Welcome to Gaia! ::

Admittedly, Damissan’s first endeavor to educate the public as to the one true God of the people had gone less than ideally.

Fortunately, while he had underestimated the degree to which the concept would not be readily taken to, he had anticipated failures, and after coming out of the experience alive and in one piece, he took the opportunity to privately amend his strategy. No more open audiences exceeding fifty in number. No more spontaneous city square sermons, unless the specific circumstances merited it. No more presenting himself in full noble regalia before addressing the common people at large. His dress was the first to change.

It necessitated a visit to a tailor, but he arranged that easily enough, and some days after his first expedition, had a new, ‘improved’ wardrobe of slightly less obviously upper-class attire. In that, he returned to the streets of Sulburi. This time, however, he took the occasion to just watch, and listen, letting his feet guide him along the flow of traffic and observing as he never had before. The main square event had put him in further doubt of the safety of going about unarmed in a hungry city, but true to his original conviction, he remained so on this occasion also, and for a long stretch, that proved no issue.

There was something unique, he concluded, to be learned from walking in the city itself, carrying his own weight, open to the public, in it, and unseparated by the smooth, varnished and carved walls of a palace carriage. He saw more. Heard more. Experienced more.

Thus, it wasn’t specific choice or intention that lead him to stop outside the swinging doors of an inner city tavern, so much as the hand of God. Or the hand of the drunken, homeless peasant that caught at the cloth of his pants, in the literal, physical sense. More or less equatable, given the circumstances. Damissan took it as a sign.

“You…have you seen…?” the man rasped. “Have you seen the face…”

Damissan addressed him, but the conversation did not gain a great deal more coherency from there, and it was in the midst of this attempted dialogue that several of the tavern’s patrons emerged from its doors. He paid them little heed, until they addressed him directly.

“Oi, you…boy…” When this did not rouse Damissan’s attention, the speaker took a step over, voice rising a fraction in volume. “Noble brat you are, aren’t you, look this way…”

Damissan glanced, and there were three of them. After pressing a coin to the palm of the man he had been ‘speaking’ to and earning a jagged-toothed grin, he turned and stood, tucking his hands before him. When he opened his mouth, however, a laugh cut off whatever he might have said.

“Aye, yeah, yeah, I knew I remembered this one. You’re that one kid—he’s the one from the other day, who was talkin’ in the square ‘bout his…” The man waved a hand in vague sweeps, “…new ‘god of the people,’ and we were all to listen, you remember?”

Damissan waited, debating as the man who’d addressed him and his company nodded, a round of chuckling passing between them. “So I was,” he said at length. “But I was not speaking of a ‘new’ god. Merely one unrecognized and mislabeled, but in existence since before all things…”

“Eyy, listen to him, aye?” one of the other two said, looking thoroughly amused. “He’s quite serious about it, hm?”

“What’s your god’s name, boy? And it is…” the speaker coughed, lightly elbowing one of his compatriots. “It is a male…god, eh? Not a goddess?”

Damissan concluded they were, if nothing else, at least mildly intoxicated, perhaps more than mildly so. But since he had them there as an audience, and little else to do, he drew a breath. “God is all things,” he said. “He has no name, for He is all of existence, in and a part of this world and the next. And He is not ‘a’ god, for He is the god. The end, and the beginning of—”

“And this god…be-er and is-er of all…” Muffled snorts followed the words. “He spoke to you, did he? What made you so special, eh? What’re we supposed to think a great almighty saw in one little…” Red eyes trailed up and then down Damissan before the man turned, spitting in the road, “…palace-fed…tender footed lad like you? Did you walk all th’ way down to this part of town yourself? Or did someone carry you half the way?”

“Doesn’t even have a blade on him…” one noted.

“Must trust us a great lot,” their ‘ringleader’ said, eyes meeting Damissan’s, “and be real confident we’ll like hearin’ what you have to say. You’re a long ways from your pretty glimmerin’ high walls.”

Damissan’s gaze flit between them. One, to the next, to the next. At length, he tucked his hands behind himself. “I was not special—”

“Thinks he ain’t special!” one of them barked on a half-laugh. “If I had a payday any time I heard a noble say so, this’d be the first day I saw gold. Do you believe it when you say it, boy? ‘Cause you don’t look it.”

