Long after the delicate strings of the Jarvija had stilled, its soulful spell lingered in the banquet hall, an echo of a dream now fading into memory. By decree of the Architect, labor governed the daylight hours; but when the sky blushed into twilight, merriment reigned. These evenings belonged to the templemen of the Architect, the Tirkju'a, a striking contrast to the rigid rule of the toad who had once commanded these very same halls. Her dominion, once vast, had dwindled into obscurity, a terrifying influence eroding further without a Du Ku'am like Gurkiim to champion her cause.
On this Heptrean year 3488, the toad had yet to even reemerge from the bowels of the temple. For half a decade past, there was only the Architect to speak of.
Travelers, having journeyed across great distances, found solace in the sweet intoxication of wine served in goblets polished from the finest shells. They shared these libations amidst the company of fellow voyagers, merchants, and, on rare occasions, lesser royals whose paths all converged within the reach of the Domminical Order.
Ku Domminikali Tii'orosarkis.
It was less a genealogical boundary and more of a creed that transcended blood and nation, bound by the Shaman Dove's gaze and the will of the Dommes, these elevated creatures of old myth; the Architect and the Margijer were but reflections of that power. This grand temple in Gu'ambiss, one of many, stood for the Order's preservation, its foundations laid thousands of years ago. Other temples dotted the vast and fertile expanse of Ori'ehem—a blessed motherland, cradling the rise of mighty civilizations. Yet here, within these hallowed halls, music bridged their differences and origins, uniting all who gathered within, if only for a few fleeting hours.
The Setikosi mingled among the crowd, their value often overlooked despite the vital role they played. Draped in kaleidoscopic fabrics of lime and gold, with faces adorned in intricate, painted patterns, they glided gracefully between tables laden with foreign dignitaries. Musicians among their number congregated near the front, where the Du Ku'am would soon preside over the evening's ceremony. Their presence had worked its magic; what might have been a solemn gathering had transformed into an evening of laughter and mirth.
"A touch of color," as Goatswhistle remarked while mounting a winged panther, "is what keeps this temple alive."
As performing Ku'ams, the Setikosi enjoyed a rare liberty, acting as they pleased to cater to the requests and whims of the Du Ku'am's honored guests.
Opportunities of this nature were scarce, and the Harlot brothers would sooner turn their blades upon one another than allow such a chance to slip through their grasp. At a table in the farthest corner of the hall's right wing, they seized their moment, ingratiating themselves with a party of Moricani hailing from the southeastern reaches of the continent. The Moricani, adorned in animal skins, flashed jewel-studded smiles the moment they recognized the notorious duo. The same smile that turned Little Harlot green with envy once, though his birth origins recognized no such cosmetic practices as sensible.
Pleasantries and idle conversation flowed between them, yet Little Harlot's patience began to wane as the conversation turned to the prospect of an extended delay. They spoke of waiting for the Du Ku'am Kor Dui to conclude his affairs. They were to accompany him after, back to Eloh Morica—a plan that, if executed correctly, could open greater avenues for the brothers' more unsavory pursuits.
If done right, this would allow them greater chances of committing theft.
"You have heard of our company," Big Harlot said to the Moricani group, his grin sly and knowing. "My brother and I run a most exceptional enterprise—sword dancers, wild animals... all the dangerous delights one could desire."
One of the Moricani seated across from him, a tall man with razor-sharp features, paused, his lips twitching before his laughter erupted—a deep, resonant sound that drew the attention of nearby tables. "Ah, that is precisely what we hoped to hear. Perhaps you shall entertain us this very evening. We have among us a pair of fresh faces, as you see." He gestured toward his companions, who nodded with eager anticipation. "They are quite keen to witness your famed Sesserjan sword dance routine."
Big Harlot leaned toward his brother. "Goatswhistle was right. They are admirers."
Little Harlot allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corners of his lips. "Then we shall oblige." His gaze swept languidly across the table, his dark eyes appraising. "At least these fine individuals understand the art of indulgence."
Big Harlot chuckled, tipping his glass slightly. "All the more deserving."
Meanwhile across the hall, Umdohar moved with quiet purpose, a ripple in the sea of animated conversation. His sharp, calculating eyes—an abnormally acidic shade of green—scanned the room until they landed on Kor Dui. The Du Ku'am sat slumped at the edge of a private table, surrounded by his companions from Eloh Morica.
"Kor Dui," Umdohar called, his voice calm yet deliberate.
The table fell silent, the hum of conversation evaporating. Even the Harlot brothers glanced over, curious about the exchange.