#noiseless trader

[cowboygenesis]

1: spice rolls and dew jam | din djarin x reader

part 1 of the "brown eyes" series: masterlist.

pairing: din djarin x reader

chapter warnings: none.

word count: 5.7k

series summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible.

notes: this fic is set a while after the corvus arc in season 2, after din sets to find a teacher for grogu. there's tons of flavor-lore here, some of it canon, some of it completely made up (by me). smut happens late because im a slave to slow burn. but enjoy the mutual pining!

You have known this your entire life.

The air smells like fresh earth and wildflowers when you open your kitchen window that morning. The fog clings low to the ground as a cool breeze seeps into your home, making you swaddle yourself tighter within your knitted sweater.

Your cold-numbed fingers wrap tightly around the ceramic mug cupped in your hands, periodically bringing it to your lips for a languid sip. The caf scalds your tongue, but you persevere. Outside, the sun rises above the horizon, peeking over the tall treeline and illuminating the town with a subtle, golden glow.

Across your makeshift garden stands a small stripe of farmland, glistening with freshly sowed soil and soft patches of stray grass. You spot your elderly neighbor strolling about with a blanket-covered basket and wave her hello when she smiles at you. Her breath comes out in a thin cloud of condensation which you see as it mends with the dewy air.

You exhale. It’s unremarkable, peaceful. Predictable. The way it’s been for as long as you can remember.

You have known this your entire life. But today, the air feels thicker. Your hands slip against the polished wood when you reach for your hairbrush, and the Shiir fruit you have for breakfast tastes soured as you bite into the soft, dotted flesh.

It all started three days ago, when a small craft landed in the nearby woods. It was the dead of night, silent besides the howling of sifflings and a distant cricket song filling the empty void.

You didn't see it happen, nor did your neighbors, as the first whispers came from the children: wide-eyed and brimming with interest, they gossiped quietly of a strange craft that emerged just before dawn, sleek and noiseless, nestled beneath the canopy of trees that surround your little village. No one emerged from it, they chimed. The forest swallowed it whole as if it had always been hidden in the cloud of greenery.

At first, it was just another embellished story—a tale spun from boredom or fantasies, something for the local folk to entertain themselves with during the quieter nights at the cantina.

But as the hours turned into days, the usual vibrancy of your community turned subdued with the whispered rumors. And sure, people started talking, but nobody dared to see the ship for themselves. Such was their Maker-fearing nature.

You, like many others, grew quite curious as the stories spread. When you walked down the stone-laid path to the town’s square every morning, your eyes followed along the treeline, glimpsing between the foliage in a silent hope of catching something inexplicable: a metallic wing, a flailing cape, or even a hint of movement. But nothing ever came.

You finish your drink and place the cup in the sink, the clink of ceramic echoing in your quiet kitchen as you let the residual warmth of the caf envelop you. You make a mental note to stock up on the good stuff as soon as the Mon Gazza traders come through your town next time.

You lean against the wall in your chair, glancing over at the basket you'd prepared last night. It sits by the door, neatly packed with fresh bread, a few vegetables from your garden, and jars of homemade preserves. You’ve made it a habit to bring these goods to the village market as a small way to keep yourself busy and prevent the excess produce from spoiling. Cooking for one is no easy feat.

As you turn to the window again, you notice the sun has fully crested over the trees, casting long shadows down the strip of farmland in front of your home.

You stand up and stretch with a grunt, grabbing your cloak from the green-padded loveseat and tying the ribbon around your neck. You grab the basket, tie your boots neatly, and step out into the crisp morning air with a deep inhale. The bells hooked on your doorway jingle as you lock it behind you.

Lazure Prime’s climate is temperate, yet the mornings are notably chillier at this point of the solar cycle. It’s a good omen for the upcoming harvest, the farmers had always said; something about the condensation that makes the tartness decline. You’ve never been big on food science, but living in an agriculture-based town has illuminated many aspects of the topic over the years.

The walk to the village is unremarkable. Trees sway softly in the wind, their leaves dancing in the early daylight. You pass by familiar faces— fyrion melon farmers prepping the land for sowing and children making their daily hike to school. Each one of them flashes you a bright smile as you walk past, some calling out your name cheerfully.

Your eyes hover over the treeline again, watching the bark weave in and out of the lush greenery but… no metal. No ship. It’s the same as it’s always been. A part of you expects the visitor to be long gone, perhaps in a moment where nobody caught it.

As you near the market square, you catch the distant chatter of townsfolk. They weave in and out of the stalls, exchanging greetings and produce as a weekly ritual.

You skim through the stalls with your eyes and select one of the empty ones. You place your basket on top with a grunt, stunned at how robustly you managed to pack it this time around.

Your hands work quickly, unraveling the protective rag covering the inside and reaching for your produce. Four loaves of oat cakes, amber squash, a few bunches of carrots, and half a dozen jars of dew jam— a family recipe. Because it peddled so fast last time, you made sure to amp up the production this week to at least double the amount.

You hear your name be called, paired with a gentle touch on your arm. You turn around on your heel, gaze dropping to be met with the curious look of a young girl.

“Good morning Nissa,” you smile, giving the child a small wave. She beams at you, exposing a row of milk teeth, two of them missing. “Is your mom around?”

She shrugs half-heartedly, quick to dismiss your concern. “She’s here. Probably getting the stuff we need for dinner tonight— we’re making yak stew. You know yak stew, right?” she explains, eyes suddenly widening, “Oh, you have to come! I’ll tell mom about it, I— We’d love to have you over!”

You chuckle warmly at her excitement, reaching a hand behind you to grab a round, cloth-enveloped parcel and hiding it behind your back as you crouch down to meet the girl at eye level.

“Yeah, I know it. Yak stew sounds lovely. I’ll have to ask your mom if that’s alright with her, though,” you reply with an apologetic look, toying with the package behind your back. “You know how she feels about surprise visits.”

Nissa rolls her eyes, arms crossed. “Whatever, she’ll have to say yes!” she insists, extending her hands as if to make a point, “You have to come, okay? You promised to show me how to shoot a bow last time, you promised!”

“Nini, I said I’ll show you how it works,” you grimace slightly at your own mistake of giving a child the idea to learn of a weapon in the first place. What can you say, you got overly excited as usual and spoke too much, too soon. “I don’t think your mom would like us toying around with a weapon in her home. And yes, I asked her already. It’s not gonna happen.”

She blows a raspberry at your reprimanding, followed by a loud huff. And then there’s that stare, the kind that you’re sure makes her mother scowl at how effective it is. “We don’t need to be in the house. We can go to the garden, right? It’s not technically the house anymore.”

“Technically? Who taught you that?” you chuckle, praying it’s enough to distract her hyperactive mind from the bow-shooting idea.

“Um— you did? Mom says I spend too much time with you, by the way. She doesn’t like that I pick up on the things you say, because now I can _actually_ talk to her with adult words. But I like it. You should teach me more words like that,” She replies, going on a tangent. Works like clockwork.

You sigh, taking the parcel out from behind you and cupping it in front of the girl. “Hey, it’s not a good thing. We don’t want to upset her, right?” you reprimand gently, “Here. You told me you liked the oat cakes I made last week.”

Her mouth widens in profound excitement as she quickly grabs ahold of the wrapped gift. “No way, you baked an extra one just for me?”

“Yes— Hey, it’s for your family, alright? Make sure to share it with your brother, at least,” you wag your finger at her with a smile, your heart slowly warming at the raw reaction.

She nods, but you can tell she doesn’t catch a word you say. Her little fingers reach for the knot, ready to untie the morsel, but she’s stopped in her tracks at her name being called.

You peek behind her shoulder to see a woman striding towards you two with a hurried bounce in her step, a woven basket on her hip, and a young boy trailing behind her. She says your name as she approaches, and you can tell from the way her thick eyebrows stitch that Nissa is not supposed to be here alone.

“Morning!” she calls out, her voice carrying a pleasant, melodic lilt when she addresses you. “Ni, I told you to wait up. Help me out with this, will you?” she adds sternly, motioning to her basket with a tilt of her head.

The girl rolls her eyes but does as asked. She strains a little as her mother passes the basket over, a little grunt emitted from her mouth.

“I’m so sorry, she’s been talking about you all of breakfast,” the woman speaks, breath still heavy from prancing around the market. “Didn’t cause you any trouble, I hope?”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. You hope the bow idea doesn’t get a mention. “Not at all, Val. We had a nice little chat about your dinner plans tonight.”

Valerie smiles warmly, though there’s a hint of jest in her dark eyes. “Ah, yes, dinner. Kids this age eat for two, it feels like. Half of this moon’s pay went directly to grocery costs, can you believe it? This one’s got the stomach of a bantha,” she motions to her daughter, and you catch Nissa rolling her eyes again. You chuckle, and the woman shakes her head. “I’d love to have you over, but only if you’re free. It’d be nice to catch up, I feel like it’s been a century since we got to sit down over a meal and a nice spotchka.”

You stand up, stretching a little as you lean against your stall. “I’m free. And I’d love to join if it’s not a problem for you all,” you smile politely, “I’ll make sure to bring some dessert, too,” you add with a wink at Nissa who beams at your generous suggestion.

“That’s too kind of you, as usual. You know the kids love your baking, and so do I,” she says, placing a hand against her son’s back and gently pushing her forward. “Right, Ki?”

The boy tucks a stray brunette lock behind his ear, glancing up at you with a coy nod. You smile, giving him a little wave of encouragement.

“Of course. I’ll whip up something good for you guys,” you respond, turning around to start organizing your produce on the wooden boards. “Thank you for the invite, by the way. I’ve been home-stuck for way too long, and I feel like it’s finally getting to my head,” you add, turning around to flash your friend a cheeky smile. She responds with a similar one, a hand now stroking down her daughter’s plaits.

Nissa tugs on her mother’s sleeve, eyebrows knitted. “Mom, we were supposed to get spice rolls today. You promised Kivan you’d buy them for us,” she complains, and Valerie chuckles warmly.

“Right, I guess I did make that promise at some point,” she shrugs, giving a knowing smile that you return absentmindedly. “Excuse us, but priorities call. On this note, you should really try Mrs. Veska’s spice rolls, I hear it’s an original family recipe from Batuu. Which, by the way, did you even know she’s from Batuu? Maker, the things I still find out after living here my whole life.”

You laugh at her small rant, taking a step forward to place an affirming hand on her shoulder. “This town is a gift that keeps on giving, huh? I trust you have plenty of stories to share with me over that drink you suggested.”

“More than I care to admit,” she huffs, straightening out and adjusting the large messenger bag on her hip. “Anyway, I think we better scavenge this market before all the good stuff is wiped out. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“I’ll see you. Bye, kids!” you lean down, waving enthusiastically. Kivan gives you a coy nod, while Nissa waves back with a wide grin, the wrapped oat cake now sitting safely within the basket she’s carrying.

As you watch Valerie and the kids disappear into the bustling crowd, you exhale a small sigh of contentment. Dinner and some spotchka are exactly what you need after a long, lonesome week.

Your fingers resume their work, carefully arranging the last of your produce on the stall’s wooden boards. You lean back when you’re done, watching the colorful array with your hands on your hips and a satisfied smile painted across your face.

That’s when you feel it— an odd sense of stillness settling over the market as your back faces the crowd.

You wait a beat, breathing in the thick air. It’s as if the week-long tension had finally culminated in a moment of eternal stillness, hovering in the atmosphere like a prayer about to be spoken.

You turn around on your heel, the empty basket still clutched tightly in your hands. That’s when you spot it.

You watch a sleek figure cut through the bustling market crowd, tall frame draped in armor shining brilliantly under the rising daylight. You catch it immediately, something about him—it sends a surge of hushed attention through the townsfolk gathered around. The loud chatter slowly dampens, havoc turning into muted whispers as the figure strides through. People step aside as if instinctively, letting him pass through uninterrupted as Maker forbid a guy of his caliber gets interrupted.

Your fingers wrap still against the edge of the wooden stall, watching the stranger approach. But it’s the air of him that catches your attention—the way he moves, unbothered, like he’s always on the move yet leveled in some unstated purpose. A droid? No, he’s humanoid. A trooper?

He strides with intent, but not hurriedly by any means. A small, rounded pod floats beside him, gently humming as it hovers by his right hip.

Whoever this man is, he’s unlike any visitor your village had taken in before. There’s an unsettling sense of quiet power that seems to follow him as he struts along the stalls, his visor moving subtly, yet perceptibly, as he assumingly scans for what he’s looking for.

You catch glimpses of villagers giving him a wide berth, murmuring amongst themselves, uncertain whether to approach or keep their distance.

He draws nearer, and for a brief moment, his helmet—polished but tattered—turns in your direction. Your breath hitches. You meet the opaque visor, your reflection staring back at you, but you can’t spot the eyes beneath it, even as you try to squint.

There’s no nod, no words exchanged, just a brief moment where your gaze meets his; you can feel it boring into you even through the slim visor, the air around you stilling with his absurdly authoritative presence. Oddly, you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking as he stares into you.

The moment passes instantly as his helmet finally tilts away from you. He continues on, stout boots thudding lightly against the packed dirt of the village square. You blink twice, his gaze lingering on your silhouette for a second longer than it should. Your jaw unclenches, though you don’t remember tightening it in the first place. He seems… familiar.

You dig into the depths of your brain, clawing at the grey matter. Something about his armor, or perhaps the blaster tucked at his side, threatens to awaken a hidden memory within your half-awaken mind.

You don’t exactly know why you decide to take a step forward when you do.

Be it primal curiosity or the quiet tension that clings to him like a fleeting shadow; regardless of the reason, you feel compelled to approach him, basket in hand, steadily nearing the armored stranger.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself as you step forward and drop your emptied basket near the soil by your booth.

When you look up again, you see the armored figure ahead of you finally stop at one of the stalls. He stands silent and still, visor fixed on the selection of produce laid out before him. The stall owner, an older man with wiry hair and sun-weathered skin, toys nervously with the corner of his apron.