Damissan exhaled. “He saved me…sparing me from myself when my life had fallen beyond my control—”

Hoots of laughter answered him.

“Saved, he was…”

“From the horrors of palace life, oi! Gods be true, must have been some trial to be rescued from…”

The ‘humor’ of the ringleader, however, cut off as abruptly as it’d began, and the next instant, he was a foot forward, close enough Damissan could feel the heat of his breath and one fist bunched in the cloth at Damis’ chest. “Why don’t you listen here for a second, boy…you tell me about the worst day of all your pampered, foot-kissed life up there, then I and my company’ll tell you about every day o’ ours, and when we’ve finished, then you see how you feel about tellin’ us you needed divine intervention from the one god of all the world just to step down from his high tower and save your pert arse from the woes of havin’ everythin’ you ever wanted handed to you all gentle-like. How’s that sound?”

Damissan was unused to being defended. By anyone, in truth, but by a woman even less so. His former lifestyle, however, had rarely necessitated it, and challenging a society’s firmly rooted religious beliefs was proving more dangerous than he’d given it credit for. He regretted — for the second time — not having brought a weapon of his own when a hand had dragged him forward, the thought chased moments after by an unspoken prayer to the heavens, and then—

—was he to take this woman as answer to his prayers?

She had impeccable timing, if nothing else, and his attention flit to her when her voice cut in. For several moments, nothing happened. Then, the man holding him sneered, loosening, but not dropping his grip.

“It’s where it’s happenin’, and unless we were in your way, miss, it doesn’t seem to be much of your business now, does it?”

Even as he said it, one of the others with him whistled a note, making a showing of trailing his eyes up her. “But if you came out to keep us company, you wouldn’t hear me complain. You know your way around a blade, little lady?” He glanced to her sword when saying it, but immediately followed the action with a hook of his thumbs to his belt in front of his hips and a none-too-subtle shift of his weight.

If he had been in any better position to object without risk of personal injury, Damissan might have done more. As it was, he failed to curb the immediately flabbergasted — and mildly miffed — look that he shot the other man’s way. “Is that how you approach all your encounters with women?” he asked. “Or are you feeling particularly inspired this eveni—hhnnnnh…” Damissan’s focus snapped back to the man before him as he was shoved. His eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth.

“Whatever’s on your mind to say, boy…I’d taste those words real good before spittin’ them out. You’ve not put yourself in a good position to be starting fights…”

Damissan waited a moment. Two. And then cleared his throat. “You know, I may be mistaken, but I could have sworn it was you who started this, and I’m already too late to the game for that…but if we are going to ‘fight’ regardless, you might at least unhand and arm me before you have to explain why it took you and two others to best an unarmed teenager over a dispute as to who had the biggest…” He tipped his head, “…God…”

When the man drew his blade, Damissan had only a fraction of an instant to note that whoever had told him his tongue would one day get him into more trouble than he could handle was more correct than he’d given them full credit for.

There was something distinctly unsettling about being—apparently—the only unarmed figure in a group of four. Of course, it was even more immediately unsettling to have an unsheathed blade in his face, and when his ‘defender’ drew hers, the rapidity with which the other men stiffened and dropped hands towards their own hilts was distressing, if not surprising. Damissan shut his eyes.

Talking seemed to have proven itself to be a bad idea. Moving was also likely an equally bad idea, but unfortunately for Damissan, these were the two things he was best at. He waited. One count inhale. Two counts of exhale.

The door to the tavern creaked and swung out, and Damissan’s eyes opened to watch as the exiting patron paused, surveyed the scene, and apparently made the split-second decision that this had nothing and ought to continue having nothing to do with them, for they immediately departed. In the time that took, the man directly before Damis sneered, but visibly eased his posture and slowly—very slowly, drew his blade back a half inch, and then down towards his side before stepping out of range of the previously precariously placed weapon.

