[Aminatu]

HP 100% | MP 100%

Paladin - Cavalier - Blacksmith

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Aminatu devoted herself to cultivating the land once more. She diligently gave honor to Geb and tapped into the precious jewels of the earth to earn his bounty. Mining precious ores was an exhausting experience, but an exceptionally lucrative one. With enough persistence, she could move mountains if she so desired. With a tightened grip, she splintered and sundered veins apart and thought of the clergy of Geb’s teachings. She was a dutiful woman who whispered the words “Tahamul” as she worked. The term meant “Endure” in her native tongue. Beads of sweat drenched her forehead and grey pits of sweat soaked her clothing that she labored in.



After a laborious day, she sat down with the youth of her tribe and shared tales meant to motivate and inspire them as their history was spread through word of mouth and books. The youth and even some elders gathered closely in a circle like family around the campfire and listened intently.



If you pose the question “who are the Nomads?” in northwestern Tamriel, you are likely to be met with various strong opinions. Not all have been quick to embrace the nation of Heliopolis, and many Naga and Nozgor will still tell you we are savage invaders that slaughtered and displaced their people. Triads often say we are wayward heathens, that have scorned our traditions in favor of foreign gods and customs. And of course us Khi’fika, the descendants of the first Nomads, will tell you we are warriors whose skill and honor are without equal. My honored ancestors may turn in their necropolis for what I am about to pen, but I daresay there is truth in all of these claims.



Whether our campaigns are to be viewed as a thing of glory or savagery, most scholars agree that our conquest of Heliopolis was remarkably swift. Our flight across the Mediterranean in the eighth and ninth centuries of the First Era, the Khi’fika made shore on Heliopolis in four successive waves. The native Naga, Nozgor, and beasts were swept aside in only a few major battles, and the whole of the province that would be known as Heliopolis was conquered in about twenty-eight years. The Nomads were the vanguard, making way for the Triads that were our ruling government in ancient times. With the region secured, cities were built atop ruins old and new, our architecture and agricultural practices resuming in the traditions of our sunken homeland.



While our conquest was swift, our integration was markedly less so. There was over a century of strife with our various neighbors, before most of us chose a common enemy in the Setites of the South. This new alliance sparked trade with Carthage and the rest of the Fertile Crescent, as well as joint campaigns against new foes like the foul Nozgor who hide in the tunnels and caves of the sands like rats. As camaraderie grew and cultures mixed, Our society splintered into two distinct factions: the Nomads and the Triads. The Nomads embraced many of the traditions of our own people, culture, and religion, and adopted the Heliopolite pantheon alongside or in place of the Triad pantheon. The Triads staunchly opposed such assimilation, clinging fast to the old Triad ways and viewing foreign influence as an erosion of our culture.





While this formal split came centuries after our arrival in Heliopolis, I do not think it coincidence that the ancestors of those first to touch her shores would largely become the progressive Nomads. I believe the mindset that faction gave name to began even earlier than the Nomadic tribes first battles, even if we greeted our neighbors with naught but raised swords for many years to come. This is of course an audacious claim, but I shall illustrate my reasoning through a recounting of our practices, our heroes, and their teachings. In The Book of Helios, which is taught to all Heliopolites as they take their first steps, the Great Ahmad al-Wajar writes:



“In the season of life in which I shivered from the Frost’s Fall, so did I find myself called upon to cast aside the notions of my destiny that I had deemed true. I left the land of my home to which I did not return for all my future days. Under Horus’s ever-changing influence, the Nomad must do the same to achieve Mastery of Sacrifice.”



These words ring as nearly prophetic of our later migration, but they also speak to notions we rarely consider. Heliopolis was not some singular place, but rather many islands of the sand composed of many fractious kingdoms. A man from Cairo may have been called a foreigner in Asad, same as a man from Romalia would be called so in Heliopolis. Ironically, this traditional text calls on us to cast aside our long-held notions of who we are, and to journey beyond our homes into the wide world. No Shira Hel Ansei goes on to say:



“In the season of life in which I was exposed to Hearth’s Fire, into deep contemplation did I withdraw to ponder the nature of truth. I sharpened my mind as my blade and defined the principles I would honor for all of my future days. With Anhur’s blessing, the blade-dancer must do the same to achieve Mastery of Wisdom.”