Suddenly, a familiar silhouette emerges out of the cantina’s wooden doorway. His broad shoulders sway rhythmically, eyes piercing and focused as he trots down the soil. His weathered hand rests firmly atop his hip, cradling the only blaster the town has ever owned. It’s not something you had ever caught before, but the weapon paired with a tattered chest plate makes him stand out from the rest of the townsfolk. He looks modern, metropolitan, like a big-town sheriff rather than a community-voted overseer.

“Morning, traveler,” he calls out in a deep, gravelly voice, coming to a stop a few paces from the armored figure. “First time seeing you around here. What brings you to Terrine?”

There’s a pause that lingers for a second too long. The stranger doesn’t respond right away, and you can feel the anticipation surging through the air as the marshal takes another step forward.

The marshal steps from foot to foot, the blaster on his hip gleaming in the sunlight as if purposefully making its presence known. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? Fine,”

The armored figure finally turns his head, the reflective visor of his helmet catching the morning sun. He doesn’t flinch or bristle at the marshal’s words—just stands there, towering and still. You feel unease mixing in your gut when you catch a glimpse of the stranger’s blaster resting in the holster on his hip, stagnantly, as his hand hovers nowhere near it.

“Bounty hunters and other scoundrels of your kind aren’t appreciated in these parts. I can see that weapon on your hip, don’t you find me foolish,” he motions to his blaster with a nod of his head, “What’s your business here?”

The question hangs in the air, the marketplace unnervingly still. You sense eyes from the nearby stalls watching the scene, everyone holding their breath as tension swells between the two men.

“You deaf under that helmet?” the marshal sneers, his tone sharp as he steps forward, shoving a hand against the stranger’s shoulder. The impact is solid as you can tell from the dull sound it makes, yet the figure barely flinches. “Huh?”

The crowd seems to hold its breath as the stranger pivots his stance ever so slightly, body shifting just enough to fully face the marshal. His hand moves slowly, almost deliberately, hovering near his blaster—just enough to be caught yet not enough to draw it— yet.

“You don’t want this,” he says, voice low, gravelly, and calm as ever, carrying a weight that cuts through your tense body. It’s heavily modulated, yet it’s soft bass draws a shiver down your spine.

The marshal pauses, his chest rising and falling rapidly, momentarily frozen in place as the air hangs heavy between them. You feel the tension peak, a bead of sweat forming on the marshal’s brow despite the cool morning breeze pouring into the market.

“I’m sick of you metal-clad fuckers causing mayhem where you don’t belong,” he suddenly hisses, sizing the stranger up as his hand slowly catches the handle of his blaster, “I’ve heard enough of your excuses for—” he draws it, and your heart drops.

A wave of adrenaline propels you forward, legs carrying you silently between the two men in a mindless, perhaps foolish, moment of clarity.

“Raan—” you call out desperately, cringing the way your voice shakes. “—Marshal.”

Both men turn their attention to you, but despite being shrouded by two deadly weapons, it’s the stranger’s unseen gaze that makes your stomach twist at that moment.

“Let’s not have this escalate,” you say, gaze soft yet determined as it connects with the marshal’s. Here we go. “We all know you’re just trying to maintain order and peace, but this man has done no harm.”

The marshal’s eyes lock onto yours, his expression a mix of frustration and reluctant acknowledgment. His grip tightens on his blaster, knuckles white, but you can see the battle waging behind his eyes.

“Peace?” the marshal spits, his voice rough. “It’s people like him that _disrupt_ the peace,”

The stranger remains eerily still, his helmet angled slightly towards you as if measuring your sincerity. The tension between the three of you feels almost tangible, and you can feel dozens of eyes boring into you expectantly. Briefly, you catch a glimpse of Valerie, her kids shielded behind the fabric of her dress.

“You know what kind of risk these types bring,” the marshal continues, voice rising slightly. “They come in, stir up trouble, then disappear without a trace. Worst damn case, they tell their little bounty-hunting friends about us so we can be plundered all over again. We don’t need that here, and you should know that better than anyone.”

Your eyes shoot wide open at his statement. The marshal's words sting with a quiet truth, yet you take a deep breath, steeling yourself against the personal attacks. You’re too deep to withdraw now, and somehow, the little voice in your head you call intuition tells you the armor-clad figure is no ordinary plunderer.

Your eyes flicker to his visor, and for the briefest moment, you swear you catch something mild in the way his helmet tilts in your direction. Call it stress-induced delusion, but if he didn’t appreciate your interference, why didn’t he try to stop you yet?

“Marshal, I understand your concerns,” you start again, voice steady but firm. “But we can’t jump to conclusions based on fear alone. Not everyone who wears armor or carries a blaster is out to cause trouble, and you should know that better than anyone.” you bite back subtly, a self-satisfied smirk threatening to emerge at the way his eyebrows furrow at your targeted remark.

His hands drop from his holster, snaking around to rest firmly against his belt. He exhales sharply, giving the stranger a once-over before returning to you with a seemingly dampened mood.

“Fine,” he states firmly, taking a step back. His shoulders relax just a fraction, though the tension still simmers in his eyes. “But I’m keeping an eye on this one. If anything goes awry, we’ll deal with it one way or another.”

The stranger remains silent, his posture relaxed but you catch his visor fixed on the marshal as he withdraws.

The man huffs, and for a brief moment, it seems like he’s about to get a last word in but finally decides against it. He murmurs something under his breath, turning on his heel and making his way back into the quiet cantina.

The silence following the encounter lingers for a beat, before murmurs from the surrounding villagers slowly start up again, the crowd beginning to disperse as the scene deescalates. When you breathe deeply to recalibrate, you can feel the weight of their stares, some curious, most wary.

When you finally turn to face the armored man, you catch his visor pinning you in place.

Your breath hitches, your neck craning to appease his height as your eyes flicker for a moment in search of his. You don’t spot them through the darkness, but it doesn’t stop you from imagining them through the metal, like placing two pins on a map.

You step forward, your voice steady but carrying a note of concern. “I’m sorry about him. We truly don’t get many visitors around here.”

The man doesn’t immediately respond. His visor remains locked on you, the helmet’s reflective surface making it impossible to gauge his opinion of your actions thus far.

“Thank you,” he finally says, and the flatness of his tone makes it hard to gauge at first but he seems… earnest. From what you can tell.

You give him a polite smile, feeling gratified by his small praise. “Keep browsing, if you like. We only hold this market once a week, so it’s a bit of a celebration every time.”

He tilts his head slightly, considering your offer, but keeps silent. After a brief pause, he turns his attention back to the stalls, visor scanning down a selection of sweet pastries from Mrs. Veska. Your eyes flicker over pastry labeled ‘spice rolls’, and make a quick mental note to swing by later, once the crowd clears up a bit.

As you turn to walk back to your stall, you feel a quick, firm grasp on your forearm. “Wait,” the modulated voice calls out, making your gaze flicker to his helmet.

You give him that same smile again, his lingering grip making your gaze flicker to his gloved hand. It wraps around your arm effortlessly, the pressure treading dangerously between comfortable and tight. As if on cue, he withdraws, hands resting at his sides when he addresses you. “Is there lodging here?”

Your eyebrows furrow at the question, your gaze flickering to the humming orb behind him. You catch a slit running along its length, and reason it must be some sort of… strangely extravagant basket.

“Lodging? You mean… rooms to spare?” you question back, and his shoulders seem to imperceptibly relax at that.

“Yes. Available housing,” he clarifies, and you hum in thought. You’re about to ask him about his ship but realize it might be a little personal, especially after the feud feels fresh in your mind.

“It’s hard for me to say at this moment. Like you’ve heard before, we don’t get many visitors or tourists here, so most homes are permanently occupied by native residents,” you explain, searching your mind for a solution. “You’d have to…”

You hesitate, realizing that the key to his problems might just blow up in his face if he tries it.

His helmet tilts slightly, as if urging you to continue despite your hesitation. You meet the inscrutable visor with your gaze, feeling a sudden surge of sympathy.

“You’d have to ask Marshal Raan about it. If there’s anything available, he’d be the one keeping track of such information,” you finally explain, gaze growing apologetic as he takes in the announcement.

The armored man nods, his posture remaining quiet and ordered. “Okay,” he replies, the flatness of his tone giving you little to go off.

“Listen, I… I know he came off pretty unfriendly back there, but he’s a good man. If you explain your situation to him, I’m sure he’ll oblige,” you say, yet your eyebrows furrow. You suddenly realize that you don’t know this stranger’s situation yourself, and you’re not exactly in the position to ask, either.

The man’s helmet tilts slightly as if considering your words. “Thank you for your help,” he says, voice steady and unyielding. You nod at him with a sympathetic smile.

Suddenly, you feel like you want to say something more; ask him a question, tell him about the town, anything to keep the conversation going despite it being long over. Then you realize.

You don’t even know his name.

Your lips hang slightly ajar as he nods at you in goodbye, turning to walk away. You can’t bring yourself to speak. His heavy boots make soft thuds against the packed dirt as you catch him mumbling something to one of the vendors.

You sigh, gaze lingering on him as you slowly withdraw towards your stall, the glint of armor disappearing between the crowd once you reach your produce.

You give them a once-over, a wave of tiredness washing over you out of nowhere. Your mind rushes to the stranger before you can tell it ‘no’, eyes glassy as you play over the feud over and over in your head… his figure clear when you picture it.

A full suit of armor, pristinely crafted to suit his body— one of his pauldrons harbored a strange symbol, the head of a horned animal you had never seen before.

You remember his low, stern voice addressing you with an indiscernible tone, something you can only compare to an unusual kindness. Perhaps it’s the dangerous nature of his supposed profession or the fact he stands out so drastically amongst simple townsfolk like you, but the truth is that your breath quickens as you think of his eyes on you through the slim, dark visor.

“Hey,” you hear, but the words seem muddled through your woolgathering.

You blink, the world around you snapping back into focus. The armored figure is standing right in front of your stall now, his imposing presence suddenly filling your bubble. You meet his gaze through the dim visor, the helmet almost intimate in its closeness.

“Hey,” he repeats, his voice modulated but softer now, gently waking you from your haze. “I need a favor.”

His request catches you off guard, your eyes widening slightly as you finally come fully to your senses. Your mind races, trying to moderate the intimidating figure.

“Favor?” you echo, frowning slightly. “Don’t tell me. He turned you down. Just… just come with me, I’ll try to talk some sense—”

“We didn’t talk,” he cuts you off, the initial softness disappearing from his voice. He shifts his weight slightly, arms crossed over his chest. “I… think I’ll manage without the lodging for a while.”

You give him a raised eyebrow but quickly muster up a sympathetic smile when he refuses to elaborate.

“Okay. What brings you to me, then?” you probe gently, watching him pull a pouch out of his messenger bag. It clinks softly as it rolls over his fingers.

“I need supplies,” he explains, tossing you the sack with a flick of his wrist. You yelp, straining to catch it mid-air. Once you feel the weight of it, you realize it’s a lot more than you bargained for. Your lip twitches.

“This is a small fortune,” you frown, withdrawing a singular coin from within. You pass it between your fingers, rubbing gently against the New Republic sigil engraved into the sleek metal. “I don’t have enough supplies to trade you for this large an amount.”

“I’ll take all you have,” he hums, helmet dropping slightly to glance at your small selection of produce. “And you can keep whatever coin is left.”

“What? No— I can’t,” you chuckle nervously, extending your palms with the coin pouch inside. “Why… why won’t you try the other vendors? Market’s open til noon, you’re granted some good cuts of meat and proper bread at least,”

He looks at you. As always, you can’t tell for certain, but you feel his gaze on yours, boring into your very being as he shifts from one leg to another.

“My presence sparks fear in your people,” he says quietly. “They refuse to do business with me.”

Your heart twists a bit at his words. ‘None of them?’ you want to ask, but the silence between you speaks louder than any words ever could. You nod slowly, understanding dawning on you as your arms withdraw under your cloak, the small pouch with them.

“Alright,” you say softly, taking a deep breath. “Alright… let me pack this up for you,”

He nods in acknowledgment, stepping away as you walk around your stall. You feel his presence by your side as your hands work at the jars, placing them gently within a patterned cloth. Next come the oat cakes, then the vegetables.

He watches you in silence, helmet tilted as you skillfully tie the parcel into a knot. You turn to him slowly, straining a bit at the weight in your hands as you present it to him with an encouraging smile.

“Thanks for single-handedly putting me out of business,” you muse, chuckling half-heartedly at your nervous attempt at a joke. The helmet peers at you, but keeps silent. ‘Tough crowd,’ you think.

His gloved fingers move to cup the parcel, your thumbs grazing as you pass it to him. You jerk on instinct and pray to Maker he doesn’t notice.

“Thanks,” he nods, turning to briefly gaze at the humming orb behind him. “Keep the rest—”

“Come with me,” you intercept, louder than planned. He turns to you, helmet tilting in question. You swallow thickly, hands at your hips as you elaborate. “…Come with me. I can’t let you give away all this coin, and I have nothing more to give you from this stall, so… I’m inviting you to my home. Let me cook for you, so we may call it even.”

Your body ripples with anxiety as the words leave your mouth. Part of you wants to retract your invite on the spot when you watch him take a step towards you, unnervingly silently, and— Maker, why does he have to be so damn silent?!

“Okay,” he speaks, voice stern yet laced with something unrecognizable. You glance up at him with wide eyes, visor pointed at you with a silent purpose.

You take a step back as the ghost of a smile crawls onto your shock-stricken face, your words echoing his. “Okay.”

