Kwatsura stood at the base of stairs, in the last penumbra of light growing dim from the the high tower salt smoke congestion; entering the vestibule almost in full darkness, ovralian stone black. The white shade of light flashing plum 3 times every 2 seconds disappeared in influence gradually as he entered to the expanding lobby drenched in darkness, seeping towards the expanse of the walls curving up and down organically to fill the empty seed pit of a room; Kwatsura could have imagined the large but very finite lobby room at the base of a high tower as a square or jagged room with peculiar angles in corner walls or were it not for the apparent stuffiness, an infinite, primordial dark pit expanding into a long-dead dry and empty caldera into which he’d fall in one step into a midair death; he could of imagined it in one of those forms were it not for his keen sense of smell noting the walls circulating the air or his immaculately succinct imagined visualization of the room in memory illuminating the walls, a glaucous, ashen, blue blur of of light from his cerebrum’s torch.
He noted soft pale blue lights marking his way through a row of tables or plush csoma hurgra seats; he followed the lighted lamps slowly; and then a flash of light, revealing only a small orb shaped revelation of the room slicing in the middle only the area of a five man’s table …. he noted the carved pearl of a cubby-hole surrounding the table halfway, illuminated by a reading light on the back booth a short distance to provide a soft ambient light around the guests without interrupting the pitch darkness of the lobby. There they sat, all four on the back booth, leaning back against hurgra pillows and awakening from an after-tea nap; they lifted their heads almost slowly but with sinewed necks as they expected the awakening now for Kwatsura’s arrival.
Of the four, one man stood out, his torso a head above the other three men, much taller; and only his face caught enough light to reveal to its more intricate features, his face and ivrosian cheek plates meeting the bar of light from the metal plating at the rim of the cubby-hole roof; the light projected into the booth’s gut, a foot above the table’s edge.
Slotragahna, chief trader, you old man. And Alran, Rsola’s chief economist, I know you by your fat silhouette sitting left of him, Kwatsura thought to himself as he approached near sitting onto the pillowed stool near on the outside of the table, directly opposite the back booth and the four men. Kwatsura couldn’t discern the other men a few feet back but now as he sat down, he realized they were strangers (judging by their age) and to likely be attendants of either Slotragahna or Alran.
Slotragahna was cloaked in a pale white rubbery tunic reflecting tiny lava pools of light. He put his hands on the opal black table, fingers garbed in grey shell jewelry and nails painted cream. The trader stared at Kwatsura with cold grey irises peering behind stray hairs of his fluffy white brow. The old man’s eyes then began jumping into and out of the cheek plate shadows as his head moved back into a vibrating laugh that bounced his head. And the he stopped silent for 3 seconds and then spoke:
Kwatsura, you are a chronologist. You have traveled in the last 67 duns to 7 cities. You last stop was Fporta. Of course I know your last stop the best, Kwatsura by dent of Fporta’s closest proximity as a large city, and of course being the largest importer of Rsolan wares. Yes, Yes. Ha ahh hahh .. .. And Kwatsura, last time I criticized you lack of obeying the rote scriptures of Rsola’s Chronology Center and told you in your own town’s words “A fecking meat in hole pisser”
The old tradesman was jibing Kwatsura with words and Kwatsura laughed at the man’s jocular vulgarity; their vast age difference and his authority as a creed’s chief allowed him to tease the young chronologist in such a crude manner. Kwatsura wasn’t fond of the bantering but counteracted with words hollow of any emotion and lacking any self-deliberated tone of respect: Aha, Slotragahna, and I know you are bout to tell me that that is all behind us, today is business, we will follow the edict and build what keeps the promise. You repeat words, many of them. That is an elderly habit you know. The younger and bright looks back on the repetitious dialogues around meetings, accumulating like deep puddles of rain over the suns … Oh you know old man, you look like a flashing light bulb about flicker out completely …
Rsolan tura tura Kwatsura asrolla-ena? Shall we speak in Rsolan Kwatsura?
tura Slotgraghna tura.
Kwatsura, tyudllian-tyud cul-ivrso trola trola. Anlra lra slro-slro. Kwatsura, the chronologist chronicles ivrosian mid towers. Always traveling alone.
Alran leaned forward, his pitch black hair strewn with taupe shell jewelry falling before his powdered fat face. The economist smiled a set of glowing yellow teeth appearing behind stands of black hair as ornaments implanted into the aging but still plump cheeks.
Kwatsura, feck Rsolan.