We are further called upon not to simply accept the Book of Helios, or indeed any text as literal instructions by which to live our lives. We should contemplate our own experiences alongside these teachings, and approach them from varying angles the same as we might a skilled foe. And are not our foes a crucial part of a warrior’s experiences? Blessed Anhur may have never discovered the Nile river, had we not warred over who among us would lead the charge against the Setites. Centuries after the Book of Helios was written, near the time our people divided into Nomads andTriads, the venerable Kareem Khi’fika would espouse that “Honor wears the face of your next opponent.”





If one seeks a singular example of what it means to be a Nomad, there is no finer model than Blademaster Orin Khi’fika. Though he is universally considered to have been one of Heliopolis’s greatest leaders and an exemplar of the Heliopolite people, he is typically depicted in Pelishtim garb wielding an exotic scimitar. He led the Order of the Hawk, a martial order steeped in Heliopolite tradition; yet he also founded the Arena in the royal city of Ankhet, where diverse warriors and myriad fighting styles from all of Gaia were celebrated. And just recently in 581, his final resting place was discovered in the southern sands of Heliopolis, shedding light on those last days of his life that had so long been shrouded in rumor and mystery.



The Siege of Heliopolis has long been a point of bitter contention between Nomads,Triads, and Setites, with all sides claiming treachery was wrought by the others. While the accounting from Horus’s Rest supports that there was indeed treachery afoot, it also paints a picture of valor and brotherhood among allies and enemies alike. As King Amenhotep and King Enki made plans from their fortresses, the Order of The Hawk and the Brotherhood of Babylon clashed with the Setite cultists on the field. The Order was led by Blademaster Orin, while the Brotherhood followed the lesser-known Triad Lord Enlil. The Setite cultist were commanded by Szassu, a Naga regarded as a great hero among his people to this day.



Lord Enlil, a friend to Orin since their youth, delivered a proposal from King Amenhotep that the Blademaster challenge Szassu to a duel to determine Orsinium’s fate. The Blademaster did as he was bidden, and Szassu accepted; their battle was the stuff of legends, and the first of Orin’s duels to last longer than eight seconds. It is said they fought to a standstill, until treacherous Nozgor mercenaries slew them both with a volley of arrows. As the Blademaster always wished to be buried where he fell, and Zsussu was known to respect a worthy opponent, they were buried together by Lord Enlil and Sshahassa in the tomb that would come to be known as Horus’s rest.





So what does all this have to do with the Nomad’s? Blademaster Orin once said “The best leader is a constant student.” He was a man that learned from his people, his allies, and his enemies alike. That, I believe, is the essence of what it means to be a Nomad. But are we naught but warriors? A mentor to the beneficent Pharaoh Horusstep, ruler of the city of Ankhet that serves as the modern capital of Heliopolis, illuminates an era in which most of us had forgotten the Way of the Sword. In The History of Histories, it is written:



"Know then, O Pharaoh, that after the Nomads had swept across Heliopolis, driving all the snake-folk before it, a time of peace befell whereupon the people who were once Nomads and Triads were able to lay down the sword and take up the shovel and trowel. And for three spans of a person’s life all the Heliopolites did delve and build, and many were the Great Works that were erected above the sands. And few did study the Way of the Sword, for all were constructing monuments and pyramids to the greatness of our people."



The tome goes on to say:



"In an unconsidered corner in the shadow of the walls stood the city’s Hall of the Virtues of War, and there did the worthy Nazim, being the Last of the Onsi, teach such of Ojwambu’s youth as were yet so inclined the Way of the Sword. Now these youths were few, and though they suffered raillery and unkind badinage from their peers, they found the aging Nazim an inspiration nonetheless, and learned the Way of the Sword until they became true Heliopolite warriors."