[libord]

Share Markets are believing to be in consolidation from this level

Introduction: Market experts suggest that the current bottom of 17,000 on the Nifty50 index appears to be strong, and there is a possibility of consolidation from this level. If the index continues to bounce from this level, it could indicate an upside and activate bullish counts on point-and-figure charts up to 17,800–18,000. However, they are also cautioning that there are still some downside counts open to 16,500, so it would be wise to be aware of this possibility if the price falls below 17,000. Furthermore, they suggest that there are opportunities in the healthcare, pharmaceutical, defence, and banking sectors. They also said to note that some stocks in these sectors are performing well, outperforming the major indices, and displaying a strong trend. Experts View about the current situation in Nifty 50 stocks: Market experts suggest that the Nifty index has reached a strong bottom at 17,000 based on various indicators. They note that the current uptrend is the fourth corrective move and has seen the same amount of upside so far, but has bounced from the previous demand area, indicating a strong bottom has been formed. Furthermore, they mentioned that the number of stocks above the 200-day moving average in the Nifty50 has increased in the last 15 days, and more than half of the stocks are in a bullish swing according to P&F charts. They suggest that if there is a follow-through action to the current bounce, it might then indicate an upside and, adding to it, activate bullish counts on P&F charts for the levels up to 17,800–18,000. However, they also note that there are some downside counts open to 16,500, and until these bearish counts are negated and bullish counts are formed, the trend is still bearish. They advise traders to be aware of this possibility while deciding on strategies. Lastly, they also mention that Nifty is still underperforming against other major asset classes such as bonds, currencies, and gold, and for a meaningful upside, this picture must change. Experts View on the Comparison of the Price Movement of the Bank Nifty to the Nifty50: Market experts compare the price movement of the Bank Nifty to the Nifty 50 and note that both have corrected by 10 to 12 percent. However, they also mention that in the short term, the Bank Nifty is outperforming the market. They also further note that all stocks in the Bank Nifty are in the bullish column in the P&F chart, indicating bullish swings, whereas only about half of the stocks in the Nifty are in bullish swings. This suggests that more stocks have turned bullish in Bank Nifty. Additionally, they also mentioned that they track breadth indicators closely, as the number of stocks participating in a trend is usually a leading indicator. However, they also caution that there are stiff resistances on the higher side, which means that there is a possibility of short-term consolidation in the Bank Nifty. Experts view on the importance of and some useful information about the Noiseless Chart part (Points and Figures): According to a few market experts, they say that they learned early in their careers that seeking consensus in the market is not the path to success. They began exploring lesser-known methods and stumbled upon noiseless charts, such as P&F, Renko, line-break, and Kagi charts, which take only price into account and eliminate noise from the data. These charts can reveal hidden price patterns and provide important information regarding trend and pattern. Price analysis, indicators, and strategies in technical analysis are applicable to these charting methods, making studies more effective and resulting in a significant increase in trade productivity. They also believe that those who have not learned about or understood these techniques are missing out on something valuable when it comes to trading. Experts View on the Nifty IT Sector: Market experts are expressing caution and uncertainty regarding the current state of the market. While some stocks may be trading at support levels, there is no concrete evidence that the market has bottomed out yet. The IT index has shown a higher bottom, but it is not yet bullish, indicating that other sectors may be performing better. They also suggest that the confirmation of a bullish double bottom pattern in the IT sector's relative strength chart would be a useful tool to confirm a support pattern, but it has not yet occurred. Experts view on Adani Group stocks: Market experts believe that Adani Group stocks are known for their high volatility and that traders who have a well-defined strategy in place for entering and exiting trades and managing risks may find opportunities to benefit from trading these stocks. However, they also suggest that these stocks are not suitable for newcomers or traders who base their decisions on news or intuition, as they may make emotional trades in these situations. Therefore, traders who have experience and discipline in their approach may consider trading Adani Group stocks, while those who lack experience or a sound trading strategy should avoid them. Experts view on sectors for investment: Some market experts are actively seeking trading opportunities in three sectors: healthcare and pharmaceuticals, defence, and banking. They have identified some stocks in these sectors that are looking promising and noted that these sectors are currently outperforming the broader market indices and exhibiting a strong trend. They also believe that focusing on leading stocks within these sectors is a sound strategy, as it can offer a favourable risk-reward ratio, provided that the overall trend of the market (as represented by the Nifty index) is not bearish. However, they also warn that many traders make the mistake of not considering the broader market trend while selecting trades, which can lead to poor performance. Conclusion: Markets experts say that currently they are expecting the possibility of consolidation in the market, and the current bottom of 17,000 on the Nifty50 index appears to be strong. In short, they suggest that it is a good time to enter the market and suggest investing in sectors like healthcare and pharmaceuticals, defence, and banking as they are actively seeking trading opportunities in these three sectors, but without having a demat account you cannot invest in these sectors. So, here is an opportunity to open your demat and trading accounts with Libord Brokerage Pvt Ltd and start investing in these sectors during this correction period in this market. On the stocks of IT and Adani Group, they believe that although the IT sector has made bottom, there are no signs of going up from here, and on Adani Stocks, they have suggested that new traders and investors should stay away for the present situation. So, overall, other than IT and Adani Group, investors should start investing in sectors like healthcare and pharmaceuticals, defence, and banking and generate a good return in their portfolio.

[definedge-blog]

OPTIONS TRADING TALK 23: AP with weekly review. How much higher can Nifty go, few stocks for the next week, and Raju Ranjan reveals his 'Tak Tak' indicator.

[sootcloak]

Day 14: Commend

Admiral Merlwyb Bloefiswyn looks for a path forward regarding one of her officers, whose repeated sacrifices have left her more machine than aught else.

Roughly 1800 words.

AO3 Link

    The Rhotano is calm, the sun bright, and the skies clear. The fair winds off the ocean makes sails and flags billow. Down below, the Admiral can see her people going about their lives. Traders shouting from their stands, noiseless from here. Artisans working diligently, sharing brief words with their guild colleagues. Travelers, new to the city and veterans of her winding, spiraling streets both, arriving at the docks. Adventurers near the Aetheryte, enjoying the sun and one another’s company. Another peaceful, quiet day.

    There’s a knock at the door. Merlwyb glances away from her city and people to the signed forms on her desk. She hesitates, a moment. But then, loud and clear, she says,

    “Enter.”

    The doors swing open noiselessly, the guard directly outside speaking firmly.

    “Admiral. Captain Aceris, as requested.” He gives a sharp salute, and stands stiff as a board.

    “At ease. Leave us.” She says, arms folded behind her back as she gazes out the windows of her office. He says nothing, simply steps outside and closes the doors behind him.

    Vavara stands loosely, waiting with an easy patience. Merlwyb continues to stare out over the Rhotano.

    “Ma’am?” Vavara asks, a quiet familiarity there.

    “Forgive me.” She turns her head to look over at the soldier, “Have a seat.”

    Vavara moves on of the chairs slightly closer to the desk, and then sits with both her knees under her, giving her just enough height to have her shoulders rest above the edge of the desk. She takes her hat off, and rests it in her lap, and pulls the loose hair from inside it into a loose tail. She quickly ties it off with a length of black ribbon. Merlwyb lets out a thin, long breath, and then sits down at her desk and faces Vavara.

    “Something need doing, Ma’am?” The earnest way Vavara always asks sends a cold chill running through Merlwyb’s chest - is it guilt? Shame? Either way, it doesn’t show. 

    “No. You outdid yourself at Paglth’an, and by all reports deserve nothing less of a medal.” A restrained, convincing smile works its way onto the Admiral’s face. “Or some other reward.”

    “Last we had this conversation was Ghimlyt, Ma’am. Respectfully, I decline.” A weight slides off Vara’s shoulders. Barely-concealed relief. “I would prefer to have my name appear on as few official documents as possible, for all our sakes.”

    “I remember.” She says, sagely nodding. Her eyes close a moment, and she seems to gird herself. When they open, her face is steely. 

“Captain Vavara Aceris,” The authority in her voice shakes Vavara from the comfortable banter she’d begun to slip into. Her eyes widen a moment, and then she straightens and listens.

    “You are hereby removed from service, effective immediately. I had wished to send you off with honors, but if that is not your desire, so be it.” The shock on Vavara’s face stings, the betrayal written in her eyes cuts deeper. “You are discharged of all privilege, authority, and responsibility granted to you by your rank.” The Admiral pauses for a breath, and Vavara swiftly cuts in.

    “Ma’am!” There’s a desperation there, raw and open, “I swore to follow you until I could go no farther, I have served faithfully and-”

    “Any possessions granted to you by the Maelstrom for your service are yours to keep.” She stands suddenly, her chair squeaking on the floor. “From this moment forward, you are a civilian in the eyes of Lominsan law.”

    Vavara sits still as death, eyes glimmering with unsteady light. Her hands are balled into her coat, and her jaw is clenched. Her body trembles, here and there. Merlwyb closes her eyes, and takes a breath in.

    “Why…?”

    The answer is there, tangible and present in Merlwyb’s mind, but her voice falters a moment, and she does not speak. Instead, the air hangs heavy and bitter.

    “I never failed you. I always, always returned with reports of success, of victory.” Vavara speaks between sharp cuts in her voice, as though she were trying to take a breath though she has no lungs. “Have I angered you, Ma’am?”

    It stings the Admiral, that she’s directing blame back at herself. The wounded look, the jittering trembles. This hurt her, and she’s trying to find what she did wrong. In her head, she feels this justifies the measure, that she’s right to do it. In her heart, it burns and aches.

    “Victory has a price.” She says, quietly and steadily. She has to force her words out evenly. “But I willingly allowed you, my subordinate, to pay it in full. I saw you pay it again, and again. Each time, returning beaten and broken, a report written in blood landing on my desk. After Ghimlyt, I decided it would not happen even once more.”

    “I wasn’t injured, and even if I’m damaged I won’t be a liability! If you’re worried of me falling into enemy hands, I prepared a-”

    “Stop. Please.” Merlwyb looks away and out to sea. “I took advantage of you, knowing you would bear that weight gladly. But I cannot send you to Garlemald or beyond, knowing I would send you to die for me again. Possibly for the last time.” She turns and stares back into Vavara’s eyes. It’s a piercing, intense look. “You aren’t a ship, to be damaged and repaired as a necessity demands, eventually consigned to sink. And I’ve asked you on more than one occasion to not treat yourself as such.”

    “I wish for you to retire. To take a well-deserved rest. You’ve died more than once for the Maelstrom, for me, and each time you did so willingly. I will not lean upon you again.” The Admiral leans on her desk with one arm, pushing a small sheaf of papers forward towards her.

    “Ma’am.” Vavara straightens her back, the temperamental, unsteady trembling steadying bit by bit. Her hand moves to her eyes, as though to wipe away a tear, but stops halfway through the gesture. Muscle memory, realization. “Regardless of whether you order it or not, I can’t retire. Not yet, maybe not ever. Even as a civilian, my path leads me back to Garlemald. Whether I do so alone or not has yet to be determined.” She pushes off the chair and slowly stands. She brushes off the top of her cap, and holds it gently in both hands.

    “When I was found-” She steps lightly around the Admiral’s desk, and looks out to sea. Merlwyb turns away, grimacing. “As an Imperial, I mean. Detained and questioned. My future was uncertain. I was scared. And then you and I shared words. I had seen Vlybrand by then, of course. The troubles of its people. The shadows made by the sins of your past. I had thought to myself you were ‘Another pretender, claiming hers is the righteous cause’. I had few options, at the time, though. And so I took your deal. Kept my freedom. Lent you my aid.”

    “I remember. You’ve stood by us since then. Though I did not know you thought so poorly of me.” The Admiral says.

    “Aye. But there was a point, both a long while ago and rather recently, at which my mind changed. Do you remember the Crystal Braves? The banquet?”

    She nods.

    “You stood by them, and helped me hide and recover when I was presumed dead.” Her gaze is unbroken on the horizon, body steadier now. The ease with which she holds herself, working its way back into her stance. “You proved me somewhat wrong, there. I had thought you shortsighted, more concerned with your own power and influence. But those decisions cost you. They cost you time, reputation, and coin. But it was what was best for the realm, for those other than yourself.”

    “And then you upstaged yourself. Reckoned with those looming shadows, faced your own mistakes and those of your forefathers. Were ready to pay for it all, too.” She glances up at Merlwyb’s belt, where the pistols hang, “I do not regret joining the Legion - much in the same way you cannot regret being caught in a landslide. It was the wrong choice, but it was the only one left to me.” Her eyes trace down to the city itself.

    “But the Maelstrom? This was the right choice. If you wish me to leave, I will abide by your orders. But I cannot retire. If you would have me, though, I would prefer to continue on with you. Although, I would not complain if my missions in the future are less dangerous, or not as solitary.”

    “What, then? Am I supposed to send you back into the storm? Accept that eventually, I’ll send you out to never return?” Merlwyb’s eyes could bore holes into the papers on her desk, and the wood beneath them. “Am I supposed to accept that, when I’ve been given a chance to repay you for your deeds?”

    “We all have to play it by ear. Have to keep the faith.”

    “If you die, it will have been-” Her hands slam down onto the wood.

    “Who says I’ll die again?”

    “An educated guess. You’re certain? We could set you up with a workshop, a home on the Rhotano. You could leave the rest to us.” Her voice is leaden with frustration left to sit and tangle. The dismissal forms and property deeds sit neatly stacked between her planted fists.

    “I’d certainly be leaving things in good hands. But no. I’ve chosen my path, Merlwyb. I don’t intend on straying from it so late in the journey.”

    She turns from her desk, and follows Vavara’s gaze into the city. It’s high sea pillars and white stone bridges nearly glisten in the sunlight. She listens to the tiny sounds of gear and cogs ticking, the soft omni-present hum of her core. Dimly, some part of her has a realization.

    In the deafening quiet, in the peace, her whole body sings. Not a corpse, fetid and possesed. Not a thing created of violence and death alone. A music-box, the spirit of its creator alive within. It would be cruel to disregard her wishes. Would it be crueler to let them go unopposed? In her position, what would Raubahn have done? Or the Seedseer? What would her father have done?

    Answers rush forward, but none of them find purchase.

    “Very well. I’ll see the dismissal redacted.” She concedes. It feels like all the wind rushes out from her, a fatigue setting in immediately. “But afterwards, I’ll see you take that rest.”

    “As you say, Ma’am.”

