Breekai shuffled from foot to foot, for a nimble footed thief, it was an unusual stance, but then so was the situation he found himself; the guard was immune to all the enticements that Breekai promised. Finally, having decided that it was a futile exercise to convince the guards, he traced his steps back to the town market and walked into the crowded tavern; there were no obligations on him not to have a drink, or two or four, he was not on a job.

The theft of Adrushta's knife, which is what he now called the knife, seemed to have carved away some of his luck. He had wanted to leave Diaphini at the earliest instance possible, despite there being no great hue and cry over the missing knife and the fact that he had concealed it quite well; he was not keen to be found with that knife in his possession.

Unfortunately, it appeared that Adrushta had different plans for him, a sudden unexplained outbreak of a common yet highly contagious tropical fever had necessitated an emergency quarantine, no ships were allowed to enter the port, those that were already in the port were not allowed to disembark and no person was allowed to board the ships. It was a more of an imprisonment than quarantine, one which left Breekai both flustered and upset.

A week later, he was at his wits' end; stealing away from the town seemed impossible and neither subtle threats nor explicit promises of wealth had induced the guards to allow him to leave the town and proceed inland. It was not an advisable course of action and would also involve a significant amount of expense, if he had to make his way inland to the nearest port and then catch a boat to his meeting place.  However, it was a journey he would undertake, there was no point in stealing the knife if one could not boast of the achievement.

And so he sat in the tavern, which despite the fever raging around, showed no signs of decreased clientele, holding a fourth mug of warm wine, one that he was now tempted to drink it up, he met Vella.

Vella was a Banjaran, which was identifiable by the distinct colourful garb that she wore and the extraordinary amount of jewellery, mostly made of shell, wooden and silver beads, with which she adorned herself with. She had plunked herself  at his table, in a jingling of the beads and Breekai needed no specific introduction as to who she was, he was not inclined to be friendly with the free wandering nomadic tribes, who had gained a notoriety, quite undeserving and mostly exaggerated, of being tricksters and cheats. He would have dismissed her presence had he not overheard her loud whispers as to how they planned to slip out of the city gates.

That perked up his interest, at that point he could make any deal to get out of the city, a bargain with a Banjaran, even if they lived up to their reputation of being tricksters, was not something he would balk from.

Karmappa sat cross legged on the stony outcrop that marked the end of Idorean and the start of the Maneelk hills, it was his personal vantage point from where he could see the cluster of villages. He ran his palm over the worn leather cover of the battered journal, centuries of practice had made it seem like an harmless gesture; none could see that the ensign branded onto his palm aligned with the faded, almost invisible motif on the cover, the alignment rendered ink on the paper to be visible. To anyone else, it still looked to be an old battered journal, and if anyone could open it to read, they would only be able to read the drab accounting of the everyday things that Karmappa recorded, which bored them within a couple of pages.

His actual detailing could be read only by a Script Inker, such as himself.

As he flipped through the pages, he felt the weight of the centuries descend on him, though he had lost count of them, it was difficult and unnecessary to count the years, especially when one was almost immortal. In the beginning it had been exhilarating, with endless possibilities, after all there was so much one could do when one did not age nor die. However, after a few centuries, when he had travelled all over the world, more than twice, boredom set in. That was when he wished he could stay in a place, settle down, live a normal life, which he soon learnt was denied to one who was nearly immortal.

He opened the book to read...

The pen is mighty for it etches in stone,
The sword is powerful for it carves in blood,
In the end both are mere tools of mortals,
The metal or size does not matter,
What counts is the courage,
In the hand that wields either.

~Cissi, beloved Consort of Lenjil~

As a child I had often wondered what foolishness drove the necessity to read and write, despite it always being a woman's chore to learn the letters, I had yearned to run free in the sun, feeling the warm wind on my face and the wet grass under my feet. Today, as I hold the pen to ink the I am grateful for my learning and honoured to the be Script Inker, though the truth be told, it would soon be a burden, one that I must willingly carry....

