All is White

Every city bore markers, its subtle indicators of where one was. Faifeleth, the only megalopolis of the plane Saheeleth, was no different. As much as he had traveled, Rakshal never smelt something quite as unique as the air of Faifeleth, particularly this, the centralmost part. Strong incense wafted through the air, dancing in his olfactory, as did the smells of rich foods and unique fabrics that carried scents indicating their make and expense.

He supposed the people of the smaller metropolises and other countries didn’t call this region “Yake Meresta”, the Feast, for nothing.

Peeking from beneath his hood, he stepped out from the shadow of a tall wall. His dualtoned eyes trailed to the lights of the distant cityscape visible over the horizon. He couldn’t believe it, after all these months of physical and mental struggles. After countless months of sleeping with one eye open and gathering scars like trophies.

Yake Meresta I’m finally here.

His gaze lowered, scanned the bustling streets, and narrowed with distaste.

He didn’t want to be in this city. He never would have imagined so much as stepping foot inside it if he had his way.

Grounding himself with an audible exhale, he walked forward and into the street.

He nearly bumped into someone around the corner, but he missed them by inches. Minding himself, he gave them a peripheral glance to ensure they wouldn’t bother him. When they continued, seemingly unaware of the possible collision at all, he took a moment to look around in the open.

The colors of the empire, blues and dark shades of red, hung and dangled from buildings and poles at every turn of the head. The surfaces of said structures, glossy black, differed from those of smaller cities and what Rakshal was familiar with. In the setting sunlight of early evening, they shone beautifully.

He scoffed, leveling his eyes to observe the people.

Fortunately, no one paid him any mind—save for the double-takes at his tail followed by at least a few scowls. That was normal; they weren’t looking at him but at his “deformity”.

Typical cityfolk, always thinking themselves better than others.

He settled his gaze forward, discerning where to go next. There were two streets, one twisting and turning through the city, and the other was hidden behind buildings to his left. People, large swaths of them, were walking back and forth on that street, so the path between couldn’t be an alley. No, at second glance, he realized it was perhaps the most important street in all of Saheeleth, as its white color indicated it could be nothing but the Malaki Isay Baanen, the Imperial White Road. Traveling it was his true goal for the day.

Focusing his attention on it, he took his time walking across the wide pavement, minding his steps. His tail swayed stiffly behind him with agitation. He kept it raised, close to his body in fear of having it stepped on.

While stalking across, he took frequent short stops, allowing labor animals—donkeys, mules, horses, and even the occasional oxen—to walk by. It didn’t bother him, as this was familiar and less annoying than the constant trails of people in his way.

Between the two buildings leading to the street, some people stood, talking softly and conspiratorially. He ignored them, and they him.

That, at least, was familiar It reminded him of his months in the Rejiseaain underworld, Chicheol. His hands clenched at the thought, and then he idly reached up to rub his abdomen where his most recent injury was.

Upon stepping onto the nearstark white pavement, he felt the weight of his actions settle in his gut, causing his tail to briefly stand upright. He kept his body facing forward, though his eyes wandered to gaze at the tall buildings and myriad of colorful people around him.

He felt odd, out of place. He didn’t belong here.

He needed to pray.

His eyes turned to the high horizon, searching for a finial. Birds flew by, causing him to blink, just as he spotted the tiered blue spire. He softly hummed with interest; he had yet to see an eight-leveled temple in person.

As he turned, someone bumped into him.

Before he could exchange so much as a word with them, he felt their sly hand start to slide into his coat.

He grabbed their hand and spun, tripping them with his leg, and slammed them to the ground.

The person yelped, eyes wide, and he slipped back their hood with an easy gesture. It was a young man his age.

A low growl came from his throat, a fang peeking from his upper lip, as he glowered into grey eyes.

A pale throat bobbed. “Uh…sorry,” the man whispered, hands raising nonthreateningly.

Narrowing his eyes, Rakshal helped the man stand, then turned him around and kicked him away, procuring a grunt, and a few idle chuckles emitted from witnesses.