[ramblings-of-a-nervous-nerd]

Introduction ~ 1st Draft

This is the introduction to a story I am writing for my IBDP CAS Big Project. Constructive Criticism would be appreciated, but please be nice, this is the first piece of writing I will be putting online. This project will be ongoing for at least a few months.

Introduction

The golden light trailed fingers over the tips of amber spires, glancing off of glass and curved metal and delicate, filigree structures. A glow spread over the silent city, warmth coating the ground and hanging buildings, turning the long-settled dust silver in the dawn.

The dust was swept up in eddies and swirls of excitement in the force of a starship's thrusters, sending glittering sparks flying across planes turned beaten silver and struts gilded with liquid beauty under the sunslight. The starship dropped to the ground with a gentle thud and came to a standstill. A hatch slowly lowered itself from the belly of the semi-spherical capsule and two figures appeared at the end, the first visitors to this alien world in living memory.

BAM! “Hissssgh!” an angry hiss escaped the pores of the arthropod’s abdomen as his body hit the floor of the abandoned spaceport, legs nearly buckling from the effort of keeping upright. His companion roughly shoved his body aside with one foreleg as he stalked down the ramp, past where he had pushed his friend, striding further into the hanger with a disgruntled whistle.

“Stop here, Hiinto!” he mocked, irritation coating every hissing syllable as he pulled a satchel off over his thorax, gesturing wildly with his second pair of hind legs as he did so. “I’m sure there’ll be some people worth trading with here, sssee, ttthhey even hhhave a ssspaceport!” he continued, losing control of his consonants in his frustration.

His companion merely eyed him sullenly with his lamp-like gaze and said nothing. There was nothing to say when Hiinto got like this, and the planet really did look developed from above. Now that they were at surface-level though, it was obvious that something was very wrong. There were no noises. None. Not even the sounds of wildlife reclaiming an abandoned city broke a silence so dense it couldn’t even be called eerie, just oppressive and deafening enough that even Hiinto’s ranting was forced to end quickly, the weight of the noiselessness pressing down on him and locking the words back into his throat so as not to disturb the endless peace

The two traders gravitated towards each other as they wove through the sweeping tunnels of the abandoned spaceport, pearlescent and gleaming, throwing up the silver dust that lay, ankle-deep, on every surface. There were still no signs of life, or even death – no children running through the hallways and waiting rooms with weary parents having given up chasing them dozing in the chairs, no skeletons lounging on the benches or leaning up against the walls. There was no outward sign of what could have happened here, just the silence, the dust and the shell of a society that just seemed to have vanished.

The promenade they eventually exited onto was wide and impossibly long, stretching as far as the eye could see both left and right, with a balustrade held up by elegant, twisting columns. The whole structure was carved of the pure, white quartz of the mountainside they were emerging from and hung over the most elegant city that either trader had ever even dreamed of. The buildings were formed of smooth, curving planes and twisting helixes that blended seamlessly with the ground and one another, none of the mismatching peaks and flat roofs of most settlements. Every colour complimented and enhanced the building, the street, the city as a whole, a perfectly balanced palate of gold and silver and white and bronze stretching so far as to be beyond the limit of the imagination. An impossibly massive dome arched far above their heads, shielding the city from the elements and casting beams of light onto to scene through its soap-bubble exterior. Hiinto and Kanttho’s minds were filled with awe and respect for the architects of such a place, and terror for what could have brought such a people down.

No flaws marred the perfection of the silent city apart from the piles of dust that coated everything, their irregularity shocking against the uniform perfection of their surroundings. The dust piled heavier in some places, towering above head-height, and fell away sharply to patches of golden floor left completely clear of the glittering substance. It did not look as if it belonged here, in this perfect place, this paradise surely inhabited by a race so noble and brilliant as to be considered angels in the minds of others when considering their achievements. Kanttho found himself irrationally angry at whoever had caused it to be there, and bent to the floor in a flurry of movement, scooping some of the dust into his scanner-pouch in an attempt to track the origin of the culprits. His sharp movement caused flurries of the dust to swirl into the air, making Hiinto cough roughly as he inhaled the sharp larger pieces in his shock.

A tone rang out through the coughing, slicing through the silence before it could completely cover them again. A robotic tone followed.

“Analysis no.4,783. Two main components identified. First substance identified as organic material, most likely animal remains. Second substance is a form of airborne biological compound that appears to react with the structured identified in the first substance, and break them down on a macroscopic level whilst leaving individual cells and DNA intact. Likely classification – organic remains of an animal killed by a biological weapon.”

Kanttho froze, the anger draining out of him in seconds to be replaced by swiftly-growing horror. His primary stomach rolled, nutri-block threatening to make a reappearance as the remains of what could only be the people of this city continued to shift against his ankles. The ghosts of these incredible engineers seemed to be clutching at his feet, holding him rooted in place when all he wanted to do was turn tail and run. Run so far away that the ghosts could not find him and the beauty could not haunt his dreams. But he couldn’t move, could barely even think around the terror, the horror, the grief for the death of a civilisation so bright and wonderful. He turned his head and his stomach churned again, remembering the even thickness of the dust inside the spaceport, the number of people who must have died moving, trying to escape, in order to create that even layer, and his limbs finally started to cooperate.

He turned tail and bolted, ghosts howling at his heels, faces of beautiful creatures forming out of their swirling remains as he turned and ran, Hiinto hot on his heels. He galloped blindly through terminal after terminal, room after room, children and adults and adolescents and the elderly flashing through his mind as the irregularities began to stand out and become families embracing, the deeper piles on the steps of spacecraft becoming a desperate cram for shelter, for survival, the lights in that room becoming...

The what?

Hiinto hissed in shock and fear, crashing into the back of Kanttho’s abdomen at the sudden pause, but he saw it too – the light shining from the tiny space near the back of a room, half coated in a pile of dust that made their stomach turn at the image of people lying over their family or pets in a futile attempt to protect them. They crept forwards, the residual fear making their hearts beat double-time in their thoraxes, and peered into the class capsule, shot through with the ever-present gold of the buildings. Their breaths caught in their throats. A small figure lay, sleeping peacefully, cocooned in layers upon layers of wire and mesh and gel – impossibly, undeniably alive.

The two gaped at one another, at the pod, at the figure within. Their usual gruff common sense and rationally had been ripped out by awe and shot out of existence by fear. This shock had burnt the tattered remains to cinders and blown them off on the winds of hope. They stared around, at the ground, at each other, at the door, as a determination began to brew as a shadow within the shock. They nodded in unison.

The scavenger ship ‘Unstoppable 2’ tore away from the ghost-like planet like a bat out of hell. Or, perhaps, a sinner out of heaven. Its cargo was far from what had been expected upon landing – two scavengers, changed for the rest of their existence, the news of beauty and terror they carried, and one small stasis pod carrying the last member of a species that seemed to have managed to create utopia without their own imperfections destroying it.

[tanadrin]

In the Noiseless Land

Anthropologists describe societies of this sort as possessing a ‘double morphology’. Marcel Mauss, writing in the early twentieth century, observed that the circumpolar Inuit, ‘and likewise many other societies . . . have two social structures, one in summer and one in winter, and that in parallel they have two systems of law and religion’. In the summer months, Inuit dispersed into small patriarchal bands in pursuit of freshwater fish, caribou, and reindeer, each under the authority of a single male elder. Property was possessively marked and patriarchs exercised coercive, sometimes even tyrannical power over their kin. But in the long winter months, when seals and walrus flocked to the Arctic shore, another social structure entirely took over as Inuit gathered together to build great meeting houses of wood, whale-rib, and stone. Within them, the virtues of equality, altruism, and collective life prevailed; wealth was shared; husbands and wives exchanged partners under the aegis of Sedna, the Goddess of the Seals.

--”How to Change the Course of Human History,” Graeber & Wengow

One of the schools of Tlön goes so far as to negate time: it reasons that the present is indefinite, that the future has no reality other than as a present memory. Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified an mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process. Another, that the history of the universe - and in it our lives and the most tenuous detail of our lives - is the scripture produced by a subordinate god in order to communicate with a demon. Another, that the universe is comparable to those cryptographs in which not all the symbols are valid and that only what happens every three hundred nights is true. Another, that while we sleep here, we are awake elsewhere and that in this way every man is two men.

--Borges

Report of Shurnamma Tirigan, former Captain of the Southern Expedition, 12 Ezenamarsin, 1674 AUC:

To the Lord Librarian of the City, Izaru Mahash, salutations and greetings; and may Bright Uru prosper forever. If you please, convey at your earliest convenience my greetings and my love to my nieces and nephews, and to your own husband and daughters.

I was dispatched by order of the Assembly to visit the southern countries beyond the Išaru Peninsula and Wormsgate, these far-off lands being little traveled by our countrymen, and there being some hope of establishing outposts on those shores for the purposes of trade with their people, and perhaps even for expanding our Empire. I have composed this message in the hopes of recording what transpired on this voyage, both as a matter of intelligence for the Library and the Assembly, and for the interest of Lord Mahash herself, who has expressed in the past eagerness for news of distant lands and nations.

We voyaged from the City along the coast for nine weeks, until a storm came up suddenly on the Sea of Rains, and several of our vessels were wrecked along the coast of eastern Hjaírsil. Though we lost many good soldiers and much of our supplies, were were generously taken in by the Exarch of Išaru herself. She is in person as noble and as terrifying as other travelers have said, and I shall not attempt to add to their portraits here. Yet she treated us with utmost courtesy, and addressed us fluently in our native tongue; whatever we desired while we were her guests, she commanded her servants to bring to us instantly, and it was strange to see the people of that land, known abroad for their boisterous and pugnacious natures, to bow and scrape before her, as meek as children.

Our object being lands much further west and south, we took our leave shortly after, generously supplied by the Exarch and furnished with maps and guides to take us as far as Tybran and the isles of Elibom. We turned north-west again after crossing through the Wormsgate, hoping to follow the coast further, and it was in this time, when we put ashore on occasion and had the opportunity to speak with the natives of the region, that we first heard rumor of the place in the desert, of Xil-Artat.

These rumors were greatly confused. Some of our interlocutors said that Xil-Artat was a state of great wealth, as great as Uru (of which, naturally, they had also heard); others said it was but a few huts made of crudely-hewn stones piled up amid the dust; others, that it was in fact below the ground, to shield it from the harsh southern sun; and still others, that anyone who spoke of a city beneath the ground within the bounds of Xil-Artat would be slain instantly, and their body left beyond the city’s walls for the vultures to consume. Each said when they offered their description that it was generally known and all these facts agreed upon, from the salt-marshes to the west to Hjaírsil in the east; and we could not persuade them this was not so, even when we said their countrymen not ten miles behind us had contradicted them completely. Intrigued by these rumors, and determined that if Xil-Artat was the place of wealth some said it was that I should secure some portion of this wealth for the Empire, whether by diplomacy or force, I turned our course decidedly west. We were not to continue south; our Hjaírsilian guides were dismissed. Xil-Artat was now our goal.

Oh! Lord Librarian, my patron and my friend! How I wish I had heeded the misgivings of my comrades when I gave the command. But as to my follies and my regrets, those we shall come to later.

Our first destination was salt-marshes that mark the northern border of the territory Xil-Artat claims for itself. Though the country has but one city, it names for itself in all of its maps an immense hinterland, which the neighboring peoples honor, for that land is almost entirely unpeopled and barren. The arrogance of such a vast territory should by rights be that city’s weakness, and ripe for conquest, but as I soon found, there is little to covet in that wide region. Though the northern coast of the Sea of Elibom is green and fertile, being well-populated but divided into a number of petty princedoms and city-states, one comes after two days’ journey by sail from the northernmost part of that sea to the swamps of Ul-Masim, where a long and nameless river spits out its muddy currents. These swamps are thick with flies and mosquitoes, and we desired to avoid them entirely. However, it was necessary to take on water and food, and we had heard that it was in the center of these swamps, through which a great road had been built, that there stood the market-town named for the swamps, and also known to the people of Xil-Artat as the Swamp Gate, the entrance into their land.

We put our ships ashore at the edge of the swamp, though the men complained bitterly about the heat, the stink, and the flies. I selected a number of companions to venture to the city with me, among them my second-in-command. We ventured north, slowly at first due to the thick mud and treacherous footing, until we discovered a narrow but well-maintained path that had been made of packed dirt upon a slender wall of stacked stones. Such paths, we soon found, crisscrossed the swamp from Ul-Masim itself. We were later told that the inhabitants of the swamp used them to bring their goods to market each month, and this seemed to us an eminently practical scheme, such as one of our own lords or princes might devise to make a marginal country habitable; yet we never saw another traveler on these roads, or indeed any of the inhabitants of the swamps so long as we were there.

After two days’ walking we came to Ul-Masim. It rises suddenly amid the overhanging trees, and its unmortared walls are climbed by flowering vines of every kind, so that the city seems an extension of the swamp itself. Though masked guards stood at every gate to the city, none challenged us as we approached, despite our foreign garb and faces. It was the work of an entire day to find an interpreter through which we could speak to the people, and when we had accomplished the task, we thought that at first we had failed again. For the people of Xil-Artat speak a confused tongue, and whether it is because they are deficient in the powers of the mind or their language has by long isolation twisted itself up in such a way that it inhibits the clear expression of thought, they seem often to contradict themselves, to offer paradoxes as solutions to questions, to suggest wild flights of imagination as solutions to pressing concerns. Within a day it became apparent to me that such a people seemed incapable of the great works of civilization, and I had already begun to form the conjecture that the grand boulevards and halls of Ul-Masim had been built by some previous civilization and that perhaps all of Xil-Artat was but ancient ruins which a tribe out of the north had adopted for their own.

The manner of commerce among the people of Xil-Artat is extremely confused. Though we carried gold and silver, they seemed reluctant to accept them; they did not desire our iron weapons or any other item of our gear, and the glass beads and colorful cloth which we had found so readily in demand to the north were here absolutely worthless. They had goods of their own to offer: swamp fruits, colorful and sweet-smelling, and elaborate masks, and wines and beer and spices which their traders say came from far to the south. They had many goods which they say hailed from Uru, a distant and exotic place; and when I told them that I was myself a Captain of that city’s army, that I had lived there all my life, and that I had never seen these things before, they ignored me, or said that perhaps I had just not been paying attention.