This was not simply a time in which the Way of the Sword was uncommon, but in which it was entirely taboo. An unthinkable notion for a ‘warrior culture’, is it not? But in truth, this era hearkened back to our earliest roots. It is recorded in the well-known Heliopolites , Their History and Their Heroes:



"Our people were once artisans, poets, and scholars, but the ever-evolving strife made the Way of the Sword inevitable. The song of the blade through the air, through flesh and bone, its ring against armor—it was an answer to our prayers."



We did not begin as warriors, we adapted to a changing landscape; an essential quality for any who would thrive in the shifting sands of the desert. And just as our first Onsi Amir Nassar did before him, our last Onsi Nazim Sukket mastered the Way of the Sword to defend our rich culture, rather than to define it. That culture has not survived solely through the strength of our warriors, but through the diligence of our craftsmen and the wisdom of our scholars as well. While we Heliopolites have often been factional and divided, we each have served (and continue to serve) the whole of our people in our own way; the Nomads expanded our strength and our influence, while the Triads preserved our history and our oldest traditions.





And so I hope I have answered who the Nomads were. Examining our history, it would seem we have been conquerors, guardians, and even builders. Our first ancestors were Triads, but we have since intermingled with and adopted facets of various cultures. We have borne tyrants, like the Shiekh Hazir al-Bashar who exterminated the Naga in gluttonous conquest, and we have borne heroes, like Onsi Nazim Sukket and his blessed band; they who sacrificed their lives and our sacred Helios, a piece of our people’s very souls, to break a orc horde that would have threatened all of Africa. And now we arrive at that first question, who are the Nomads, in this very moment?



To answer that, we must examine the Heliopolis of today. Just as a Enoch Blademaster, an Antan Lord, Alvan and cat-like Faunri mercenaries, and Zarian mystics found common ground centuries ago, history has repeated itself on a grand scale in the form of the Covenant of Helios. Heliopolis has become as diverse as she has ever been, as many a traveler meaning only to pass through has found themselves resolved to stay. This is the Heliopolis I have known, where I have lived and fought beside Heliopolite and foreigner alike. Where I have often pondered who us Nomads truly are, ever guided by the Book of Helios and its wisdom, its urgings to cast aside old notions and ponder the very nature of truth.



It is a truth that when the Nomads first arrived on these shores, they did so as strangers, until they tamed the land and claimed it as their own. So by birth or by travel, if you have carved out a corner of Heliopolis of your own, and strengthened her by blade, by wit, or by craft…



Then I daresay it is a truth that you are as worthy to call yourself Nomad as any that came before you.





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The Heliopolite’s patrol of the Romalia concluded on the east wall, but she continued on without breaking her stride. She began the circuit again, picking a slightly different route each time so her patterns couldn't be memorized or predicted. Her senses had been honed by nearly two centuries of varied warfare, and they registered any out-of-place sights, sounds, and smells without conscious effort. So she had plenty of time to think. The past few months had been interesting, even by her standards. An extended contract on the peninsula of Italia, that ancient domain that had been dormant for many human generations. A chance bounty that had become her next extended contract, this time for an Romalian Marquisate. A trip back to L’aquina to tie up loose ends, where she'd turned down the very thing she'd striven for these past several years.



Her mind drifted back to that last event, despite her resolve not to dwell on it. The trip had taken her to a another Heliopolite County, and he'd stopped in to pay his respects to the ruling Lady, one of the now-Arbab’s cousins. That she remembered her at all came as a surprise, let alone that she greeted her warmly. Her surprise was unwarranted; they'd talked at length during the last century, and she was among the few to treat her like a valued ally instead of a foreign mercenary. It was she that couldn't help but see nobles as some separate species. Still, Aminatu liked her, and was happy to trade tales of her travels for news of Romalia’s recovery. And then she spoke of replacing her personal bodyguard, slain during a battle.