The man didn’t react otherwise, gathering himself while leaving, rubbing his backside with a grumble.

Rakshal shook his head, waiting until the man turned around a corner before humming, unable to prevent a smile from forming on his face. He revealed the man’s money pouch in his hand and peeked through it.

Nice haul—about a month’s worth of food and shelter money inside.

He gently tossed the bag up and thanked Atiti Yiwa for the fortune before tucking it into a pocket.

The temple was still a bit of a ways away, allowing him time to travel the White Road. According to the signs, he was in the Washi District. He saw the eight tiers of the temple first, its dark blue finial standing above even the high walls and buildings of the city, and his ears perked up as he heard a clamor further ahead.

Leaning to peek around a wall, he raised a brow at the distant sight of judicial soldiers near the temple. They weren’t alone; at least a good dozen people were also close by, their collective murmuring and occasional exclamations creating enough of a commotion to bring more people over.

Upon seeing the soldiers, his tail twitched, mirroring his worry. Truthfully, he had no reason to be concerned; as far as they knew, he was just a city visitor. A tourist, for all they cared. Reminding himself he only had to be cautious, he continued walking in the temple’s general direction. While nearing, he picked out an abbess among the crowd. Dressed in the telltale, long light blue and sapphire tunic with teethlike edges, she appeared to be talking to the civilians, trying to placate them over something.

His brows creased, senses prickling at the familiar presence of an equally familiar god nearby. Pausing, he took a moment to consider, then turned away. The temple was too busy for his liking…

…and he had no intention to see Aashubhanay, said to eat mortals and gods alike, up close in any capacity. Even his mother would rather avoid that god.

With a huff, he rubbed his hands together, wishing for a quiet moment alone. How he yearned for such a luxury. He sighed softly, lowering his hands, and observed more of the Feast.

The city was readying for the New Year’s celebration, JonjaeBoo, The Festival That Doesn’t Exist. Given its name millennia ago by the Shenyui ancestors, the original Indrahtoon and Faifethin, it was a date that didn’t exist on any of the three calendars commonly used in the realm. Some mortal religions and beliefs even made it sacred.

He was unsure which of the many religions was the most dominant in the Feast, or even Faifeleth itself.

People were setting up stalls and vendors, and organized pathways with some judicial soldiers in preparation for the military procession that occurred during the day after JonjaeBoo, NianGyoushing. The corner of Rakshal’s mouth twitched upward. This was good. The celebration meant distractions and, admittedly, more security. But he wasn’t the only criminal entering the city.

He cut his gaze into a dark alley, nostrils twitching. That scent belonged to a pirate—a familiar one.

Dangerous time to be here.

However, the possible looming threats could aid him in his quest to get into the palace. With that in mind, he continued forward.

Night soon fell, hiding the menacing outline of the plane Garwados in the sky. Buoyant, heavy music proclaimed the end of one calendar cycle and the beginning of another, fluting through the air from every doorway, balcony, street corner, and window. Sparklers in people's hands reflected the fireworks in the sky, lighting the night with colors and handheld nightfires as far as Rakshal's eyes could see. People walked together, children and families, their expressions alight with gratefulness for the passing of another cycle.

All the while, they caroused beneath the even darker shadows of military ships patrolling the sky.

He watched above walls and the beautiful sloped tops of tall buildings to marvel at fireworks far grander than any he had seen in the other cities and metropolises. They gave the street and the night a soft glow of colors, a pleasant sight, one he recalled loving as a child.

From his trek down the White Road, he had come close enough to see the towering white wall of the Janchitei, the Court of Feasts, in the distance. Blockading the Court's perimeter, the many Malaki Rajashun military brackets hid behind thick woods. Despite this intentional barrier, he heard faroff thumps of percussion instruments, thrumming strings, and loud, boisterous laughter. It seemed the few lucky soldiers allowed to be merry were enjoying themselves

"…it was made over five thousand years ago and acts as an intentional obstacle between the Ishao and ourselves—and even then! Beyond the Janchitei is the Soon Saralat, where the Faifeth'hain live."