Although angered by this exchange, and the liars who call themselves merchants in Ul-Masim, we nonetheless managed an exchange for necessary goods: we gave them two books, though they could not read them and seem to have no writing of their own, and we gave them also seven good belts and a dull knife. As I am an honest woman, I offered them a sharper implement, but they refused. I do not know what they did with it. They also asked my lieutenant to remain behind for two days and tell them stories of our travels so far, and content that we had the things we needed to proceed further, I left him there with four others of our party, to return to the ships.

When I reached the ships, I found that disaster had struck. Some of the men, displeased as the location of the camp, had taken a ship to go back up along the coast. They had become drunk on the store of wine and plundered a village that owed allegiance to one of the largest states in the region, and I found in my absence that the camp had been attacked by the angry lord of that state. Though his forces had been repelled, all of our ships had been burned, and most of our remaining supplies; and now almost half the expedition was dead. We were too few in number to return to the Empire, and now the region between Ul-Masim and our home was converted into hostile territory, for rumor was spreading across the countryside that the soldiers of Uru were not to be trusted. I spoke to the men and rallied their spirits; yet I acknowledged our difficulty. Yet fear not, I said. We have heard rumor of the city of Xil-Artat; we are even now at the border of its realm. Such people as we have had commerce with in Ul-Masim are strange, but not unfriendly. We will go to Xil-Artat, and thence secure a means of passage home.

So after resting a night we struck camp, finished burying the dead, and returned to Ul-Masim. My lieutenant was in good spirits when I returned, and unharmed, and it seemed that indeed these people were trustworthy. And yet, fearing that they should turn against us in sentiment if the conduct of the mutineers reached their ears, I resolved to go south as soon as possible. For that was, they said, where Xil-Artat lay.

By means of other strange transactions we acquired camels to cross the desert with, and more water. We were told where we might find oases along the road, and wished well, and I set off hoping that the incomprehensible nature of the people of Ul-Masim was like the strange habits and affectations of our own rustic countrymen, and not a general feature of the nation. Surely, my lieutenant agreed, the people of the city itself would be more sophisticated and intelligent, like our own great lords, or the lords of such cities in Sennar as Inisfal and Kurigalzu. Yet I privately I worried that Xil-Artat had never been heard of in those lands, though it lay closer to them than our own City; for I knew that often obscurity is the sign of a dull and uncivilized culture.

The travel through the desert was not eventful. The deserts beyond Ul-Masim stretch on without limit for hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of miles. From the west come great winds that blow up immense amounts of dust and sand, and the roads which the people of Xil-Artat use are therefore built high off the ground, like the aqueducts of Uru that carry water down from the hills. They are ancient, and it is impossible to guess how old. The people of Xil-Artat do not even know, and so I doubt that they built them. They have often collapsed, and often been repaired, and are everywhere made of the pale sandstone which is abundant near the coast and in the desert hills.

At last we came to Xil-Artat proper. That city, made of the sand-colored stone of the hills, rises at once out of the desert when you have crossed the Great Dunes, and from afar it is a jumble of towers and walls and ramparts which cannot be resolved into discrete structures. As you approach, the task becomes no easier, for what is here a courtyard seems to become there a balcony; some streets are cut into the ground, others raised above it; sometimes apartments are on the ground and shops high above in the towers, and sometimes the reverse; and all the city is a maze. And the city has no walls, but rather seems to enfold you as you approach, until you cannot be certain whether you are inside it or outside it.

Is Xil-Artat a wealthy city? Even after years here, I cannot say. They have food enough, and shelter enough, and some of the most ancient parts of the city are carved in an ornate and beautiful fashion. Yet the people of Xil-Artat do not consider themselves wealthy. They show no signs of wealth on their person; they do not treat the objects which lay about them as property of which they must be jealous. Their shops… I have mentioned their shops, but their commerce can hardly be called such. On our third day of Xil-Artat I made a close study of a little stand which seemed to be selling wooden spoons, to learn what the sensibilities of their shopkeepers were, to learn how one should bargain with a seller, to learn what would serve us best as a currency. All day I saw no one purchase; yet the shopkeeper seemed neither agitated nor restless. Some would come and leave handfuls of dust or sand by the door; but they did not speak to the shopkeeper at all. Finally, at the end of the day, when it was time to make his way home to rest, the shopkeeper gathered up some of his wares. He examined the pile of earth by the door, and making a careful count of the goods he carried, he proceeded to walk to the end of a nearby street, which jutted out over the sand beyond the city, and flung everything he carried into the desert. He went home without locking the door. Such is but one example of the insanity of the people of Xil-Artat.

Here as in Ul-Masim we struggled to make ourselves understood; my lieutenant, who had been diligently studying the tongue of Xil-Artat in an effort to make communication easier, seemed to make headway only slowly, but he learned that there was someone in the city who was considered its lord after a fashion, and I was determined to make myself known to this person, to open relations between our two nations. In any sensible city I am certain we would have been brought before its lord as soon as we arrived, for we were strange in dress and speech and appearance, and even in those backwards places that do not know of our Empire, its wealth and power is apparent in the meanest of its representatives. I had hoped, therefore, that the Lord of Xil-Artat would be eager to open dialogue between our two states, that indeed he would see there was nothing for a backward nation as his own to do when confronted by a superior people except to ally himself as closely as possible with them, and I was perplexed that, insofar as there was any power which ruled this city, it had not made itself known.

We took a manor on the outskirts of the city for our own use; none of the natives of Xil-Artat seemed to object. Sometimes we found strangers in its halls, but though we ordered them to depart, even threatened them, they seemed to pay us no attention. From here I sent some of the men out to search the city for intelligence; the lieutenant I told to learn as much as he could about the people and their customs, and I sought the Lord.

What follows are some observations on the habit and customs of Xil-Artat.

Most of the people wear long robes of thin fabric, whose cloth is lightly colored, to protect themselves from the harsh sun. Their garments are richly embroidered, with ornate geometric patterns, and sometimes what seem to be the suggestion of people, or animals, or parts of the body. Yet they shun obvious iconography in most instances, especially of faces. And to this end, perhaps, they also commonly wear masks. All are well-decorated, but all are equally impassive; and they speak with a flat affect, so that they seem to be a people without emotion.

I do not know what the religion of Xil-Artat is. They have no priests and no shrines, and seemingly no temples. Yet there are customs which they observe with religious fervor. All houses have their doors in the west; all shops have their doors in the east. Great markets are held on regular intervals, even if they fall on holy days in which commerce is forbidden; on such occasions the people still bring their goods to market, but they buy nothing. They will haggle over prices, but then walk away. And everything is carried home again by its original owners at the end of the day. Another custom, which I can only surmise has some religious feeling behind it, concerns the face: even when the face is depicted, it is shown without eyes. The people of Xil-Artat have a terrible fear of eyes, and we soon learned they were far more comfortable in our presence when we took to wearing masks after their custom.

And yet despite the apparent chaos of their society, they do have their laws. When an offense against the peace, or against another person, or against the desert, or against the soul of a building, is committed, a court is convened on the spot, with three citizens as judges; and the nearby people crowd together, and half of them act as the lawyer for the prosecution, and half of them act as the lawyer for the defense; and they all shout, like a rioting mob, their arguments and their comments and their observations, and sometimes even irrelevancies and obscene jokes; and out of this confused mass of shouting the judges choose for themselves what to believe, according to their own conscience, and pass sentence immediately. Where the perpetrator is not known, the sentence is passed upon a stone, and it is hurled to the ground and dashed to pieces. Where the perpetrator is human, they are dragged to the nearest ledge and thrown off--whether it is only two feet above the ground, with soft sand below, or from the top of a high tower onto solid flagstones. These verdicts are thought of as fair and just by everyone involved.

The people of Xil-Artat speak often of poetry and of philosophy. They love philosophical speculation, and this, too, verges on religious custom. For they treat abstract thought and experiments of the mind with great gravity, and if you can convince a man of Xil-Artat of a new belief, he will incorporate it into every aspect of his life immediately and without question. They constantly formulate new heresies of metaphysics among themselves, and their beliefs often change, but they change not in the manner of a child whose imagination has departed suddenly in a new direction, but with utmost gravity and seriousness. Some people in Xil-Artat believe that no one exists without their mask. Some believe that Xil-Artat is a hallucination of the men of Uru that did not exist before we entered it. Some believe that darkness is a physical substance, and that night is not caused by the setting sun, but by a fluid that rises from the desert, and is gradually dissipated by the wind. Some believe that the souls of the dead are reborn as new beings, according to the merit of their previous existence; and that to be born human is the most wretched fate reserved for only the most awful of creatures. Some believe that on the occasion of sleep, a doppelganger roams the city, whose deeds are their dreams; and still others believe that these doppelgangers sleep, too, and produce doubles of their own. One man whispered to me gravely that there was a second city below the ground, and that was where the doubles of the waking waited, but that they would not wait forever, and one day that city would return. I asked him to explain what he meant by “return,” but he would not. And he said the city had a name, but to utter it was a crime. As we were then standing near a high ledge overlooking the marketplace below, I did not press him on the subject.

Xil-Artat’s wealth, such as it has, is scattered about the city. Weapons hang in many halls, and tables are sometimes adorned with goblets and platters of precious metal. Pantries are here full of food, and there nearly empty; and when someone is hungry, or desires to drink, or wants any material thing, they go to wherever is most convenient, and have use of what is there. But they are as likely to select bowls of plain wood as goblets of fine gold, and as likely to make a meal out of whatever can be found in a meagerly-supplied kitchen as to prepare a feast in a well-supplied one; though in the former case they will still complain of hunger. Likewise, their daily occupations seem to be at random. Sometimes they will rise and go to the irrigated  terraces to the west of the city and spend their day pulling weeds in the hot sun, and sometimes they will walk to the nearest market-stall and sit, as though they are the proprietor, and sell whatever they find inside. No one compels them to do any task, nor do they themselves seem to prefer any labor, however ill-suited they are for it.

After three weeks, my Lieutenant’s skill with the language had rapidly increased; yet I began to fear for him, for it seemed as he learned the tongue of Xil-Artat he forgot his own. He began to speak in the looping, riddling fashion of the foreigners; he found it harder and harder to answer directly questions put to him, and when I ordered him to take a period of rest, thinking he had taken ill with the desert heat, I found him later in the shade writing the same phrase in the dust, in the tongue of Xil-Artat but in the letters of our own language, over and over again. Each time he would write it out he would erase it and begin again. I stamped it out with my foot, and told the men to lock him in his room for the evening. I came back later to find that there was also a crude drawing he had made next to where the words were written. It was difficult to discern the intent of the image, but it seemed to be several figures, dressed in the manner of the people of Xil-Artat, all without eyes.

When it had been six weeks since our arrival, I secured an audience with the Lord of Xil-Artat, whose title, I had learned, was the Master of New Truths, or the Chief Heretic. This Lord received me at about two in the morning, in a small house in the southern quarter of the city; the moonlight shone in through a stone grillwork on the far wall, and he was alone, though dressed finely and seated on an ornate rug. I came with a scribe, to take notes, and one of our interpreters. I named myself and my errand, and described Uru, and our Empire; the Lord of Xil-Artat was polite,  but remained impassive. He asked why I had sought so strenuously to speak with him, and I said, to open relations between our two states. Had I not already done so? he said, for I had traded extensively with the people of the city, and in Ul-Masim. Indeed, I said; but there could be better cooperation between us, and more profit to be had for both ourselves and for him. This he did not seem to understand, and he spoke instead of what he was thinking about having for breakfast. I steered the conversation again to his city, and said that while the customs of his people were strange to me, I was certain friendship could exist between his people and mine. This he enthusiastically agreed with, and we spoke a little about the customs of my country, which baffled him as much as his customs did me. This put him at great ease, and I apprehended that, though the Lord of this city, he was uncomfortable around strangers. I spoke about my other adventures and explorations in the service of the army, and these tales he also enjoyed; he had heard neither of Inisfal, or of Tybran, or of Hjaírsil; nor even the names of his closest neighbors to the north. All the world outside Xil-Artat seemed to be new to him. I had thought that we had begun to establish a rapport, when he suddenly remarked that this was the strangest dream he had ever had, and he wondered if any of it was true. I insisted that this was not a dream; that he was as awake as I, and that all of what we had spoken about was true. He said that I seemed extremely confident, given that I could not be sure he existed, nor the reverse; and I became angered by his solipsism. I berated him for the weak-mindedness of his people; for the disorder of their customs and law; for the time they wasted on meaningless ideas and fearful rumors. I spoke of the man who thought there was a second city beneath this one, and how in my homeland, madmen are locked up, or treated by doctors, not allowed to roam free in the streets.

Oh, said the Lord of Xil-Artat, Mlejnas is quite real, I assure you. Mlejnas, he said, was the name of that city, and he said that everything they said about it was true; even false things. I was at this point prepared to leave and not return; for it was evident he was as mad as all the rest. Very well, he said; but if you want to look for Mlejnas, it is all around you; yet those who seek Mlejnas never return.

I was at this point ready to depart for good. Our mission seemed a failure, and the most logical course of action, I believed, was to depart Xil-Artat for Elibom, to the southeast, where I knew there were some small towns and, at the end of the peninsula, a Tybranese trading-fort. From there, a small contingent might make passage to Sennar or to Hjaírsil, and get a message back home. It would take some months, possibly more than a year, but ships could return for the rest of the expedition. As a leader, it was properly speaking my obligation to make this happen, and yet a second duty held me back: my duty to my friend.

