Ananthe, reintroduced.

[Waigoogin]

Hi guys. this is actually a re-post, or more correctly a copy and paste of my second character's back story from the old forums. Ta'li has an IC story as well but it was extensive and included at least two weeks or more of her IG time and so I'm not going to reintroduce her, though if you like my writing here you may want to look it up in the archives or via google. I went back to re-read this to get back in the head of my character (and recall where she actually came from :p). I hope reposting this story isn't a problem. I just remember being proud of it, and after reading it again I remember why ^^ Uzan was once an IG character she travelled with, and will greatly miss upon her return. WIthout further ado.

Ananthe.


Ananthe was young when the Red Wizards came for him. Her father, a commoner, merchant, and person of strongly held opinions of right and wrong had spoken his mind one time too many and caught the attention of the wrong people. Four armed guards knocked on the door one day, to question him. She sat on her mother's lap as he calmly walked out the house with them, not to be seen again. Days later she was separated from her mother, both were sent to work as slaves for her father's treasonous voice, both in different quarters of the Thayvian city of Bezantur.

Ten years later Ananthe was walking through the market, picking items for her new masters, the Clergy of Jergal. She prodded through various foods for their dinner, brought new cloaks and blankets, some water, and most importantly a large supply of quills, as the war ongoing with Mulhorand had increased the amounts they scribed daily. Carrying as much as she could hold she walked through the town, past the temple of Kossuth, Cyric, and Umberlee where she saw a commotion. Several guards had set upon a man wearing a red cloak, one who was not one of the Red Wizards. She turned her gaze as she knew what would come next. Quickly she scurried into a small dusty temple, barely marked with only a small carving of a jawless skull with a scroll and writing quill to indicate its inhabitants.

Inside she descended and quickly to the kitchen to drop off the foodstuffs, then to various chambers to leave one new blanket each, and finally, she looked at the quills and sighed.

"Damned Mulhoranders", she muttered "One day the blight of them will be over." Closing her eyes and praying to herself a moment, that this war might end and their workload reduced.

She walked down to a room marked with a sign that said only 'scriveners'. She entered and there was the clergy, all sat side by side at desks along a wall, ticking off ledgers. There were twelve of them, working constantly, yet the pile of unfinished ledgers behind them was getting larger by the day. She walked along placing one new quill on each of their desks, saying nothing to any of them, but accepting their polite nods as she passed. Said nothing to any of them, barring the last one, that is. Brother Uzan looked to his ledger with a distaste that was palpable. He was one of the most adept record keepers there, but to speak to him one would presume he the most depressing person that had ever existed. This likely not coincidence.

"I brought you two quills", Ananthe whispered into his ear. "You go through them faster than the others".

He looked up to her with a blank eye, and sighed. "Great. Now my wrists will hurt twice as much as the rest. I suppose I deserve this. I hope it is possible to die from writers cramp, lest my suffering in this pathetic excuse for a life may finally come to an end."

Ananthe smirked at him. "Oh brother Uzan, what would we ever do without you? Perhaps the Pitiless one will give you what you seek, and have your name on a ledger too, but only when the time is right, only when your time has come. Until then your service here honours both him and our temple."

Uzan snorted. "they can keep the honours. I just want my well deserved rest." he waved a dismissive hand, "Does life get any worse, having slaves pity me?" he asked rhetorically to himself under his breath as Ananthe took the hint and left him to his work.

Down to the furnace room she went. Here is where her task was primarily. She and the other slaves burned the remains of those recorded, only after double checking the ledgers to ensure they were recorded properly and secondly, if they were due to be there at all. It was a constant job in this time of war, throwing corpses to the fire as if they were lumps of coal meant to keep it alight. Looking to the door she saw two carts filled with bodies, and another being wheeled in. Clenching her fist she muttered to herself her distaste for the Mulan on both sides, and their war.

One by one she ticked her ledgers while one by one grabbing the bodies from the pile. She was quite good at this, skilled as one could be, given the general simplicity of the task. There were mistakes that could be made, however, and any error in record keeping was an affront to the Scribe of the Doomed, and wholly unacceptable. She had personally tossed fifty unto the flames this day and was feeling quite tired, but more needed to be done. She looked down at the next name on the ledger, and a tear fell from her eye.

