Book 2 - Moon
Part 1
This thread is intended to be paired with Voyage of the Homebound (2.1)
Tuesday, February 14th, 2023
Yaatiin, Daabab 26th, 412
“I’m sorry, we need to do what?” Anahid Terzian could’ve shrieked, but she held it together for now. In front of her (and a good distance below), that damn vulpine looked serious - as well she should, considering what she was suggesting.
“You heard me. We need to make preparations for evacuation, should people wish,” Azniv repeated.
“And why is this my job?”
“Because I’m busy planning for, you know, the actual invasion of our nation by a foreign force that wants to oppress our people? And Naciri’s off with the Mutadiit. Plus, journalists fall under your jurisdiction anyways.” Anahid sighs.
“Alright. I guess I’d better get to it, then. Anything specific you wa-” but Azniv is gone. Damn it.
Anahid wasn’t used to any of this. She was never a politician, she was a celebrity - revolutionary only in the fact that she was a native born Aldaari. Sure, she hadn’t liked the Golden Oil government, but she had never directly criticized them. The problem was that the Amanshii caste had been absolutely devastated under Golden Oil, and while the Kauda had mostly returned to a healthy membership, becoming Amanshii required time and education. When the ten or so people who comprised the First House had unanimously agreed on her as their representative, Anahid had originally been honored, but as reality settled in it seemed a little more like a curse than a blessing. With all the running around, she had barely had any time to work on her poetry - or finish her screenplay, which had previously been coming along quite nicely. Anahid was well aware that she had the needs of many others in her hands now, but she was a person too.
Anahid thought back to when she’d first learned to love the arts. Her parents had managed to retain most of their wealth despite the occupation, and one day for her birthday they’d bribed a Guardsman to let them across the border into Sayyed. Anahid’s parents had taken her to a movie theater in Assalaarqa, a city filled with magical lights and that never fell asleep - or at least, that was how it had seemed to her as a little girl. They’d gone to see some arthouse film, generally not the best for little kids, but Anahid had loved it. The storytelling, the cinematography, the pure exhibition of what was possible even with limited resources when you put your mind to it. She began looking into it, reading books far beyond her age, fiction, biography, philosophy, poetry. She’d started writing her own poetry when she was 11, and at 14 she’d won a local poetry competition in her hometown of Murad. By 16, she was directing and acting in short films with her friends, things not that far off from what she’d seen in Assalaarqa. She’d gotten a grant to Yuulii-Suulii (Author’s note: The colloquial name for the University of Suleiman, derived from Staynish) in Hasa, giving Anahid free reign to satisfy her voracity for creation. This was back in the early 2000s, before the revolution. That hotheaded little fennec, Azniv, had only been a year old.
Anahid had never been a revolutionary, or at least not an anti-government one (although some had said her filmmaking was revolutionary; really it wasn’t, she knew.) And she had always known Golden Oil was evil - one doesn’t have to be a direct victim to recognize that. She hadn’t wanted to get involved with politics, but here she was - a storyteller, directing a story that was just a little too real. But ah well. Anahid would do her job, and she’d do it damn well, too. And if anyone could spin up a convincing evacuation speech, it would be Anahid Terzian, now wouldn’t it?