“A’right, ey…?” he said. “You want the wee, golden-toed preacher, you got ‘im. But mind, if it is your part to keep the peace here…” He made a flick of a gesture with his sword tip towards Damis. “It’s his sort you’ll be wantin’ away from your tavern. All this speak of ‘false gods.’” Lip curling up, he spat, the glob of it landing a half-inch from Damis’ foot. “Keep it in your palace.” He took another step back, initiating retreat. His fellows relaxed their stances, following suit and shifting further from drawing their blades.

It ought to have been that simple.

Pride, however, made a line of lead in Damissan’s shoulders, stiff and unyielding, and tightened the set of his jaw in spite of himself. To be spat at, by peasants, and have them walk—surely that was never justice? But he had nothing to throw at them, and nothing to defend himself with if he did regain their attention. So he took a step sidelong, towards the woman, and then another half step behind to put him just a fraction further from them than her.

There, from that relative sanctuary, he said to their retreating backs with enough volume to ensure that they heard, “God be with you.”

Admittedly, Damissan knew that his remark was baiting. It couldn’t not be. Given the context, from their obvious, fervent — even violent — distaste for his opinions to his intention behind the delivery, there was no way to interpret it otherwise. He had wanted ‘the last word’ for whatever slim benefit such a thing had for his pride, and admittedly, these were perhaps not ideal circumstances under which to be baiting anyone—let alone a cluster of armed, ill-tempered, and mildly intoxicated middle aged men.

He was still unarmed, after all.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been, perhaps if he had a defense of his own, the situation would have been less foolhardy, or at least not so selfishly stupid in endangering the woman who had taken the time to come to his ‘defense.’ All of that aside, and even given that he understood her being somewhat cross with him, the slap of her blade struck him utterly dumb.

There was no cut to the hit, but there did not need to be. Enough shock — and momentary, gut lurching, reactionary terror — came automatically on the coattails of steel striking one’s face, and it hurt, besides. Even without being employed in its capacity as a blade, it was hard, unforgiving metal to his cheek. By the time her fingers fisted at his front, the shock had bled into raw, messy anger that should or could have been tempered by reasoning more through why she was so cross herself, but didn’t have the opportunity to be. As soon as she pushed at him, he lurched away and back, sneering.

“Who taught you,” he hissed, “that an appropriate reaction to—” He could have finished the sentence with nearly anything, he supposed, but none of it adequately summed up his flare of temper, already subsiding from the worst of its peak, though tension still defined his posture. And his cheek smarted hard. A grunted scoff of a sound replaced the tail end of the sentence. ‘If I were armed…’ occurred to him. But he was not, so it seemed a moot point.

The men, at least, seemed convinced enough by her assurances that they wanted little more to do with them, and started off again on their way. This time, Damissan had more pressing grievances to concern himself with, and had the sense to let them be on their way. He reached for his cheek, still scowling as he thumbed over it, though the expression was at least tamer than the initial sneer.

“Should I thank you first, for having the nerve to beat me with your overexcited blade?” he asked. “Or ask your name, that I might know what to call a woman with such gall.”

Shalvesta.

Damissan made mental note, and moved when she did, ‘with’ her not because he especially wanted to keep her company, but because the other option was to head in the direction taken by those even more ready to draw their blades on him in more dangerous ways. A testy woman seemed preferable to drunken, angry men most any day—certainly any day where he had not the means to defend himself. He considered her questions, letting them steep for a moment before opting for the truth.

“I am no priest,” Damissan said. “Or certainly not one of any traditional or established faith. I have come…to a faith of my own, which I made the ‘mistake’ of attempting to preach to a larger audience in the city square some week or so ago. It ended with more contention from the common people than I anticipated and they evidently remembered my face and words enough for it to leave a lasting impression. Apparently of an unpleasant sort.”

He debated, again, before answering the latter question. It didn’t seem wholly necessary to reveal, but he was what he was, and would be judged every time for it, so there was no real reason, so far as he could see, to attempt to hide it.

“I was born to a noble family. I was not, however, ‘picking’ a fight. They came to me when they recognized me. I have only ever yet been the victim—” The instant the word left his mouth, Damissan felt a moment of hesitation and regret for his word choice, but too late to change it now, he continued, “—of…lower class outrage, when I did them no harm. I never invited their blades.” ‘Or their stones,’ as had been the case previously. “I merely attempted to present to them my insight.”