On the pile he was, atop all of them. Withered, frail, scars about his entire body. Dorian Jarrian, her father. In all the years gone, he had clearly suffered in the prisons of Bezantur. The signs all there. She need not look beyond the red circles on his wrists to know what he'd endured since the last she saw him. Wiping the tear away, and with it the last real emotion on the matter she picked him up, walked him over to the furnace, and threw him in, ticking him off the ledger as she returned to her seat by the carts.

Ananthe kept working, days without sleep, ticking and tossing, again and again. Until one day, there was an anomaly. She looked down at the cart, one body remaining, but no more names on the particular ledger to tick. Looking back and forth with a quizzical stare.

"well, this doesn't happen very often" she said to herself, scratching her head.

Running up to the scriveners room, she grabbed brother Omar to come see and perhaps manage to understand the clerical error made. She took him down to the furnaces, he looked at the body, then at the ledgers as well, also puzzled. Ananthe looked at brother Omar, and absently grasped the body to pull it closer for a better look, meanwhile looking upwards and turning the gas up on a lantern. As soon as she lay her hands on him, though, a white glow emanated and all his wounds restored, and the man got up, coughing.

"the hells am i doing here?" the man asked, hacking into his hand and looking around the room, then to the carts and gagged with his hand to his mouth. "Good god's I'm not dead you idiots!"

Brother Omar stared at Ananthe, who clearly wasn't even paying attention to what had happened, as she was grabbing the man and stoking the lamplight above.

"oh, he's all right! well that explains the mistake. wasn't his time." She said, then looking to the man. "best you be on your way", she finished, pointing him up the stairs and he hobbled on up.

Brother Omar had not moved, his face frozen in a look of utter disbelief in what his clergy's slave had just done, unwittingly. His eyes gave glimpses of both pride, sadness, and fear, and he gasped putting his hand to his mouth.

"Dear Ananthe.." he put up a finger, and ran up the stairs, hand still covering his mouth.

She followed him to the scriveners room, but the door was shut, so she merely listened in. They were all speaking at once, the only voice she did not hear was that of brother Uzan.

"She did what? You saw what?", she heard.

"I am serious, brother, she lay hands on the man." Omar confirmed.

"Impossible! She's merely a slave!" another voice rang out "only the blessed could do that! I've only ever heard of Paladi.... By Jergal's quill..", another said, sounding like brother Akhbar.

"We have to get her the hells out of here!", two others said simultaneously.

Ananthe ran back down the stairs, confused, and unsure what she'd done wrong, but was certain that this did not sound in the least bit good. As a slave in the temple she'd had it good, by any slaves measures. She certainly didn't want to go anywhere, and certainly not to market where her new owner would be unknown and almost certainly worse than now. Back to the furnace she went, and worked doubletime for about ten minutes before they all came down. Slowly one by one, circling her, until she was centre of them all, looking up at each of their eyes meekly, hands folded in front of her.

"Brothers." she said, bowing her head.

"Ananthe, we wish to show you something" brother Omar said. "Do come."

Six walked up the stairs, brother Omar the last of them, leading her up. Six followed behind her. They led her to the temple Altar, and had her kneel there. She was confused. This was the first time she'd ever been allowed to even see the altar this close, lest she dirty it with her hands. One by one they began to chant prayers in various tongues, few of which she recognized. All the while she felt a warmth around her, the ritual completing with the twelve all chanting the words in Thayvian tongue "your scrivener. your hands. your pallid mask. lead this one to her fate."

When the ritual complete she felt twelve hands all raise her up. Circling her tightly they moved as a group, up the stairs, out the door outside, and through the market. Their destination, the port. It was an oddity to be stuck in between so many men, all moving in unison in one direction, and keeping her covered from any eyes that would look. Quite the fuss over her, and she'd yet to truly understand it. Then, they arrived. Brother Akhbar walked up the ramp to the ship captain, handing him a small bag of gold, and pointing to Ananthe.

"take her to the isle of Arelith. to Cordor. Get her there, and get her there safe, or I promise your name on my next ledger."

The captain looked down at her, and nodded to Akhbar. "I got room. Dun ye worry 'bout a thing thar me good man."

With that, each of the brothers gave a blessing and a final goodbye to Ananthe. Their only advice. Continue as she'd been taught. Jergal's work needed be done in more places than this, and she was chosen to do so. Perhaps in time one of the brothers would be sent to assist in her new task as blessed Scrivener of the Doomed, but they gave no specifics, nor any promises.

As she got onto the boat, and watched as the Thayvian city grew smaller and more distant, she finally understood, she was free.