My lieutenant at this point had taken to writing on the walls of his room, and refused to leave even when the door was left open. He would eat only rarely, and at night he screamed deliriously, in a mixture of our language and Xil-Artat’s. He was now fluent in the latter, despite rarely leaving the manor, and I wondered if the strange visitors we received in the night were conversing with him; though I had given orders that any outsiders found in the manor should be physically ejected at once, especially if they were in the hallway outside the lieutenant’s room, perhaps some still escaped the watch of the guards and filled his mind with their obsessive delusions. I had tried to speak with the lieutenant as a friend; to draw out his obsessions, to understand the working of his fevered imagination, but it was impossible to follow his thoughts, especially when he lapsed into that other language, of which I still knew little. Yet after I spoke with the Lord of the city, I realized there was a familiar word, repeated in my friend’s ravings. Not often, but from time to time, he said the word Mlejnas. Though I hoped to bring my comrades home as soon as possible, I knew that if a solution to my friend’s sickness was to be found, it would be found in Xil-Artat.

To the former end, I appointed the under-lieutenant temporary commander of the expedition. She received her orders, and would lead the expedition east, to Elibom. They would make their way slowly, so as to conserve supplies, since the nearest towns to Xil-Artat were more than a week’s journey from the edge of the desert. The Tybranese were notorious pirates, I reminded her, but our nations had a treaty, and they ought to honor it. I would remain behind with the lieutenant; two others of our number, who were also his beloved companions, elected to remain with me as well. The under-lieutenant departed three days later, after all preparations had been made; on the morning of departure, I gave her a field promotion to Captain as befit her new responsibilities. I hope that that promotion has been honored since her return. I did not hear from the expedition after they departed, but that did not distress me, since I knew they had no means of getting a message back to Xil-Artat, which receives precious little news of the world outside.

I had now formed a number of theories concerning the history of this place. First, the people of Xil-Artat were not the builders of Xil-Artat. Perhaps they had found its ruins; perhaps they had conquered it. Either way, they lived in terror of those who had built it, the reasonable, rational civilization that had been capable of creating roads through the desert, of ferrying stone from the eastern hills, of tapping wells into the rock below the city; for a superstitious people will always live in fear of a rational and powerful people, and thus the ruins of past greatness will instill in them a terror. But something had gone terribly wrong in the minds of the people of Xil-Artat, and now this terror had become a madness, infecting every aspect of their customs, habits, and society. A strong-minded people of good sense, as our ancestors had been, would have been immune even had they clung to superstitious ideas, but the harsh conditions in which they lived and perhaps the dry air had sapped their strength of mind. Their city was obviously in steep decline, and would be utterly deserted within perhaps two generations. From this it followed they were a young people; they could not have endured in this state for long, and could not have lived in this place more than fifty or a hundred years. Perhaps, I supposed, our historians could one day examine their legends and their history to determine their real origin; but such things were not immediately my concern.

I had also decided that this “Mlejnas” represented some knowledge I could use to help my friend. A city below the ground was preposterous, of course; but perhaps there were indeed ancient ruins underneath us, and that in these ruins, somehow, some knowledge of the past was preserved. There were, after all, many things the people of Xil-Artat had words for in their tongue that they did not possess--they had a name for libraries, but no books; they had a name for doctors and medicine, but no healing arts of their own; they could speak coherently (on occasion) about philosophy and matters of natural science, though they had no universities, no schools, no systematic studies of the spirit or mind or natural world, and so forth. I knew that there were things in the world inexplicable to our own science, but that such things are merely rational questions awaiting systematic study. And perhaps a clear-minded approach to the question of the history and builders of this city could offer my friend some comfort, so that the madness of its people would cease to torment him.

Commending him to his friends’ care, I began to search the city day after day, night after night. By my increasingly insistent questions on the subject of Mlejnas, I drove people away from me; merely mentioning the name caused them to sprint off without a word, as though they had just remembered leaving a loaf of bread in the oven that morning. When no one would speak to me at all any longer, I simply began to search every house, every tower, every courtyard, for anything that might give me a useful clue. I no longer went about dressed in the Xil-Artat manner; I scorned their garish masks and their elaborate robes. I would no longer indulge them in their wild imaginings.

My search of various buildings took me deeper and deeper underground. Xil-Artat, I discovered to my gratification, was indeed built on a layer of ruins. These ruins were more ordered, more logical than the city above, their upper levels that now were cellars and basements being laid out like orderly streets and rows of houses. There seemed to be ruins further down; half-buried decorations in the walls, or steps whose passage was now filled with rubble or sand attested to even older layers of the city below. It was easy to imagine what a superstitious mind could come up with in such dark spaces. But I could find no passageways further down which were open, and though in some places the buried ruins seemed as ancient as the ruins of Uru’s acropolis, or even older, nothing yet offered me information as to their origin.

So long as my friend’s suffering grew, however, my energy increased. And after a few weeks, I made a discovery. There was, not far from the central marketplace, a certain house whose roof had collapsed and which was now filled with dust, that had a cellar larger than the rooms above. In the corner of that cellar was an iron trapdoor, very old and worn, and rusted entirely shut. Not the strength and that of my two sane companions working together could open it, and the stone floor was entirely solid; we could not dig around it. I conducted a thorough search of the surrounding houses and towers until I found a large hammer, like a blacksmith’s, and a length of iron to serve as a crowbar. For four days I labored to break the fastenings that held the door in place and pry it out of its setting. It had been made to exacting quality, as good as the work of any metalwright in the world now living, but it was ancient, and eventually, it yielded. When I had sufficiently loosened it in its bed, I was able, with some great difficulty, to wedge the crowbar beneath its edge and to lift it aside. It fell back to the stone with an earsplitting noise, but revealed below a dark passage, with a musty odor.

I returned the next day with a number of torches, and entered the passage. At once, I felt my theories were confirmed. These ruins were nothing like those above. Even at their most well-organized and attractive, they had had something of Xil-Artat’s madness to them, something of its geometric patterns and labyrinthine shapes. They had been mostly plain stone. These rooms were entirely the opposite.

By their size and the windows that now only spilled sand and rubble into them, they had once been the upper gallery of some light and airy palace. The torchlight reflected sweeping, curling shapes off the walls, in which animals and children and people danced and played, all looking out at the viewer and smiling. I could not help but feel that if these rooms below were exchanged for those above, Xil-Artat would be a magnificent city indeed, the deep red pigments and gold left contrasting beautifully against the bare sand, the blue desert sky shining in through the windows. Alas for the fallen cities of history! I thought.

It is a curious feature of being out of sight of the sun that time is difficult to perceive. This had happened to me only once before, in the caves above Brighthaven, and there the effect was only that of spending an hour or so underground, and emerging to discover the sun had already set. Then I had been at leisure, admiring the natural beauty of the caverns, and so had not had occasion to spend longer than I wanted underground. Now, I had a duty to the lieutenant; and soon, I realized I had been wandering the passage for a long time. How long had it been? I had exhausted three torches already; but they were slow-burning things, their light dimmer as a consequence, and I could not say how long each had lasted. Nonetheless, this was my first breakthrough in weeks, and I had plenty of light left, so I continued on.

This gallery led me deeper, to more rooms, each more ornate than the last. Some had accents of lapis lazuli; some still had ancient furniture, carved out of black wood; the dry air had preserved them, even as their cushions had crumbled to dust. As I moved from room to room, I found myself going from a younger part of the building to an older; and to my surprise, the stairs led continually down. And it was a curious feature: the animals and children and adults on the walls, I noticed, detailed in every respect and in nearly every respect exquisitely proportioned, had eyes much larger than I expected. And each figure gave the impression that it was watching me.

At length, the rooms and hallways came to a great pair of doors. I surmised this had once been the grand entrance of the palace; if they could be moved, there would be nothing but sand beyond. I gave one a half-hearted tug. To my astonishment, it glided silently open, light on its hinges despite its size, showing a cavernous space beyond.

Here, there was an immense darkness below; but vaulted paths crossed this darkness, meeting in the middle of this huge space, leading to more sets of doors set in various points of the far walls. But the space was not dark in its upper reaches, not entirely. A dim light glowed from sources I could not see that illuminates the walls partly, and every free space of these walls was covered in ghastly faces, faces with tortured expressions, faces which seemed to silently curse the empty air. Each face was different. Each had ugly, bulging eyes. Yet I felt as soon as the door was opened that each eye, directly or askance, fixed its resolute attention only on me. For the first time, I was not entirely at ease.

The paths which bridged the great room had no railings; I crossed them warily, wondering what sort of people would build an awful place like this. When I reached the platform in the middle I looked back the way I had come, then around again. I noticed one of the far doors was open, and, what was more, something seemed to be standing just beyond it, a figure like a man. I called out to them, but there was no movement and no response. I walked toward it, and again I called out, and again, it remained impassive. Yet as I approached I could see it a little more clearly, dim as the light was, and it did seem to be a man, dressed not unlike a man of Xil-Artat. It bore an ornate mask, with a howling grimace rather than a quiet face, and its robes were the color of blood. And when I had nearly reached the door, it turned and fled.

Angered that this stranger had fled from me, I ran after in pursuit; this door led not to another great cavern, but to a hallway, whose walls were likewise covered in awful faces, and I ran down this hall, following the figure disappearing behind the corner ahead of me. This hallway twisted like a maze, and soon I found myself lost, the stranger nowhere to be seen. I cursed myself for my foolishness in recklessly following, and now and again I would hear the sound of footfalls that seemed to be approaching swiftly, but when I tried to find their source, they always rapidly faded.

This place, whatever it was, was no city. Was it Mlejnas? What was Mlejnas, if not a city? If not Xil-Artat, as it had been known in times past? Who were these wanderers in abandoned hallways beneath the ground? Such questions I asked myself in that moment, foolish though they were. I gathered my wits and continued my exploration. I tried to find my way back to the great chamber, thinking the others paths that led from it might be more helpful than this, but I only found more of the same maze, its walls seeming now to be higher and higher, and coming closer together, as though the earth was closing itself up on either side.

Yet this oppression was not absolute; here and there there was a door. These led to small rooms: some bare closets of stone, some with objects scattered about their floor. One held bookshelves; I opened one to find strange letters, close together, covering every inch of every page. Another was written in my native tongue, but though I recognized the words, they made no sense together; it was an endless stream of nonsense. Another was written with familiar letters, but in no language I recognized. I quickly left that room behind.

The room after that had a man in it. He was not masked; he sat, wearing only loose-fitting trousers, cross-legged on a cushion facing the wall, and he was in every respect from my vantage point a double of my friend, the lieutenant. I cried out when I saw him, in confusion as much from surprise, and the voice that answered me was indeed the lieutenant’s, calm and devoid of the madness that had plagued him since coming to Xil-Artat. He greeted me by name and bid me come in. I walked up to him and put out a hand to lay it on his shoulder, to turn him to face me.

“Don’t,” he said to me. “Do you not know me?” I asked. “I am Shurnamma; look at me, my friend.” “Stop,” was all he said in reply; so I withdrew my hand, and took a step back. “Will you not speak to me? Why are you here? ” I asked. “I shall answer any question you put to me, Shurnamma; but consider carefully which questions you want answers to.”

“What is this place?” I asked. “It is Mlejnas,” he said. “What is Mlejnas?” I asked. “It is the answer to Xil-Artat.” This response irritated me; and sensing this, the lieutenant said, “Do you know what Xil-Artat means? The name is not arbitrary: it is ‘the noiseless land,’ in their tongue.” “And so silence demands an answer?” “Or perhaps silence is an answer to something else,” he replied.

“You know that I dislike games,” I said. “I have a practical view of the world, and hate superstitious talk. The madness of Xil-Artat tries my patience, and in your infirmity I have granted that you have been unable to discern the difference between what is real and true and what is false; but now you are better, and we will go back up together, and put all this behind us. We will return home, and forget everything about Xil-Artat.”

“I cannot leave Xil-Artat,” the lieutenant said. “And why not?” I asked. “Because I cannot leave Mlejnas,” he answered. “What!” I cried. “Is Xil-Artat now Mlejnas?” “Not now,” the lieutenant said. “But one day.”

“Clearly you are still afflicted, if you think the dusty ruins of one city can rise up to replace another!” I said. “Where do you believe we are standing?” the lieutenant asked. “These are the ruins on which Xil-Artat was built,” I replied. “It is the ruins left behind by some greater people. A primitive imagination has made it into a thing of terror to the inhabitants of Xil-Artat; but there is nothing here.”

“You have not seen with your eyes,” the lieutenant said slowly. “You stand now in Mlejnas, built by the people of Mlejnas; the people of Xil-Artat built Xil-Artat. Xil-Artat was built when Mlejnas was built. Xil-Artat caused Mlejnas to be, and Mlejnas caused Xil-Artat. Neither has its beginning without the other. Each is the answer to the other. When your city was but a village on a stony hill, Xil-Artat and Mlejnas were. When your people were wandering the world, seeking a home, they were ancient. Maybe even before everything, before the Deluge, before the world was remade, here they were. Here they have survived. Here they will survive everything. Xil-Artat lives, because Mlejnas lives. Xil-Artat wakes while Mlejnas sleeps. And maybe Mlejnas will not sleep forever.”

“And what will become of Xil-Artat and her people then?” I asked scornfully.

“Then they will be Mlejnas,” the lieutenant said. “Then they will have always been Mlejnas. The ones who fled below the earth to escape the end, the ones who have survived since before your country existed, the ones who scored out flesh with knives and stuffed our mouths with dust; who cut us out of ourselves and threw us away, the ones who wait, the ones who suffer in the dark, will be the ones above. As they once were, maybe. As, perhaps, they have always been.”

“You speak of fleeing, of suffering, of catastrophe. Then Mlejnas was indeed destroyed? Or Xil-Artat? Or both?”

“Mlejnas was a way to survive destruction. Xil-Artat is what was left. Or was it the other way around? We have trouble remembering. It does not matter. This was their lesson: that you can survive anything, if you can put the pain somewhere else.”

“You speak nonsense, my friend. This is all nonsense.” 