His eyes twitched as he listened to the sounds of awe resulting from the spoken words. Standing but a few steps from him and also looking at the Janchitei wall were a handful of people dressed for a grand occasion. Huddled together, the group of roughly twelve had their gazes fixed on a woman facing them who spoke loudly to compensate for the fireworks otherwise drowning her voice. Her head held high, she gestured to the white wall.

"There are two other courts similar to it located in Kuroee and Lakarra called the Bayoitei and the Keraaihl, respectfully," she continued, then scowled. "Everyone knows what became of the Bayoitei; the Wasihli who once lived there were finally eradicated just over ninety cycles ago, leaving the Ishao the only ones to inhabit it."

Rakshal softly growled.

Wasihl. How he was tired of hearing his family was a taint, a heretical group of liars who deserved what became their eventual eradication through the last age

Scoffing, he tuned out the woman's words to focus on the Janchitei entrance with his advanced eyesight. Pristine white steps from the White Road led to the landing, and at the gate were the eight appointed K'etishao, noble guards. Standing still as statues, their silvergold vizards covered their mouths, and their white headwraps and coned black hats shaded their eyes.

He worked his jaw.

There technically wasn't a way inside from here except by the front door itself; a barrier around the Court, the Asheh Vitra, would obliterate anyone who tried to enter from the top and unappointed entrances. Furthermore, several K'etishao patrolled the perimeter regardless of this for extra security.

"Shit," he hissed, grinding his teeth.

I can hear your teeth withering away, Rakka.

He immediately stopped, lips pursing as he heard his mother's voice in the back of his mind.

If there was no way to enter the Court traditionally, he would have to find a far more insane method in.

Blowing hair out of his face, a habit he picked up from his mother, he turned away to look at the sky and observe the fireworks again Taking a moment, he allowed himself to recall an old memory of when he saw fireworks for the first time—with her.

He turned away before he could become emotional, darkly eyeing the people nearby as they joked and tittered.

His blood, already running hot, boiled. He softly swore at the imperial family for all they had done, but not to him, no—to his mother and everyone else he would never have the chance to meet.

Looking at the crowd, he grunted at the woman, "Ay, Aki." She blinked at him, followed by several other eyes of various colors. He narrowed his but tried to at least seem friendly, nodding at her. "You seem to know a lot about the city."

With a chuckle, the woman preened. "Indeed I've lived here my whole life."

He briefly glanced her over. Faifethin and Indrahtoon didn't truly start aging until around fivehundred, and she looked as though she couldn't be much older than him. "Can you tell me where I can find a place to stay?"

She looked away in thought, lips slightly puckering. "There are plenty of places that still have rooms—for now." She waved a hand to the right of the street from their view. "Inns, however, are likely all full."

“I'd rather be towards the end."

“Ah." She looked him over, and he had the feeling it was with some derision. “Hm, I know the Aimai has several taverns, if that's what you want. It's nearer to the center of the Isay Baanen."

“Aimai." He nodded and turned to walk away.

“Oi, you can at least say 'shi'!"

He ignored her, somewhat hating the idea of walking such a distance if the district was so far away.

She scoffed. "Fucking monsar."

His body tensed, but he was able to let it go—much as he wanted to flick a gesture of insult at her, particularly the sigga. It helped that he had enough people call him a "monkey" over the course of his time in Chicheol that it meant little more than an indicator of possible confrontation.

But not here.

At least, not yet.

His tail flicked idly behind him, mirroring his unease.

Anyone could live in Chicheol, no matter how violent or wild, as what mattered was keeping one's wits about them. Reputation was deeply venerated, and if one entered the underworld with their fists flying, the greater a chance people would leave them alone Maybe a fiftyfifty chance, but those were good odds.

It was the opposite here. At least in Chicheol, people were honest about what they did. The Feast reeked of clandestine activities and secrets far different from that of the underworld.

He didn't like it.

But he signed up for this, and he would see it through to the bitter end.