Cissi had gotten it right, it was a burden, the constant moving from place to place, never lingering long enough for the people to notice that he did not age. There was never a chance to find a woman, to settle down, to build a home have a family. None of those ordinary dreams for him, he had to keep moving. Not that he had not tried, he did. The woman had been petite and pretty, with a laugh like the gentle bells, their only regret then had been that they did not have children, which he later realised was a blessing. For as time passed, she aged and grew bitter that he was not marked in any way, that while she wrinkled and bent, he still stayed tall and supple. She had died cursing him, convinced he was a demon spawn who had stolen her youth and beauty. It was after her death that he decided to never get attached or stay rooted in a place for more than a couple of decades.

His aimless wanderings had brought him to Idoaren.

______________________________

Idoaren was a village nestled in the foothills of the Maneelk Range, to its north, around two krosas, equivalent to four miles was the village of Aeloss, and at a similar distance, to its south stood the village of Dasser. The villages were all watered by the River Conaer and its multiple tributaries.

It was a small village, consisting of around twenty five families, all but few, relying on farming to eke a living. Despite it appearing to be an idyllic village, characterised by a rolling landscape, with the stone hills to the west and the gradual sloping of the land to the east which led to the sea, albeit a distance of some two hundred miles away, life was not easy. The inhabitants worked from sun up to sun down on the fields, growing cotton, millets and lentils, and any time that could be spared from the planting and weeding and guarding would be spent either on ginning and spinning the cotton fine yarns, which were then traded with the weavers for cloth. It was a hard work, one that left almost everyone with bent backs and calloused fingers, but it also ensured full bellies and comfortable lives.

He had first come across the village a hundred and fifty years ago, when Kau'tilika's great grandfather, Gi'rin had been the village blacksmith. Though he had liked the village and had appreciated Gi'rin's friendship, he knew he could not settle down, not when it would be evident that he had hardly aged, while Gi'rin had turned grey and grizzled. He had left one day, bidding a silent goodbye to his friend, knowing that if he ever managed to return, his friend would not be around.

It was almost sixteen years ago that Karmappa returned to the village, confident that none would have heard of him. He did not know what drew him back and a visit that was supposed to last for a week or two before he moved on had turned out to be a much longer one. He had been around when Aindri had been born and as Ina's granddaughter, a few months older to Aindri, was a sickly child and demanded a lot of attention from both her mother and grandmother, Aindri often spent all her spare time following Karmappa and carrying a wooden stick, which she proclaimed to be a sword. None could understand her fascination with swords, she never took to playing with dolls and when Karmappa once told her the story of the fantastical blade, she was smitten.

He had wanted to be useful and volunteered to teach the young kids the rudiments of sword fighting, to keep them out of trouble and Aindri was his favourite student, and also one of the best.

____________________________

It was in the evenings, when the air was cooler and he would not be troubled by any of the young that he would go over the journal. Despite having read the accounts multiple times, he enjoyed reading them all over again; it gave him a new insight each time he read them and it fascinating as to how the account would differ based on the viewer's perspective. Cissi was the first Script Inker and her writings had an academic yet personal touch to them, she was, after all, Lenjil's wife; Lenjil, who had been the first Blade Dancer. She had lived for less than fifty years after Lenjil had died, waiting for the next Script Inker to reach her; her travels, which she had thought were unplanned and with no specific direction, were carefully orchestrated to let her be in the right place, at the right time. It could be instinct that drove the Script Inker or maybe it was the call of the sword, but they would find the successor.

Writing out Lenjil's experiences with his sword is exciting; it is as though I have been on battleground, fighting alongside him. The most surprising is the blade; it is not the silvered one with pearly markings anymore. It was slightly broader, more fitting Lenjil's physique, with inscriptions that ran in two rows on either side of the fuller; the blade gleamed gold in sunlight, and the large oval quartz sparkled as fire. But those were mere physical changes, the most startling one was that no blood would stick to the blade, despite him using it repeatedly, there is never any sign of blood....

...he misses Temir, though we do not speak of his friend anymore; it hurts him to even take his name. And when not recounting his wars, he describes the stances, which I dutifully note down, though am never too sure if I have got them right. I try though and it helps, I suppose...

...and Smokey is a wonderful companion, not one to talk much but then his ageless grey eyes seem to convey...

Karmappa smiled, Smokey sounded wonderful and he knew how it riled his friend to be addressed as thus. It also did seem incongruous to have someone who had never held a sword write about how to fight with one, but then one could never say what impulse guided them to write down what they did; however it was irrefutable that the knowledge gathered and transmitted was immense.