“Shurnamma, you want an answer that pleases you. That lets you put these things into an order you can understand, the same order which you impose on the rest of the world. Such an answer does not exist. There is no order, no history for you to discover here. How else could Xil-Artat be?”

I advanced again, intent on taking the lieutenant back to the surface with me. I laid my hand again on his shoulder, and the moment I did, a terrific fear seized me. Perhaps it was his strange discourse; perhaps it was my own rational mind finally being affected by the madness of those around me; but I became convinced that I should not behold his face, that to do so would, in that instant, be an awful mistake, and that I did not want the thing I was now touching, which was not the lieutenant, and which was not my friend, to follow me out of that room. I withdrew, and wordlessly closed the door behind me.

I continued through the maze, attempting to ignore the thoughts pressing in on my mind from all sides; I tried to keep the image of the sunny city above me in my mind, though now I did not know if the sun had long set or not. The torch in my hand was burning still, though in my anxious state I could not have said if it was my fifth or my fiftieth, nor how many I had originally brought. Eventually, the maze gave way, and I found myself in another set of rooms, that seemed to be fashioned as shrines. Each bore the figure of some grim god, and each was in its own way more violent and obscene than the last; I hastened through these rooms, ignoring the faces peering at me from every wall, and doing as best as I could to observe that now their eyes followed me as I walked, shining with either what was varnish or tears.

At last I came to a hall, and amid this hall flanked by pillars was a throne. The masked figure in red robes sat on this throne, and it was red and gold; and the pillars were red, and all the walls, and tapestries of rich reds and gold, embroidered with thousand and thousands of white eyes hung between the pillars and above us. From a distance I seemed to recognize the man in the mask. Here he sat enthroned like a lord, while above he had seemed content with simplicity; he looked for all the world like the heresiarch of Xil-Artat. But where the one had seemed sleepy and indolent, incurious about what was before him, this one sat alert, watched me approach, turned his head this way and that, as if to examine me, with swift and inhuman motions, and when he stood, like an insect approximating the manners of a man, it seemed that either he carried himself in the strangest fashion imaginable, or that his proportions were entirely wrong.

“Are you the lord of Mlejnas?” I demanded of him. He did not move or speak.

“Speak!” I cried.

“I want a true answer; a clear answer,” I said to him.

“An answer to Xil-Artat?” he asked; and his voice was indeed the voice of the heresiarch.

“To Xil-Artat, to Mlejnas, to everything.”

He laughed; and when he laughed I heard other voices, too, and felt presences around me, just out of vision; but I fixed my gaze ahead, for in truth, I was far too afraid to look into the shadows.

“One answer, one answer, how can you insist on one answer? How can you insist on one answer when some questions have thousands?”

“I want the truth. One truth. The real history of this place. There is only one history of Xil-Artat.”

“It may be the custom of your country that there is one history, and one only. It is not so in Mlejnas. It is not so in Xil-Artat. There are a thousand histories of each, and all of them are true, and who is to say how many you have endured already, Captain Tirigan?

“Here is one answer: when the world was destroyed, the people of Xil-Artat hid part of themselves below the earth to survive. But not forever; they fear the day it shall return. And they are right to fear it, for that hunger and that suffering has grown, and when it returns it shall devour them all. It shall devour the world.

“Here is another: in the tongue of Xil, the opposite of ‘noiseless’ is not ‘noise.’ The opposite word means ‘screaming.’”

And as I watched, transfixed by the thoughts which contended about this strange city to which I had come, the King of Mlejnas took off his mask; and his face was the face of the Heresiarch, the Lord of Xil-Artat; except that he had no eyes. No eyes at all; not even the sockets where eyes should appear. And he opened his mouth wide, stretched it wider and wider, as if he sought to swallow everything around us, and he began to scream, to scream and scream, a loud and hideous sound, and the things that stood just out of view, that filled the room behind me and beside me, they screamed too, a terrible noise of unspeakable pain and loss and rage; and though I covered my ears and I fled as fast as my feet could carry me, in any direction I could go, the screaming became only louder, ever louder and unceasing. 

I remember little of what transpired after that. I fled through the bloody halls of Mlejnas, the screaming halls of Mlejnas, the halls of eyes that watch unceasing. I fled, but I never escaped them. Even when I awoke later, in a square in Xil-Artat, surrounded by masked figures peering over me with concern, I was still in Mlejnas, and I shuddered and wept, fearing what I would see if I reached out and lifted the masks of their faces. Oh, Izaru, my friend, when the people of Xil-Artat tell you that no one who seeks Mlejnas ever returns, they don’t mean you die. It’s much worse than that, I am afraid. For Mlejnas is all around me now. I will never be without it. For now, though, at least part of me inhabits Xil-Artat. I long to see my home, but I cannot leave! For only here there are no eyes. Only here they are not watching me. But it won’t last forever. I know it’s there now. I know that one day it will wake. And when Mlejnas takes the place of Xil-Artat, we shall all have our answers: all that we have forsaken we shall have to answer for, and all our tears and prayers will not suffice.

When I returned to the manor the lieutenant was gone. He had, my companions said, fled into the desert shortly before my return, with nothing but the clothes he wore, and surely would soon die of thirst or exposure. Yet I cannot help but think his body will not be found in the desert. I sent my companions away after that; they opted to take the road north to Ul-Masim, rather than try to reach Elibom; and the last news I heard of them was that they had departed Ul-Masim, heading east along the road that leads to Išaru.

The screaming, yes. I hear it when I wake. I hear it in my sleep. I hear it when I close my eyes and remember those writhing, tortured faces. I hear it now, now as I sit in the sunny courtyards of the northern quarter, as I admire the blue sky, as I drink clear water from a silver cup, as I watch the people go too and fro. It is a quiet day for them. Theirs, yes, theirs. Theirs is the noiseless city above. Mine--ours--is the cold screaming beneath the ground.

(signed)

Captain Shurnamma Tirigan

Catalogue item I.G.-uM.1733. A later hand has added to the last page of the missive: “Tirigan’s Expedition, launched 1669 AUC, vanished southeast of Inisfal in 1672, and, so far as reports sent back from 1669-1671 indicated, never lost ships off the coast of Hjaírsil, was never furnished with aid by the Exarch of that country, and never diverted from its intended course, south from the Wormsgate. The preceding document was given to an Urusc courier in the city of Ul-Masim in 1733, by an unknown party. Though apparently in the Captain’s hand, and apparently corroborating some of the tales of later expeditions to Xil-Artat, it is the judgement of the archival staff that this document is a forgery, or perhaps the work of a lunatic; and that everything it contains is nothing but the most unusual of lies.”

[topfygad]

Fine Art, Finer Air In Himachal’s Gunehar

A hamlet full of warm locals, lush forests and artsy vibes.

  Gunehar, a two-hour drive from McLeod Ganj in Himachal Pradesh, is speckled with mud houses and deodar-studded pathways. Photo by: Meenakshi J

Sipping steaming green tea, I lean over the wooden gate fencing my boutique property in Himachal, lost in thoughts of nothingness. A cool morning breeze caresses my face and I warm up to the faint rustle of cherry blossoms across the stoned pathway, watching the routineness of early morning village life unfurl slowly: An elderly villager is guiding his flock of gaddi, a breed of sheep so wooly, so adorable, they look straight out of a baby’s touch-and-feel book; trailing the man is his gritty better-half, fuelwood strapped on her back in a conical Himachali Kilta. In the distance, against the hill-hugging horizon, I spot some schoolkids hurtle downhill, yodeling on their way to Bir, the closest town and the landing site for India’s paragliding hub of Bir-Billing.

I’m in Gunehar—and it’s gripping from the word go.

The submontane Himachali village is nestled within the Shivaliks, barely two hours by road from McLeod Ganj, past the tea plantations of Palampur and the sacred town of Baijnath. The drive winds through lively hillock settlements and burbling streams, but it was the snow-crusted Dhauladhar that had kept me company all along, until I had unwillingly outdistanced its enchantment.

The Himachali village is an art lover’s haven and annually hosts In the Woods, a conceptual art exhibition part of the larger Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival. Photo by: Meenakshi J

It was late last night when I arrived at The 4Rooms, a mud house painstakingly restored employing local techniques, and lets, as its name suggests, only four rooms. Dumping my luggage, I had straight dashed off to The 4tables. Inside the art café, famished from the hours on the road, me and some other art buffs had noshed scrummy pizzas with liberal seasonings of chilli oil discussing contemporary art and Kangra’s history. Obvious subjects given the occasion: Gunehar was in the midst of hosting the second edition of In the Woods, a conceptual art exhibition part of the larger Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival, which is organised by the Himachal government every November. The café is also where I first met Frank Schlichtmann, a 50-something Indian-German, who had wood fired the pizzas so perfectly that I had eaten more than I had an appetite for. Pizza genius apart, Frank is the man behind the hotel, the café, and In the Woods. In the past, his often self-funded triennial has drawn names such as British-Indian pop artist Ketna Patel, Delhi-based illustrator Gargi Chandola and Hong Kongs’ guerrilla filmmaker K.M. Lo. They have all set shops in Gunehar, transforming this little-known Himachali village into a vivacious canvas, pulling in crowds upwards of 5,000, probably the largest the village has ever seen.

***

I am in a mela, or so I feel when I step out for a stroll, walking past mud houses dunk in shades of blue, green and purple, miniature Kangra motifs featuring flowers, shepherds and animals painted bright on their walls. A little further up, I notice a crowd around a spot. I climb the ascent and take a seat on a bench, which is essentially a few wooden-and-stone planks stacked together. Soon, words of seven up-and-coming poets, played on loop through speakers mounted on deodars and pines, start to reverberate through the forest. My day and mood both start on a lyrical note.

A little off the main market, past busy grocery stores and away from the festival’s hubbub, Gunehar continues to surprise me with its Himalayan landscape on a walk towards a brook down somewhere. Conical deodars canopy the pathway, their leaves glistening with pearly dewdrops. I encounter a span of mules, wearers of the prettiest multicoloured saddles, trotting uphill behind their master. Frenetic in their search for a brekkie are a few frustrated Indian paradise flycatchers. In contrast, the pheasants are happily binging on wild berries, found in abundance here, this I can tell from the sheer number of seeds I have had to dodge.

Gunehar and its neighbouring areas were once pit stops for Indian and Central Asian traders travelling along the trans-Himalayan route. Photo by: Meenakshi J

A Bara Bhangali lady in a salwar kurta and rahide (a colourful bandana-like headscarf unique to this region) joins me on my uphill walk. I’m huffing and puffing, struggling to keep pace with her quick, swift strides, and still making small talk. She rues about how some villagers are migrating to Delhi for better prospects, something she herself would never do: “Why would I want to leave nature and its crisp air and move to Delhi to inhale poison?” (A statement I had then dismissed as an overreaction doesn’t seem so out of place today, given Delhi’s present-day pollution problems.)

Her mood however changes as quickly as the weather in the mountains and post a brief lull in our conversation she invites me over for some pahadi chai. I have tried the beverage before. It’s unusually sweet! But that’s not why I say no. I must head back, but not before I thank her for her hospitality. Locals here, by and large, are friendly. That’s because Gunehar and its neighbouring areas were once pit stops for Indian and Central Asian traders travelling along the trans-Himalayan route. Gunehar had always been a settlement for the pastoral tribe of Gaddis, who still troupe down to their winter homes from the higher Himalayan reaches to trade in sheep wool, summer crops and Himalayan herbs, en route to the plains.

***

Later that night in the hotel, as I sit in a gazebo gazing at the pitch-dark sky, my head is noiseless, my thoughts clear and my being calm. The simple pleasures of minimalist living in Gunehar had been an escape from the never-ending complications of city life. And in that solitary moment, brief as it might have been, the only book that comes to my mind is Thoreau’s Walden.

  To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller India and National Geographic Magazine, head here.

How To Go

Gunehar is 2 km/ 10 min from the paragliding hub of Bir. You can hire a private taxi or opt for the bus/shared taxi services that ply at regular intervals from different points in Bir. Alternately, you can opt for a taxi/bus directly from Dharamshala or Kangra. The Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival (hpkangra.nic.in/) usually takes place early November.

  Things To Do In And Around Gunehar

Go on nature trails in Gunehar, or go trekking and camping in Bir-Billing, a stone’s throw away. Beyond Billing lie the pristine valleys of Rajgundha and Barot, and further up are the higher reaches of Dhauladhar. Trek up for panoramic views of Thamsar Pass. Bir has many companies that offer trekking and camping options.

For a dose of spirituality, head to the neighbouring Palpung Sherabling Monastery, only a half-hour drive from Gunehar. The Tibetan market here is good to shop souvenirs like wooden masks, linsey-woolsey sweaters and beaded necklaces.

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source http://cheaprtravels.com/fine-art-finer-air-in-himachals-gunehar/

[minicartin]

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[gotzem]

Btc Traders Review

If you somehow happened to dismember the way of life of a business, and you ask different individuals in an association what the genuine parts of every division are, you'll locate the outstanding polarity between "front office" and "back office" activities. Front office staff are the general population who manage clients. They may be the client benefit office, the business division, and now and then the showcasing office (contingent upon how included the promoting office is in the business cycle). Back office staff are normally the administrator colleagues, HR, and the downer of all organizations - the Finance division. In organizations I've watched, Finance divisions frequently confront noiseless scorn or lack of respect. Some portion of it is a us-versus-them mindset that leaves the front office staff who feel their employments are more troublesome in light of the fact that they manage clients (contrasted with Finance, who manage numbers). Also, nobody from the front office sends reminders to the back office saying "please invest less energy doing the math" yet it can feel like the back office is continually update ing the front office with "watch this use" or "spend less on customer snacks". Shockingly, this view is upheld by administration at all levels that give Finance the dreadful activity of records receivable, the contributing overwhelming activity of records payable, and the dull activity of spending determining. Contrasted with the very innovative advertising division and the edge-of-the-situate, in-the-trenches feeling of the business office, back resembles the broccoli side dish on a plate of steak and fries. However, it doesn't need to be like this! Fund offices shouldn't be consigned to the back office in the expectations that their sharp pencils won't jab a client in the eye! Fund divisions can and should play a significantly more essential part in the association. Here are a few thoughts: Plausibility 1: Finance ought to be more about business system than number prescience. At the point when the Finance division dogs the business chiefs to get in their financial plans and after that turns them around for a last target spending plan for the year, their part is decreased to simple numerical translator. Be that as it may, imagine a scenario in which Finance sat down with deals and conversed with them about how their numbers associated with expected results. And afterward, imagine a scenario in which Finance sat down with the officials of the organization and really worked out a figure that was fixing to what the market was suspecting. Envision a world where Finance's numbers were something other than a spreadsheet that gets hauled out at each quarterly audit.

