Mictlan Access
Tenebrae - Monday, June 13, 2016, 6:30 AM
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* W02: Mictlan *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
Located within the Deep Woods, and hours past Wilderness Pointe, in the heart of its northern woods, bones frame this hollowed-out space. Massive and heavy, they reach towards the sky, meeting--almost--in the center like great and worn stalagmites. Or giant teeth. After a few seconds--it's quickly evident that this is a space carved from a dragon's bones. A very, very large...dragon's bones. The air smells of ash, brimstone, and earth. Underneath the apex of the bones lie the workings of a ceremonial pyre.
The grounds are run by shamans of the sith-makar, and the sacred space dedicated to the Death Singing Dragon, one of their names for the goddess, Vardama. The sith use it to sing the souls of their dead back to the land of Wing and Flame. It was here that brave heroes stood, and vanquished the ashen warriors of old, thereby freeing the land from Thul's curse.
Following a comment made by the darker Sith-makar (Svarshan), Tija turns towards the woods curiously, and with a bit of a sigh. He then turns back to Svarshan and nods, "Well, perhaps I will find another shaman able to help me. I am.. concerned..." he states in draconic.
Upon finishing his comment, the coppery skinned Sith looks down to his hands, tilting his head to one side, even as his tail curls up under him. He turns the hands over, this way and that, as if they belong to a stranger.
Svarshan pauses in the midst of removing Srassha's girth. The swift snorts, scraping the ground and he resumes motion. "Sssa," he says after a time. "Iss there a way I could. Help?" he asks. The girth comes loose, and he swings its end into his palm, and just as quickly tosses it atop the saddle.
Mikilos floats down gently from the sky. how he got up there is a bit of a question, but, well, Wizards. Landing lightly, as if stepping off and escalator, the atypically tall elf strides calmly across the clearing, heading for the bones of Mictlan. Dropping down unannounced in the middle of things can prove dangerous for most anyone, not to mention impolite.
The sith makes a bit of a worried tittering sound, his tail extending once more behind him and laying flat on the ground as he glances over towards Mikilos. He looks back to Svarshan and switches to speak in the trade tongue, as a newcomer arrives. "Perhapsssss, another time?" Gesturing with his head towards the elf. He turns his attention to the man though and stands from his crouch, bobbing his head once. "Peacccce unto your nessst, and greetingssss." says the dragonkin, touching again his copper coyote head. "Thisss one isss Tija Woari, ssservant of the Old Trickssster." The last bit is addressed as much to Svarshan as the newcomer, not quite an afterthought, but response to an earlier introduction.
The warrior-caste breaks off. The arrival makes his shoulders stiffen, and he exhales heavily. "Magus," he says after a time. The saddle he lifts, and drops to earth. It hits with a soft clink, leather against the ashgrounds, and he then walks over to Tija. "I know of-thiss one," he says to the other. "Peasse to you, Mikilos-wizard," he says. The words are kind, though the body language is watchful. Of course it is.
Mikilos nods politely, clasping his hands together. "Greetings Tija Woari of the Trickster. I am the Archmage Mikilostravia Abrioudelanarchie Mithralla, Builder Arcane." He smiles, and nods again. "Though just 'Mikilos' is fine." Turning, he clasps his hands again, bowing much lower. "May the Great Dragon even watch over you and yours, honored Bright-blade Svarshan." And finally he turns to Srassha, and bows lowest of all, though now with a grin. "And greetings to you, Princess of the Jungle. May your scales glitter ever brighter."
"It issss, this one'sss pleasssure to meet sssuch an essssteemed figure." Tija says, going for flattery himself. These folk are more than a little scary, after all. "Archmagussss, no less?" He pauses for a long moment as if about to say more, or ask a question then shakes a little, and lets his tail slowly begin to sway side to side, near the ground. Cautious and wary, but not alarmed.
The swiftclaw preens under the attention. Of course she does. She turns halfway, so the morning Sun catches her scales, the shining bells and disks on her hackamore. Glitter. Glitter glitter glitter. Her companion looks that way, and lets out a slow exhale. Smoke curls with it. "Peasse to you. What bringss you thiss way?" he asks. He stays near Tija. Warrior-caste. His words are more blunt, but then he is not gifted in that way.