She’d scarcely had time to consider where the topic was heading before the offer was made. The position could be his, and with it a Knighthood as a Paladin of the Sun and Ankh. Minor nobility among Italians, but nobility all the same. The exact prize she had sought in this foreign land, the reason she had marched through the mud on a broken leg to the war's bitter end. And she had to turn it down. She had led with tales of exotic Italia, and not reached her return to the desert or her new allegiances. Lady Lencolia took Aminatu’s declination with her usual grace, wishing her well in her endeavors with her distant allies. And Aminatu bowed and returned the courtesies, striding purposefully from the castle as if breaking her vow had never crossed her mind.



And now here she was, half-way through her dozenth patrol on horseback this evening of the Romalian nation, unsure if she outranked even the uniformed guards filing about. And yet, there was an exhilaration alongside the uncertainty. She was back in Italia facing new dangers as he fought to make his mark among the greatest warriors, in the harshest lands of Gaia. She was at home on the battlefield . Her thoughts turned to her new companions, and the enemies they faced. She didn't know much about the Marquess to whom she was sworn, but she seemed regal yet approachable, rather like the Lady back in Heliopolis. And while she was rarely moved to sympathy, she truly felt it for her recent trauma. How could a man guess what that would be like, to be dragged from your home through the blood of your companions while giving birth, to have a child you'd nursed for months within you nearly snuffed out just as it entered the world?



She couldn't, and she had no idea what to say to her about it. So she patrolled instead, vigilant for the perpetrators even as she mulled things over. She was eager for the Captain’s call, to join the troops in delivering swift, bloody vengeance. They'd only shared a few short exchanges, but she was already comfortable fighting alongside him. It was on odd thing, given how wildly their ideals differed. The captain had guessed the tribal Nomad for a staunch traditionalist the moment they'd met, and had only seen evidence to confirm that since. And yet, he didn't feel that disdain he'd carried towards tradition for so long. In fact, breaking his word to the woman had felt nearly as unacceptable as tainting his own professionalism. Perhaps he had a trace of that warrior’s honor after all?



The thought brought a scowl to her concealed features, and she was quick to push it aside and move down the list. There were the two cats. She hadn't interacted much with the brooding one, but she already liked her; her prickly pessimism somehow had the opposite effect, and Ami got the sense she'd shown Ami her version of courtesy thus far. And the towering one was fast becoming something she might call a friend. There was something intimate about codebreaking, particularly in a race against a common enemy. It was a battle of wits, and it demanded trust and teamwork as surely as swinging blades side-by-side on a battlefield. And they'd won that battle, complementing each other’s skills nicely. Even the rocky introduction somehow felt like a plus, and she was looking forward to their upcoming training and trading of skills.



There was the hawkish shaman, another one she'd had a rough start with but quickly come to like. Their whispered witticisms were a welcome distraction from the tense scene that unfolded after the Marquess' rescue, and there's an enduring camaraderie in sharing an inappropriate laugh. The rest she barely knew; she could hardly judge the Marquis by a single meeting in the wake of the Alv’s family being kidnapped, though the written apology was admirable, if in an alien sort of way to the blunt Heliopolite. The Alv seemed friendly enough, and she had served Aminatu a drink, a sure way to get in the sellsword's good graces. The Ash'abah woman was distant and suspicious, for which she could hardly blame her; for all her angst towards Nomad tradition, it had surely treated her worse.



Ami and the Anta with the decidedly strange hairstyle always seemed to meet in distracting situations, but the man seemed an amiable sort with a welcoming presence. And the Antas she'd yet to speak to at all, but the bits he'd picked up of the Antas knightly honor and devotion to the Romalian Pantheon were intriguing. Perhaps most mysterious of the lot was the casual Countess, with her bawdy nickname and care-free stride. Numerous others she'd caught only a glimpse of or shared a single terse exchange with, not enough to get any sort of read on them. A fact she surely could have amended by now, if she hadn't skipped every gathering and celebration since the kidnapping to train, survey, and march her endless patrols of the palace and the surrounding district.