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[sportsindeed]

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[definedge-blog]

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[topfygad]

Fine Art, Finer Air In Himachal’s Gunehar

A hamlet full of warm locals, lush forests and artsy vibes.

  Gunehar, a two-hour drive from McLeod Ganj in Himachal Pradesh, is speckled with mud houses and deodar-studded pathways. Photo by: Meenakshi J

Sipping steaming green tea, I lean over the wooden gate fencing my boutique property in Himachal, lost in thoughts of nothingness. A cool morning breeze caresses my face and I warm up to the faint rustle of cherry blossoms across the stoned pathway, watching the routineness of early morning village life unfurl slowly: An elderly villager is guiding his flock of gaddi, a breed of sheep so wooly, so adorable, they look straight out of a baby’s touch-and-feel book; trailing the man is his gritty better-half, fuelwood strapped on her back in a conical Himachali Kilta. In the distance, against the hill-hugging horizon, I spot some schoolkids hurtle downhill, yodeling on their way to Bir, the closest town and the landing site for India’s paragliding hub of Bir-Billing.

I’m in Gunehar—and it’s gripping from the word go.

The submontane Himachali village is nestled within the Shivaliks, barely two hours by road from McLeod Ganj, past the tea plantations of Palampur and the sacred town of Baijnath. The drive winds through lively hillock settlements and burbling streams, but it was the snow-crusted Dhauladhar that had kept me company all along, until I had unwillingly outdistanced its enchantment.

The Himachali village is an art lover’s haven and annually hosts In the Woods, a conceptual art exhibition part of the larger Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival. Photo by: Meenakshi J

It was late last night when I arrived at The 4Rooms, a mud house painstakingly restored employing local techniques, and lets, as its name suggests, only four rooms. Dumping my luggage, I had straight dashed off to The 4tables. Inside the art café, famished from the hours on the road, me and some other art buffs had noshed scrummy pizzas with liberal seasonings of chilli oil discussing contemporary art and Kangra’s history. Obvious subjects given the occasion: Gunehar was in the midst of hosting the second edition of In the Woods, a conceptual art exhibition part of the larger Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival, which is organised by the Himachal government every November. The café is also where I first met Frank Schlichtmann, a 50-something Indian-German, who had wood fired the pizzas so perfectly that I had eaten more than I had an appetite for. Pizza genius apart, Frank is the man behind the hotel, the café, and In the Woods. In the past, his often self-funded triennial has drawn names such as British-Indian pop artist Ketna Patel, Delhi-based illustrator Gargi Chandola and Hong Kongs’ guerrilla filmmaker K.M. Lo. They have all set shops in Gunehar, transforming this little-known Himachali village into a vivacious canvas, pulling in crowds upwards of 5,000, probably the largest the village has ever seen.

***

I am in a mela, or so I feel when I step out for a stroll, walking past mud houses dunk in shades of blue, green and purple, miniature Kangra motifs featuring flowers, shepherds and animals painted bright on their walls. A little further up, I notice a crowd around a spot. I climb the ascent and take a seat on a bench, which is essentially a few wooden-and-stone planks stacked together. Soon, words of seven up-and-coming poets, played on loop through speakers mounted on deodars and pines, start to reverberate through the forest. My day and mood both start on a lyrical note.

A little off the main market, past busy grocery stores and away from the festival’s hubbub, Gunehar continues to surprise me with its Himalayan landscape on a walk towards a brook down somewhere. Conical deodars canopy the pathway, their leaves glistening with pearly dewdrops. I encounter a span of mules, wearers of the prettiest multicoloured saddles, trotting uphill behind their master. Frenetic in their search for a brekkie are a few frustrated Indian paradise flycatchers. In contrast, the pheasants are happily binging on wild berries, found in abundance here, this I can tell from the sheer number of seeds I have had to dodge.

Gunehar and its neighbouring areas were once pit stops for Indian and Central Asian traders travelling along the trans-Himalayan route. Photo by: Meenakshi J

A Bara Bhangali lady in a salwar kurta and rahide (a colourful bandana-like headscarf unique to this region) joins me on my uphill walk. I’m huffing and puffing, struggling to keep pace with her quick, swift strides, and still making small talk. She rues about how some villagers are migrating to Delhi for better prospects, something she herself would never do: “Why would I want to leave nature and its crisp air and move to Delhi to inhale poison?” (A statement I had then dismissed as an overreaction doesn’t seem so out of place today, given Delhi’s present-day pollution problems.)

Her mood however changes as quickly as the weather in the mountains and post a brief lull in our conversation she invites me over for some pahadi chai. I have tried the beverage before. It’s unusually sweet! But that’s not why I say no. I must head back, but not before I thank her for her hospitality. Locals here, by and large, are friendly. That’s because Gunehar and its neighbouring areas were once pit stops for Indian and Central Asian traders travelling along the trans-Himalayan route. Gunehar had always been a settlement for the pastoral tribe of Gaddis, who still troupe down to their winter homes from the higher Himalayan reaches to trade in sheep wool, summer crops and Himalayan herbs, en route to the plains.

***

Later that night in the hotel, as I sit in a gazebo gazing at the pitch-dark sky, my head is noiseless, my thoughts clear and my being calm. The simple pleasures of minimalist living in Gunehar had been an escape from the never-ending complications of city life. And in that solitary moment, brief as it might have been, the only book that comes to my mind is Thoreau’s Walden.

  To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller India and National Geographic Magazine, head here.

How To Go

Gunehar is 2 km/ 10 min from the paragliding hub of Bir. You can hire a private taxi or opt for the bus/shared taxi services that ply at regular intervals from different points in Bir. Alternately, you can opt for a taxi/bus directly from Dharamshala or Kangra. The Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival (hpkangra.nic.in/) usually takes place early November.

  Things To Do In And Around Gunehar

Go on nature trails in Gunehar, or go trekking and camping in Bir-Billing, a stone’s throw away. Beyond Billing lie the pristine valleys of Rajgundha and Barot, and further up are the higher reaches of Dhauladhar. Trek up for panoramic views of Thamsar Pass. Bir has many companies that offer trekking and camping options.

For a dose of spirituality, head to the neighbouring Palpung Sherabling Monastery, only a half-hour drive from Gunehar. The Tibetan market here is good to shop souvenirs like wooden masks, linsey-woolsey sweaters and beaded necklaces.

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Fine Art, Finer Air In Himachal’s Gunehar

A hamlet full of warm locals, lush forests and artsy vibes.

  Gunehar, a two-hour drive from McLeod Ganj in Himachal Pradesh, is speckled with mud houses and deodar-studded pathways. Photo by: Meenakshi J

Sipping steaming green tea, I lean over the wooden gate fencing my boutique property in Himachal, lost in thoughts of nothingness. A cool morning breeze caresses my face and I warm up to the faint rustle of cherry blossoms across the stoned pathway, watching the routineness of early morning village life unfurl slowly: An elderly villager is guiding his flock of gaddi, a breed of sheep so wooly, so adorable, they look straight out of a baby’s touch-and-feel book; trailing the man is his gritty better-half, fuelwood strapped on her back in a conical Himachali Kilta. In the distance, against the hill-hugging horizon, I spot some schoolkids hurtle downhill, yodeling on their way to Bir, the closest town and the landing site for India’s paragliding hub of Bir-Billing.

I’m in Gunehar—and it’s gripping from the word go.

The submontane Himachali village is nestled within the Shivaliks, barely two hours by road from McLeod Ganj, past the tea plantations of Palampur and the sacred town of Baijnath. The drive winds through lively hillock settlements and burbling streams, but it was the snow-crusted Dhauladhar that had kept me company all along, until I had unwillingly outdistanced its enchantment.

The Himachali village is an art lover’s haven and annually hosts In the Woods, a conceptual art exhibition part of the larger Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival. Photo by: Meenakshi J

It was late last night when I arrived at The 4Rooms, a mud house painstakingly restored employing local techniques, and lets, as its name suggests, only four rooms. Dumping my luggage, I had straight dashed off to The 4tables. Inside the art café, famished from the hours on the road, me and some other art buffs had noshed scrummy pizzas with liberal seasonings of chilli oil discussing contemporary art and Kangra’s history. Obvious subjects given the occasion: Gunehar was in the midst of hosting the second edition of In the Woods, a conceptual art exhibition part of the larger Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival, which is organised by the Himachal government every November. The café is also where I first met Frank Schlichtmann, a 50-something Indian-German, who had wood fired the pizzas so perfectly that I had eaten more than I had an appetite for. Pizza genius apart, Frank is the man behind the hotel, the café, and In the Woods. In the past, his often self-funded triennial has drawn names such as British-Indian pop artist Ketna Patel, Delhi-based illustrator Gargi Chandola and Hong Kongs’ guerrilla filmmaker K.M. Lo. They have all set shops in Gunehar, transforming this little-known Himachali village into a vivacious canvas, pulling in crowds upwards of 5,000, probably the largest the village has ever seen.

***

I am in a mela, or so I feel when I step out for a stroll, walking past mud houses dunk in shades of blue, green and purple, miniature Kangra motifs featuring flowers, shepherds and animals painted bright on their walls. A little further up, I notice a crowd around a spot. I climb the ascent and take a seat on a bench, which is essentially a few wooden-and-stone planks stacked together. Soon, words of seven up-and-coming poets, played on loop through speakers mounted on deodars and pines, start to reverberate through the forest. My day and mood both start on a lyrical note.

A little off the main market, past busy grocery stores and away from the festival’s hubbub, Gunehar continues to surprise me with its Himalayan landscape on a walk towards a brook down somewhere. Conical deodars canopy the pathway, their leaves glistening with pearly dewdrops. I encounter a span of mules, wearers of the prettiest multicoloured saddles, trotting uphill behind their master. Frenetic in their search for a brekkie are a few frustrated Indian paradise flycatchers. In contrast, the pheasants are happily binging on wild berries, found in abundance here, this I can tell from the sheer number of seeds I have had to dodge.

Gunehar and its neighbouring areas were once pit stops for Indian and Central Asian traders travelling along the trans-Himalayan route. Photo by: Meenakshi J

A Bara Bhangali lady in a salwar kurta and rahide (a colourful bandana-like headscarf unique to this region) joins me on my uphill walk. I’m huffing and puffing, struggling to keep pace with her quick, swift strides, and still making small talk. She rues about how some villagers are migrating to Delhi for better prospects, something she herself would never do: “Why would I want to leave nature and its crisp air and move to Delhi to inhale poison?” (A statement I had then dismissed as an overreaction doesn’t seem so out of place today, given Delhi’s present-day pollution problems.)

Her mood however changes as quickly as the weather in the mountains and post a brief lull in our conversation she invites me over for some pahadi chai. I have tried the beverage before. It’s unusually sweet! But that’s not why I say no. I must head back, but not before I thank her for her hospitality. Locals here, by and large, are friendly. That’s because Gunehar and its neighbouring areas were once pit stops for Indian and Central Asian traders travelling along the trans-Himalayan route. Gunehar had always been a settlement for the pastoral tribe of Gaddis, who still troupe down to their winter homes from the higher Himalayan reaches to trade in sheep wool, summer crops and Himalayan herbs, en route to the plains.

***

Later that night in the hotel, as I sit in a gazebo gazing at the pitch-dark sky, my head is noiseless, my thoughts clear and my being calm. The simple pleasures of minimalist living in Gunehar had been an escape from the never-ending complications of city life. And in that solitary moment, brief as it might have been, the only book that comes to my mind is Thoreau’s Walden.

  To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller India and National Geographic Magazine, head here.

How To Go

Gunehar is 2 km/ 10 min from the paragliding hub of Bir. You can hire a private taxi or opt for the bus/shared taxi services that ply at regular intervals from different points in Bir. Alternately, you can opt for a taxi/bus directly from Dharamshala or Kangra. The Trigarth Kangra Valley Festival (hpkangra.nic.in/) usually takes place early November.

  Things To Do In And Around Gunehar

Go on nature trails in Gunehar, or go trekking and camping in Bir-Billing, a stone’s throw away. Beyond Billing lie the pristine valleys of Rajgundha and Barot, and further up are the higher reaches of Dhauladhar. Trek up for panoramic views of Thamsar Pass. Bir has many companies that offer trekking and camping options.

For a dose of spirituality, head to the neighbouring Palpung Sherabling Monastery, only a half-hour drive from Gunehar. The Tibetan market here is good to shop souvenirs like wooden masks, linsey-woolsey sweaters and beaded necklaces.

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[definedge-blog]

You are interested in making your investments work for you or you won’t be reading this. Whether experienced or a novice, it is very important to know when to trade or not trade, deal with noise and achieve consistency to become successful in trading. With over a decade in the field of Technical Analysis & Noiseless charting category, we have simplified things so you learn noiseless trading. Register Today @ http://www.definedge.com/be-a-noiseless-trader-online/ Call us today for early bird offer! +91-9764-800-700

[definedge-blog]

You are interested in making your investments work for you or you won’t be reading this. Whether experienced or a novice, it is very important to know when to trade or not trade, deal with noise and achieve consistency to become successful in trading. With over a decade in the field of Technical Analysis & Noiseless charting category, we have simplified things so you learn noiseless trading.

Register Today @ http://www.definedge.com/be-a-noiseless-trader-online/

Call us today for early bird offer! +91-9764-800-700