Mikilos shrugs, and waves vaugely, curious, but not worried. "Such titles are a bit arbitrary in the end, but yes. Mostly I putter around and study whatever happens to catch my interest, when not crafting magical items at my shop." Nodding to Svar, he shrugs again. "I was reading an old journal when came across a bit about a cleansing ritual. Had a moment of insperation at some of the mana weaves behind it, and hope to observe to support or refute my idea."
"Study." says Tija in Draconic, glancing, with meaning, over at Svarshan. Though at the mention of cleansing rituals there might have been the barest flicker of response in the young, copper scaled Sith-makar. Returning to the trade tongue, he gestures around, "There issss nothing in need of cleanssssing here, that I can sssee. Thissss issss ssssacred ssspace."
"A...cleanssing ritual?" the warrior-caste asks. He's quiet for a time after that, and thoughtful. "What wass the. Ssource?" A journal? Behind, the tip of his tail flick-flicks. He looks to Tija, and back again.
You say, "The journal of Terrance Grildson, a merchant in the Myrrish kingdoms, somewhere around 200 years ago. He told of warriors returning from battle, blessed by the priest of the village. They had killed and committed violence, though for the good of the village. That the violence and death would be sure to never take root within them, the priest forgave their actions, that they could continue without worry." he nods to Tija. "This place is scared, and thus good for such rituals, sould another be in need.""
Tija seems to take a social step back, and follow Svarshan's lead, now, but his posture is not a pleased one.
Another flick of tail, flick-flick-flick. "The Temple of the Father Dragon, in Alessandros," Svarshan says at length. He grasps Tija's shoulder for the briefest times. "I would assk their sshamans for wordss. When warriors come from the...the Temple of Jusstice hass many needs for. Cleanssing," he says. A loose gesture of claws, "Evil. ...sssticks."
Mikilos nods again. "My first choice. There the mana is... active. Many spells, many prayers, great activity. What causes what is difficult to observe. Here, the mana is... peaceful. Calm. Influences can be more easily sensed."
Tija seems to relax visibly under the touch, somewhat, and at Svarshan's words. He seems more at ease to speak, "Sssurely there mussst be other sssacred placessss. You mussst underssstand that the Sssith-makar have.... we have had much that isss sssacred to ussss taken. Abusssed. Thissssss isss our placcce. Not yoursssss."
The warrior-caste goes still for a time. "Sssa," he says after a time. "The--Tija'ss words are true, maguss. Our tribessfolk would be nervouss at a mage working magicss. Here. I know of you, but. ...sscars run deep, maguss." He makes a sign in the air, a general one for which he can find no words. And are there words? Are there good words?
None that he is talented in. "Perhapss we may sshare words at the greater Pointe."
Mikilos considers. "The Grey Lady comes for all, equally. Ultimately, it is hers. But I understand the concern. I've no need of spells, I wish only to sit, to listen, and to learn."
Tija relaxes a bit more, "Obssservation issss.. up to the ssshaman." he posits, then looks towards Svarshan as if looking for confirmation or agreement.
"Different, ssoftsskinss, sscaled. Different alsso, pointy-earss, round." Svarshan looks at Mikilos from the corner of his eye, an almost trickster-light dancing there. "Trollsss go to. Death Dragon alsso." He tells it as though it's a joke, and perhaps it might be. Sith humor. Warrior-caste humor. Tija's words make him quiet again, and he thumps his tail in a way that says yes. "Sshamans and. Sspeakers. ...political, sspiritual," he says as though this were some sort of joke ALSO.
Mikilos nods, and shrugs. "All come from the Source. All will return there in time, though the path taken will vary wildly. If the shamen object, of course I will honor their desire."
"Triru, triru, triru." trills Tija in what one very familiar with the Sith might recognize as a guffawing laugh. "Old Trickster knowsss, Death Ssssinging Dragon hasss the lasssst laugh. Bessst to get firssst." and his own tail thumps merrily in response, briefly. He turns to Mikilos, "It isssss not persssonal. Sssurely pointy earssss have ssspacesss they would welcome outsssiders to the hearth, but not to the fire? To the..." He searches for the word, then says in draconic, "Soul."
