Listener Areta Ch'Chi - Festering Wounds
Sierin Ikaixar
((Reverend Mother's Study, Temple of the Four - Iscandar, Betazed))
Staring through the wide loops of her open veil, Areta sought the void. Five pairs of eyes stared as if trying to bore a hole through her, had their stares been knives they would’ve flayed her skin to ribbons. Each of the standing five were orbited by those metal orbs with strange, flowing script working through the metal as they rumbled with deep, resonant sounds. Many stood obscured and veiled, garbed with heavily draped robes and sashes, all of mismatched but softened hues. Sand filled Areta’s tongue, and whatever quiet place she sought in her mind chased the echoes of her fear, her fear howled like a wind within her. Yet, she didn’t dare make herself hard to see, she didn’t dare shy away from the prying of the Reverend Mother.
But even with that acceptance, Areta’s nerves made her squirm like a beetle under T’Varle’s thumb, barely lifting her eyes to the edge of the woman’s desk. She studied the rich wood carefully, noting every knot and groove, every flowing grain. Her eyes climbed further, settling on precisely laid out pens and styluses. Stacks of yellowed papers and aged parchment-bound tomes seemed the only out of place thing here.
Aalloy: Speak, listener. You waste Mother’s time.
That clearly elicited a response. A simple creak of Mother’s chair was enough to make the room seem darker somehow. Nubby antennae twitching nervously, Areta gave a deep bow before answering. Working up the courage to look the woman in the eye, Areta hid a tremble in the folds of her skirts. The woman’s eyes seemed black fire despite her face unmoving, that ageless visage held a sternness that had seemingly lasted centuries.
Ch’Chi: It was as you divined, Mother, Sierin has not been in contact with her family. But I sensed a deep wound in their minds, she still sits in their subconscious. I cannot be certain if they know where she is, however.
T’Varle didn’t budge. Staring at her, through even telepathy, it felt like a shadow that lurked only in the corner of her vision. All Areta knew was that it was there.
Dreams were a fickle thing, and reading dreams was almost never the trouble it took. With how the subconscious mind wove images and pictures, there was never any telling what would be seen. It took a strong mind to weather the harrowing images the mind could conjure and not be swept along by its currents. But a careful telepath knew what to look for. In the great tapestries woven by dreams, you simply needed to trace the right threads to delve into someone’s subconscious.
Orande: Your work is noted, Listener. I wish for you to continue this task, but focus your efforts on her betrothed. I wish to know how deep this wound festers in him.
Ch’Chi: It will be done, Mother.
T’Varle’s face was stone as she nestled herself deeper into that creaking chair.
Orande: Go now, in peace. Join your brothers and sisters as they gather in the Hall.
Areta didn’t need to say anything more. She simply bowed. She moved with haste in her step, stepping through that muffling forcefield as they resumed their heated conversation. The door sank to its rest behind her, and suddenly she felt like she could breathe again.
[END]
—
Areta Ch’Chi
Listener
Followers of the Four
As simmed by…
Lieutenant JG Sierin Ikaixar
Medical Officer
U.S.S. Artemis-A
G239409EK0