The two men and Kwatsura laughed together. Kwatsura knew Alran well to always avoid entertaining the rare outsider’s mastering of Rsolan.
Anyhow, we’re versed enough in either tongue to continue the same. Slotragahna now continued. Tell us really more, I’ve just got back from Rsola Library Central and read a few Kfrorretc letters. You’re here from some more infrastructure notes of course but I didn’t read to the end, had a shipment blessing to attend. I’m guess is the mid tel high telldrons, the new intraurban line. I can guarantee you there is nothing notable.
I think there is something notable there.
And what is that, inquisitive chronologist?
Well, as part of my infrastructure notes I’ve also been chronicling labour divisions, population, the sorts, and that’s become more notable to me than the actual substance and design of the constructions. Of course Rsolan tracks are the finest built. The spiral, in particular is quite a spectacle, great to any visitor I’d imagine. So I have noted the main line under construction will be the highest intraurban tower right?
Of course.
And no emigrant laborers. All Rsolan muscle as usual right.
Of course, you ask these questions like a silly tamarin, Kwatsura. I assure you we have allocated internal labor forces to the projects completion roughly 5 suns and a half from today. Let’s just get the details of the project correct. Your next visit tomorrow is East Edge Tower. This tower provides the trunk for the telldrons peak station. There are 5, only 5 man-powered boxes. 5 out of 7 of Rsolan per day’s transports will have to carry a third their body’s weight of rocks. There are 23 lift ladder installations near the peak complemented by 11 stairways. The cars are on demand build outs, as all Rsolan intraurbans are. This one has a buffer of only two cars. Departure intervals. Once every three hures. Station stop intervals - every 7 minutes. Station board and disembarking times: 2 minutes in central, and then degrading to 73 seconds in the second to last stop at Rsola’s western periphery. Are you recording this to your aaku, Kwatsura?
Not yet, rote only.
Kwatsura slid the ring onto his right middle finger - the others were numb from yesterday’s transmissions. The crescent of blue light grew brighter and illuminated a sharp sliver of azure light along the table’s edge.
While you’re transmitting Kwatsura, allow us to provide some drinks, edibles and smoke. How rude we have been not to even start that way. Apologies of course, for we had tea later than usual today from our lengthening engagements in town delaying our arrival here.
Slotgraghna raised his right hand to his ear folding his index finger down until the tip pressed against his thumb. He focused a ray of light from the facets of a shiny piece of shell jewelry which reflected a fuzzy patch of green light on the opposite side of the room. Kwatsura heard footsteps from behind as two waiters with forms hidden in the darkness approached the table; one was holding a platter of drinks and dried tamarin orange skins. The other a platter with pipe liquors and plates of dried csoma flower. They distributed the items in random across the table’s surface.
Alran reached for the nearest pipe liquor, a dark brown, almost black syrup in a miniature glass pitcher. He dipped his finger into the thick liquor and lifted it to his projected tongue for a taste. This will do to start, a sweet bitter one, ysangla, sweet brown licorice. Alran produced the long narrow white stem of a pipe, almost 4 feet in length from the inside of his cloak and then followed that item with the pipe’s liquor chamber. He poured the brown tar-like juice into the chamber and screwed this into one end of the stem. Then he moved a csoma coal plate resting under the table closer to his body and leaned down to spark the igron coal. After 37 seconds, the lump of igron began emitting a dull green light which made the underside of the table look like dusty explosion of airborne mold. Alran held the center of the stem near his seated waste and placed the liquor chamber over the bowel on the plate’s surface; he dropped a pinch of csoma atop the arrangement. In three seconds the flower began bleeding lines of smoke falling up and Alran drew his mouth down to syphon the resulting vapor through the stem of his pipe. The liquor chamber made a thick bubbling noise, like a pan of dried honey comb melting it into liquid form. The smell of the hot brown liquor and fumigated csoma flower teased Kwatsura’s nose, an olfactory delicacy. The economist let the last bits of glaucous vapor drift out from his nose and then looking up, kicked the plate opposite towards Kwatsura’s feet. Alran passed the stem to Kwatsura and he received.
So the late morning dinner continued, passing the liquor pipe and hot plate and exchanging notes on the infrastructure.
And in 2 hures, peeking into the afternoon, a woman, more contemporary to Kwatsura arrived unexpectedly and sat huddled between Slotragahna and Alran. She looked like a small child, the two men’s lengthy statures towering above her. Kwatsura had become intoxicated by now, Eh, Feeecckk. Young one for a tropsa neh? You fat old fecking dog, Alran!
