nest of vipers, but they are the vipers he needs if he is to undo whatever went wrong at the tomb and clear his name. The fact that he had been toying with such powers before the ritual is beside the point. Besides, if he can follow the path of those gone into whatever twilight they had disappeared in, he might forge an even stronger connection to the souls of the dead.

Tefri stood against the wall of the room awaiting any requests from his master, Adom. The once proud, Nubian had done far less savory tasks since his enslavement, but there was something about serving this master that was particularly unappealing. A man that purports to touch divinity and speak to the dead. Tefri must stifle a laugh for a fear of receiving the lash. But his master might be the only one who could help Tefri find his wife and for that hope alone there is no depth to which he would not stoop.

As if on cue, Tefri see his master's dismissive gesture and dutifully retrieves the cup. Right away, Master Adom, he recites coldly with a bow and takes it to the kitchen for more wine. He keeps a careful eye on the comings and goings of people in the mill and any interesting features of the building itself.

Sabra sits upright in his chair looking at the others. Even the lowliest farmers among the elves had more dignity than these man children here. What did they know of the Song Eternal? Nothing. Yet here he was, rubbing elbows and breaking bread in Ipwet's hovel.

Though it had been fifty years since he had last been this close to what he had lost, he remained calm. This priest would lead them back to where it all had begun.

Sabra could taste the palpable freedom. So close but if he wanted it, he'd have to take it. He rested his hand on his scabbard.

Tefri returns quickly with the wine and leans over Adom's right shoulder to serve it to him. Tefri whispers to his master then stands behind him.

Adom sees Tefri returning with the goblet and an annoyed expression crosses his face. He would now have to at least take another sip of the stuff, but only enough to be polite, as much as he might want to drown the unpleasantness. Sabra's hand was still dangerously close to his weapon and... then Tefri gives him the message.

Raising an eyebrow at Tefri, he sighs loudly. "As though we needed another problem. What is it now? Drunken louts come to burn this place down? Someone having their fun with some strumpet?" He smirks. "Somebody teaching an upstart elf some manners?" They were all petty jabs, but Adom was past being gracious this evening.

Immediately Ipwet's gaze darkens (if that were possible) and her entire body goes tense, all her muscles alert and ready to snap. "Hush, all of you! Something isn't right..." She listens for a moment more, scowling at Adom's wisecracking but saying nothing.

Ipwet gives her apprentice a look filled with silent meaning, the child retreats to a back entrance and hides herself. Without another word she rises from the meeting and silently flies up the steps to the upper level of the mill and the tiny balcony used to make repairs on the fins.

The cruel mirth on Adom's face bleeds into fear that he tries to hide at the new blood-curdling scream in the street outside. His hand drops to the dagger at his side and he mouths the mantras to clear his mind and form the connection to the spirits of the nearby dead if he needs their aid.

No longer did he imagine the drunken antics of simple townsfolk. That was the kind of scream he hears in his dreams. The ones where he relives the last moments of those he called upon. He stands and walks toward the door, gesturing Tefri to the other side of it with a nod and handing him a large wooden dowel sitting against a wall. The man may be a slave, but he needs Adom alive to get his wife back.

Glancing back at Sabra, uncomfortable with the idea of an elf with a blade at his back, he grits his teeth and pushes it out of his mind. If he were going to try anything, he would have done so already. Adom had provoked him enough. And he could prove useful if whatever this was came to blows.

Tefri takes the dowel and stands ready at the door. His knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip and nods to Adom indicating his readiness.

Sabra lets his training take over. He does not wait for the others. He begins to sing the Song of the Sword. If the humans are mesmerized by it, so be it. Perhaps it will give this rider pause too. He calls to mind the verses of the Elven Heroine Chin’nesstre whose sword sang with her. His own blade begins to vibrate as he steps into the middle of the street, equipping his shield.

His voice lifted in song, his eyes half closed, his khopesh crescendos as he waits for his foe to advance on him.