Red Bananas and Dibarra, Tyrant of Memory

On our way toward Makan Alrrara, a place within Karam, we paused for a simple meal. Steam and Aura were introduced to the red bananas – a creation of the Taqadum School of Technomancy. A clear tourist’s mistake… Aura bore the heat surprisingly well, unlike my own first encounter. Steam’s reaction, however, carried me back in time. I wonder, did my face also flush indigo then? Sadly, I was alone in those days. Yuri, of course, seemed unaffected – unusual indeed. I can only hope his high resilience and constitution were not born of pain or suffering. It was a pleasant hour spent in the company of my new companions. Alizée once again excused herself for family matters – she carries a calmness I cannot quite grasp, even though tomorrow at midday we must prove our innocence. Still, the meal was good, the company better. And at last, after much gentle prodding, Yuri revealed something of his past. He once lived in a palace, surrounded by servants and family. His father will have no contact with him – a sorrowful truth. Yet who am I to judge the cruelties of fathers? He also told us of a childhood treehouse among vineyards. I, too, once had such a place in my “younger years.” Ah, memories – the good and the bitter alike. The matter of slavery arose, and I found myself explaining the bond I share with my “Mother.” I had not realized how difficult such a thing might be to understand. Still, I believe I made it clear to them. Steam, too, seems to bear a great destiny, though he does his utmost to step aside from it. Yet even the one kissed by fire will one day see that fate is carved plainly before him. Farid, the owner of the house, aided us further. He gave us the name of the place – Makan Alrrara – and of the family: Al-Nasr.
 
By the early evening we arrived at Makan Alrrara with the glorious Dragonfly. We found the house of the Al-Nasr family, and before its window, a knot. Yuri began a ritual in a tongue I had not heard in a very long time – so long that I cannot even recall its name. I was about to begin sketching his ritual when a sudden cry escaped from Aura. In her investigations, she had awakened an Echo of the Living. I fired upon the echo of the long-dead man; Yuri hurled his spear and leapt through the window with the grace of a lion. Aura struck the echo with her lightning, but soon more appeared. These poor echoes must be laid to rest – their souls stripped of fate must be given another chance to transcend.
To the north, at another house, another knot awakened before a window. I called into the home, ran forward, and made ready to strike down any undead that rose. Ten feet away lay only a focus. Then it appeared: old, wrinkled, carrying the stench of decay like a mummy. The creator of these echoes was here. I fired – and it babbled something incomprehensible. A tattoo lit upon its skin, and another echo emerged. I steeled myself against the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. But Dibarra seemed to be none of these. Aura came first to my side, then Yuri. Aura’s stone hand reached out for Dibarra as the fight spilled into the street. With his soulknife, Dibarra paralyzed me – the cut was not of flesh but of essence itself. An echo struck me as well, sapping my strength. Dibarra fled through another knot-portal before we could finish him. In that fight, I called upon the gift of my Mother and revealed my face of the Shadowfell. I stepped to the last echo and struck it down with Valgar’s Blade.
 
A foreign voice slipped from my mouth – to be used like a tool, a shudder runs through me still. It was the tale of Dibarra: …
-Dibarra was the Sixth Prince-
-wandered the mirrored corridors of the palace-
-obsessively hoarding anything on the slight chance that this forgotten person-
-Dibarra recognized him first-
-curse was not content to be merely broken; it recoiled-
-could not bear the thought that one day, even his beloved Su’Alhazi would fail to recall him-
-a tale of a demigod-
-Thus began his transformation-
-He experimented on himself, grafting these tokens-
-very soul of a person, compressing it into a tattooed sigil upon his own flesh-
-hundreds of mothers vanished-
-loss begat longing, longing begat memory, memory fortified Dibarra’s existence-
-only one spared from Dibarra’s predation was Su’Alhazi-
-memory faded into oblivion-
 
All these feelings washed over me as I listened to my own mouth speak. And within them – a purpose. Dibarra must be brought to account. To torment souls, to steal memories… such crimes cannot go unanswered. I will go after him, we will find him. This story is greater than our own lives. Alone I cannot do it; I must persuade them to stand with me. Tomorrow, after the trial. For this is not only about the children. It is about this entire city, its culture, its script, its very history. It's against everything the Matron of Raven stands for.
On our way to Frederick’s parents, we passed the shrine of the Duskmaven. A silent prayer to my Lady, and an unspoken oath. – The sense of something done well.
His father, Fritz, and of course his mother Ann – both are welcome in the Ta’Alaq anytime. I am most curious to see the shoes his father will craft for me. Thirty gold as a down payment – quite a sum for today, but I cannot shake the feeling that gold will soon be the least of our worries. Yuri seemed unsettled by my showing the face of the Shadowfell. I know it looks dreadful, but it seemed to trouble him more that I carry two faces. What did he mean, that my “true face” is hidden, that this is only a mask? Both of them are my true faces. We spoke of the empty room – the missing memories of grandparents. I have noticed it often: these absences haunt the city. Dibarra, Jansaa Dunya, Su’Alhazi, Dhakira, Tasmia, the Matron of Ravens… memories tie them all together somehow. But how? And why? At least Frederick remembered his sister, Katalina – his whole family, even the paper itself. They shared a beautiful family moment.
 
Afterward, we all went to our night’s rest.
 
by Oro'thion