Haha, no, not his trospa. This is my grand niece, Kwatsura, you’re assigned guide, you remember? Slotragahna spoke with a diminishing tone.
Tura tura cul-gsola dsang-dsang, Alran muttered wearily, resting his head back on his fat neck to doze off.
Now I feel awkward trying to suggest such a relationship, yes family. Yes, noted again. My guide. Kwatsura now addressed the lady, Name’s Kwatsura as you’ve likely been informed. Chronologist. A loner in this city only, hah. Your’re taking me to East Edge tomorrow. Fancy it won’t rain or reek soap puffs, neh?
They had drinks now on the table. Kwatsura reached down to sip on the last half of the carbonated elixir he had chosen. He let strong washes of the water rush over his tongue as if to erase words just spoken.
The Rsolan woman remained aloof and silent. She wore just nacreous silver vest over a bare powdered chest, and long white skirt. She wasn’t wearing any cheek plates and her hair was only tied in the back. Her irises were died a phosphorescent orchid and glowed slightly in the dim light of the cubby hole. She produced a csoma stick from her vest and began smoking.
Name’s Isrlinea. Yes, I’m one grand niece of many. East Edge is quite a climb, are you in good shape, bookie?
Always am, my speciality is infrastructure you know, so generally have to climb 1 or 3 in a dun.
Infrastructure. Well good to that. Most outsiders want to talk about religion, which is a topic I’m honestly sick about.
Well, of course Rsola is the only place to talk about religion or even know the word religion most times. And that’s just what I wanted to talk about with you. Not because you’re Rsolan, I won’t be that shallowly inquisitive, but because you’re the only Rsolan woman I’ve observed to at least be apparently lacking any creed.
Haha, I’d almost be flattered the way I consider circumstances, Kwatsura. Shouldn’t you note my jet black hair or powdered skin.
Those are scientific attributes of the Rsolan customs, Isrilnea. Why would I consider these habits part of any particular creed? The black of course to absorb heat for the brain due the slightly low, but consistently low temperatures through the long Rsolan winters. The efrassian dust to absorb toxins from the soap factories air and then wash into the sewers each day. Neh? Hardly creed more than science, neh? I do want to talk to you about religion.
Okay, I’ll oblige since they’re both resting now.
What creed are you really?
Officially, Efgonnele. Isrilnea produced a small white identification card bearing an Efgonnele insignia: an outline of a small blue fig resting on two leaves. But that’s only by familial necessity, in honestly I don’t have a predefined creed. My own creed of naught creed would be a candidate for registration, but I honestly feel that would betray the very essence of my lack of belief.
Interesting, a Rsolan woman of naught creed, if I could ever imagine that. So I won’t see you on the Rsolan sidewalks bathing, praising some shampoo or perfume, ritualistically rubbing it over your naked flesh? Haha.
Isrilnea laughed with Kwatsura.
You know as well as I chronologist, the crux of all Rsolan creeds; that the soul of the Rsolan connected with a fellow Rsolan transmutes life experience and understanding of a type of possession, into the core existence of the object through death. The existence in inanimate form is a channel of death from one animate form to another. The soul exists in perpetuity from oscillating between animate and inanimate form. The more objects there are to find affinity of the soul with, the more likelihood that every Rsolan will catch the train of infinite existence. The bodies are preparing for the explosion of our home star and the ultimate collapse of our universe and its cyclical rebirth. The crux belief dictates the creation of new creeds and new objects to house souls in the manifolds of the creeds.
The Rsolan lives in enternity, his soul is a god. That’s how I’ve summed it up in my studies of this before.
Kwatsura was now convinced Isrilnea was indeed without any creed. What a peculiar Rsolan.
A few minutes passed as they finished their drinks and conversed on Rsolan creeds, population and societal statistics. Now 0.4 creeds per capita were being created. That would average about two hundred thousand per day. This required sufficient amount branding over sacred jewelry, perfumes, ivrsoian ornaments, soaps, perfumes and pomace. Exports had dramatically increased at about %123. The population had grown 37% in the past sun as well.
The close of the hure approached and Isrilnea led Kwatsura up the stairs out of the dark lair to the doorless entrance of the drinking spot. They emerged back into the Rsolan streets which had shifted to a soft ashen white as the open streets had become drenched in a sudden downpour of rain.