Damissan hummed. “The first occasion was an oversight,” he said. “But also a miscalculation on my part. I thought that presenting myself as unarmed would do me good in my attempts to argue a peaceful message. In this instance…perhaps I ought to have armed myself, but I did not even intend to put myself in conflict with anyone. I was not out to preach. I wanted to walk the streets and observe in peace…they initiated. In the future…” He rolled his shoulders. “Well, I suppose I will have to cede to the violent nature of the people and begin carrying something with which to defend myself. I would trust my safety to the will of the Almighty, which has worked in my favor in the past, but I can only imagine He has better things to be concerning Himself with than sending me guardians when I could just as easily protect myself if I strapped a blade to my hip.”

Damissan glanced to the woman, debating and weighing her commentary about the ‘gods’ and their own intentions before smiling himself.

“There are many better ways to spread a message than pulling steel on anyone who disagrees with you. Quite personally, I enjoy a healthy debate. There’s an energy to an enlivened discussion that can’t be gotten from other things, or if everyone falls drearily into line with the same ideas time and again. Besides, the God I wish to speak of is not so much a usurpation of the ‘known’ gods as He is…an overarching understanding of all the energies that all the people already believe in, combined into a single narrative. It is not that I believe we have all been sending our prayers to nothing, but more that we have over complicated and fragmented the issue, which puts a wedge between our separate peoples, when truly, the same divine energy watches over us all, guiding our paths in a connected plan.”

“Even if I am,” Damissan said, “I am in the same wagon with many others who are equally mistaken. Aside from those who choose to worship one or a select set of deities while simultaneously ‘acknowledging’ or consenting to at least the possibility of other gods besides their own, there are many who believe exclusively in their own set. We cannot all be correct when our concepts are mutually exclusive. So, if I die having angered the true pantheon all along, I will not be alone. So far as I see it, however, the conclusion I have come to is the most inclusive, and unlikely to offend our higher power, as I have been finding parts of each faith which have truth to them. To me it seems that the nations’ individualistic paths to faith are personalized re-interpretations and splinterings of a greater whole. I am only working to spread a more cohesive message.”

At the latter comment, Damis glanced to himself, to Shalvesta’s own weapon, and then nodded, folding his arms behind his back.

“A small blade at least, certainly,” he agreed. “I’ve never had so many issues before this point, but I suppose…I have never tried to challenge anyone’s concept of the divine. And you…” He eyed her, “…must be comfortable with that blade yourself, enough to challenge three men already displeased with their circumstances.”

Damissan’s eyebrows arched a fraction at the woman’s initial admittance that she found it difficult to ‘back down’ from conflict. One never would have gotten the impression, he thought, from looking at her. But perhaps that wasn’t a fair way to judge a person, and she had managed, at the very least, to discourage potential aggressors from making his life far more difficult than he needed it to be. Thus, a smile worked it’s way onto his lips, stretching into something that teased the early limits of a grin, and good humor warmed his expression.

“I don’t suppose I’m much better myself on that,” he said. “Or I haven’t been, in the past. There is a certain thrill that comes with controversy, mm? Though I’ve never put a blade to the test in ‘real’ conflicts such as that…too young then still, and I doubt it is something my parents would have condoned.” Not that he had ever been especially good at conducting himself in a manner his parents approved of, but that wasn’t on the table for discussion. “Sometimes,” he said, “we find ourselves on paths we never could have anticipated at an earlier point in our lives. I am not one to talk much yet, but…”

Looking back, it was almost laughable what his own reaction would have been to his current chosen path forward if he’d been presented with it only several months prior. But, things had unfolded as they had.

“Suffice to say, this is not where I would have seen myself not so long ago, either. Fortunately, I have a familiarity with blades. My parents saw to that in my upbringing, so I will not be taking my journey unarmed and untrained.” He eyed her for a moment before continuing. “But you, what brings a restless fighting spirit out of the action and into simple men’s taverns and alleys?”