While the accounts were not in similar style, each recorded the history of the sword as it was held by the Blade Dancer. Cissi's successor was a tall thin dour faced man, who took his duties as a chronicler with utmost seriousness and all the pages were filled with characters in calligraphic brush strokes, one that looked pretty on the paper but had been quite difficult to master. It did, however, help him pass quite a few decades, as Karmappa had travelled to that large island and lived as a monk while he learnt their language and customs.

In the earlier times, the sword had been frequent in its appearances and though the wars had been dark and depressing, none had not lasted for more than a few years; the longest had lasted for a decade and had nearly wiped out most of the life forms. Hence there had been no Script Inker who had to live for more than a couple of centuries and it irked him that he had to be around for more than forty centuries, with memories of his childhood and days spent with the Blade Dancer now seeming to be more like dreams.

____________________________

However, today Karmappa was troubled and found no solace in the readings of the book. Unable to read further and not wanting to write what he felt was a mundane record of a centuries of humdrum existence, he slapped the book shut.

From his vantage point he could make out the silhouettes of the villages as they prepared for the harvest months. And as his eyes wandered about his surroundings, he noticed subtle differences, the heat was a trifle more oppressive than it was usual for that part of the year; with the Arka festival slated a couple of months ahead, there should be a nip in the air, not the hot grip of an unrelenting summer. The monsoons had also not been able to cool the winds, they blew hot and dusty. It made him morose, more so than ever and he found himself contemplating on the dilemma which plagued him as Aindri grew older.

Aindri had never given up on her dream of making that legendary sword sing and he never stopped fearing that it would happen; it would be too great a price to pay for his death. He was tired of living but if it meant keeping Aindri away for achieving her dreams, he would live on for another few centuries. And the upcoming Arka festival would be her first one as a woman, a girl standing on the brink of adulthood, a time of excitement and anticipation for most the girls of her age.

For though the festival was ostensibly to pay homage to the Sun and to thank him for the bountiful harvest; it was also a celebration, a meeting of all the people in the nearby dozen villages, with the added presence of the wandering nomads, the Banjaras. It was also tradition to settle matrimonial alliances. Most young people looked forward to this festival while Aindri was uninterested, reluctant even. She would never speak out her intentions, but he knew her well and he dreaded at what she could do to get out any prospective alliance, a dread made worse by the knowledge that she was an exceptional fighter and not above resorting to physical violence to get her way.

____________________________

Karmappa felt his presence even before he saw him; it was only Dhumaketan who could appear out of thin air. He smiled, "It is good to see you, friend, though I might have a complaint or two regarding the time lapse between the visits."

His visitor grinned and sat down in silence beside Karmappa, who continued, "So what brings an immortal being to condescend to visiting an old man such as myself?"

This goaded his friend to reply, "You seem to be surlier than usual, what is that disagrees with you now? The food or the weather? Or the fact that they use pictures to write or that they do not bother to read? I thought you must have outgrown the need to crib about the deplorable conditions you have been consigned to."

Karmappa laughed and looked at the young man, who still had a few wisps of smoke flitting at his edges, with a fondness developed over years of interaction. He was tall, far taller than most humans he had ever seen, nearly touching seven feet and had broad wide shoulders with a dynamic physique. With a face that could be considered handsome by any race of humans, his extreme tallness was overlooked, which was in part on account that he was rarely visible in the human form. He had a strong and defined face and skin of pale brown, the shade contrasted by the soft brown robes he wore. He moved with a deadly grace of a stalking panther but with a warm smile that could charm almost anyone. It was his eyes that were startling, dark smoky grey and ageless; the only indication that he was far older than what he looked.

They sat in silence, for words were not much needed between friends. And friends they were, despite the stark contrast in their natures and origins, and even if it had taken Karmappa a few centuries to learn to trust him.

The silence continued as the sun set and the night advanced . In spite of the friendship they shared, and while visits from Dhumaketan had been rare over the past, Karmappa could make out that the silence was not normal; it was more like a prelude to an announcement. And Dhuma, though not given to rambling or procrastination, would let him know when he wanted to, so Karmappa waited.

However, nothing prepared him for the chill that swept through him when he heard Dhuma say, "Things are stirring. It is time, I think."