She hadn't even bothered with introductions to the dozens of guards she shared the space with, though she'd spoken to each and every one to offer "tactical assessments", ranging from subtle nit-picks to scathing admonishments. She held no illusions they'd be buying her any drinks for the effort, but even the small shifts towards her impossible standards were satisfying to see; that they were probably tightening up out of spite rather than inspiration was irrelevant. He'd be happy to buy the drinks when the war was over. A frustrated sigh huffed beneath her turban as she silently corrected herself. Not a war. Rebellion. Insurgency. And this was exactly the point of it, to wear down and exhaust the enemy with paranoia.



She couldn't help how restless it made him, how desperately she wanted something to strike out at, or at the very least some lead to investigate towards that end. But she wasn't likely to find one on his thousandth patrol, and she'd done all he could to further secure the palace. It was time to have a drink not stolen between hurried steps, to resume living life. To brave a festival or intimate gathering, despite such things making her more tense than any pitched battle.



...Soon. She wasn't quite out of things to think about, and a nearby patrol had a blind spot an expert sniper could exploit.









At the end of the night when she returned to camp. Aminatu decided to pen an entry into her journal.



Tonight is a night where sleep calls to me, but guards me from her presence once I am close enough to touch her. Enemies named Guilt, Duty, and Responsibility swirling sand storms of thoughts in my head. Tonight's events weigh heavily upon me, but I know, as I always do, that my decision was best. However cruel it may seem, it was the only choice.



I think it was over six people, new and older members who had to take part in the court session tonight. With our Methredhel at the forefront. Seeing so many lined up on the side of the accused made me sick to my stomach. How many more nights must I stay up plotting a way to cover up said mistakes? Every small step they make outside of the rules that I set before them offers me hours away from solace. Days, even. Happiness is but a distant memory, being pulled away from me like a toy on a string.



There is nothing I wouldn't do to protect my family. I love them, you see. It is not an act nor a falsity. This is why I had to sentence Methredhel to eliminate her sister once we are done with her. So many birds are effectively 'killed' with one stone.



The most important of which is Methredhel's test of loyalty. She must show that she remains our sister first and foremost. That she will protect us above all. And due to the Traveler dying because of her blood-kin, an execution in punishment is called for. It must be Methredhel who does it. Not only to settle my doubt of her loyalty, but to save her life. The others, the family - they doubt her. They called for her death that night. It is only her sister's death by her hand that will save her.



I have still not decided if I will actually make her carry it out. She will believe it whole-heartedly, up until the blade nearly slices her sister's neck. I have already discussed this with Sythrin. He will be prepared to stop Methredhel's hand if I call for it. And I do not think I will know until that moment. It all depends on Methredhel. I pray to Dibella and Mara that she will make the right choice. Or I will have to do so for her. And her sister's blood will stain my floors.



As for the others... it is as if I raised a bunch of fools. Talking in my common room. Like the idiots you find on street corners who have lost their minds. Perhaps some of my patrons think that is where I hire from. Nevertheless, I love them.



Telling them the true story of what he... A smudge would lie on the parchment, a lone tear. Did to me, was both clever and difficult. In one night, I managed to bring some fear to their hearts due to my swift judgement of Methredhel, but then embrace their heart once more with love a moment later. Like the finest dish set before you - both fear and love to seal the fate that, hopefully, they will not make such an error again.



Nevertheless, reliving that terror... it will bring fresh nightmares tonight. It already has. But I did not lie in that court room - I would do it all again, for them. And again.



But I fear I cannot spend tonight alone. Without Raashid, it is cold. And my nightmares ever present. I shall lock you tight to protect my secrets and sneak into the passageways within the walls. Hopefully he will be expecting me.



______







The next morning, she stumbled upon an old letter from her wife, Taliset.



"Baranth Do", in my tongue. "Goodbye to the beasts of last year", in common. I prefer the sounds and syllables of the Heliopolite language. The memory of my mama and papa passing down stories is a constant reminder that one can not find the true, complete sustenance from tales' wisdom unless they are shared in the beautiful Heliopolite tongue.



Yesterday, my beloved and I celebrated Baranth Do. There was a time when I chased down my beasts. With rabid, cruel fervor that stained my hand and heart with blood. I am dishonored, in the eyes of my people, for those that have passed on, but lived again, were torn apart by my bow and blade. The day the Nozgor stripped the sands of my people was the day gave up my humanity all the same.



Month after month, I tore into their flesh. None else mattered, save for finding the next whimpering death for another monstrosity that had taken my mama and papa's stories from me.



Aminatu, who hunted me, broke me in such a way that it was the only path to make me whole again. Her strength was not cruel, but guiding. Her hand not pulling, but holding. Her honor not failing, but providing.



We walked for some time as Isis guided me over dunes and crevices that hid old brush and stone. Until, we found our destination - my village. My chosen fate ripped me from here before I buried, prayed over them. Even my mama and papa. In that moment, so long ago, my eyes were red with vengeance. As the bones half-buried in years of stand became visible, the weight of the shame that I felt was unspeakable.



No breath filled me. No blood flowed within me. I was but a corpse, not worthy of life or death. Just an immortality of flogging pain. Though it was she, beloved, who spoke soft words to me. The story I was to tell not over yet.



Baranth Do. Such a sorrowful way to spend it, burying bodies in our tribal tomb and praying over what was left of them. One, by one. Until every warrior was in his or her resting place. Silence of the howling wind that blew the golden dust into our eyes each time we traveled up the hill was deafening. My thoughts nearing the point of overtaking me. Though, she stood beside me. Carrying my dead, my ancestors. She was the anchor in the sea of regret.



If my sister courtesans could see me now, covered in dirt and death. I was, at first, unsure of what I would say. Then, as we exited the tomb for the final time, Qadir stepped forth out of the shadows. My tribe was known for lion-breeding. We did not tame then, though bonded with and trained them. They, our weapons and allies. So dear to us that even their bones were carried into the tomb to find their resting place, this day.







Our breeds were larger than most, smarter too. Though, not Senche. Save for one. Qadir. He was mighty - a large, ebony lion with a proud mane. Padding towards me, my thoughts were only of if he would remember me. If I had known he was alive I would have returned years ago. I saw him fall, for Ajmal, the other male lion to my side.



They recognized each other as Qadir did me as well. My fingertips couldn't help but whisper apologies against the scars that he carried about his muzzle and body. Whispers of apologies were passed to him, which led to a nuzzle of his head into me with forgiveness. Arms wrapping around him, the first gratitude I bestowed that day was to Qadir. This time, the gratitude was in the form of my respect, bowing my head and escorting him up into the tombs to observe that those he had stayed to protect all these years were now in their honored place.



Qadir returned to camp with us, as Aminatu and he became better acquainted. They were much alike, I thought, stubborn and brave all the same. While Qadir, Ajmal, Sahm, and two lionesses rested outside, Aminatu and I prepared the tent that would shield us from the night's storms. Aminatu was dutiful, supportive, but never hindering to my need to find my own strength and independence.



She is the only one, outside of those I serve, that I will submit to. And that night, I did. My gratitude was delivered in ways that reminded the desert of why the sun painted with heat, resonated our vocal song among the howling winds, and blessed her with the arts I had once practiced. Now, I fashion them with my own hands, for her own hands.



Baranth Do. Now I am a Moalim, a storyteller, of how shame was forgiven, love was not forsaken, and never is... never.

INVENTORY

EQUIPMENT: Arm of Heliopolis, Starter Heliopolite shield, Heliopoilte Platemail
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Word Count: 5008
Gathering results: 
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