"Sildanyari heart iss their foresst. ...and the pointy-earss come from plasse beyond thiss-earth. Magic comess to uss all...it ressponds very differently. Have sseen damage, mage. Great ssoul damage, when one blood inssists other blood adopt itss magic. Ssa...I go to great woods and ssay, I fae. ...your world knowss. I would burn." The tail flicks, flicks again. He tilts his head to the side, Svar does.
"We burn, the ssscaled onesss, anyway, becaussse of who we are. Charn. Rune. Sssame in wantsss. Treat usss assss animalsss, and want to obsssserve ussss." Tija shakes his head - not side to side, but in a cylindrical motion, like a dog shaking off water - and swipes his tail. "But I think the point issss made, cousssin. Let the magussss dissscuss thisss with the sssshaman, and let ussss find common ground, now? Ssssomething more pleasssssing to sssspeak on?"
Mikilos nods to Tija, considering. "In Llyranost, certainly. In Alexandros... outsiders are those who choose to be." He nods to Svar. "The paths branch before birth. Though I wonder how much before." He smiles. "Sometimes, I think you would have made a good pixie." He nods again at Tija's words.
Svarshan's eyes narrow. In some ways, very much like Srassha. "Not pixie," he huffs. He falls quiet after that, contemplating on this 'not pixie' business.
This time, the trilling from Tija is much louder, and he does a little hop skip before landing again and thumping his tail. He brings his hands up, backs touching, and moves them like little wings flapping, "Pickssssssie." and Tija's tail is all but slamming the ground in mirth, head tilted back and offering an 'oooooooooh' that seems to be some strange lizard-lip attempt at a howl, before the copper skinned Sith actually seems to caper about.
Mikilos bites his lip and tries to control his grin, nodding to Svar. "Right. Of course not. Never mention it again. Certainly not to Sandy." He blinks, considering a moment. "Though for their own, the pix are feared warriors. Their arrows have felled many a great foe."
"Pixie," the warrior-cast returns sourly. He offers his teeth briefly. To tribe, nothing serious. A flexing of muscle, a showing of strength. "Not," he says, and a bobbing, fluttering motion of the claws. And then an outright glower at the mage. "Mrmmmmm."
"Triru.. triru.." Tija attempts to bury his muzzle under his armpit, his tail swiping back and forth, dangerous to any behind him, the arc smacking the ground behind him with each pass. He clears his throat after a long moment. "Perhapsssss there issss another placcce that could be found, for obsssserving thisssss... mah-nah," He prounces the word as if unfamiliar.
Insert politic subject change.
Mikilos nods, and lets the topic shift. "Perhaps, though if so, I don't know of it. The Grove of the Druids occured to me, but, well, likely best if I don't visit again for a time."
"Sssa," the warrior-caste says. He scowls again, and then heads over to Srassha to see to her hackamore, and the rest of the swift's tack that had been left from earlier.
Svarshan has left.
"Rrrrrr?" trills Tija, as he tilts his head to one side. "Druuidsss grove isss like thisss place for worsssship of natural order, yessss? Ssssacred to otherssss?"
Mikilos nods, switching to the Dragon Tongue. "To the Green World, and Dana, it's guardian, yes. The druids gather their for their rituals and for fellowship. Many others who follow the Green World also gather there, including a number of skinwalkers." <draconic>
Ahhs as he too switches to draconic, "I am curious.. though I am not highly skilled in spellcraft, myself, merely a novice, why you do not find a place you can find harmony with? Somewhere that is sacred to you. It does not need to be a temple." The Sith states plainly, "The Old Trickster, Tarien as the humans call him, I go to worship him under the night sky, atop a hill, and that place becomes sacred while I am there." <draconic>
Mikilos considers a moment. "Three reasons. First, the sith seem most intune, as a culture, with the idea I'm trying to study. If I'm going to learn about soemthing, I'd favor learning from the experts. To that, a place merely scared is not enough. It's the ritual of blessing which matters, and I am unable to preform that on my own. And finally, Animus is dead." Stated simply, a matter of fact. <draconic>
"I must admit, I am unfamiliar with this, Animus..." And then the Sith pauses again, "Tell me, do you know what happened to the Sith-Makar, when we were taken to Charn?" <draconic>
Un'eth has arrived.
Mikilos hesitates. "Animus, God of Magic, killed by the Dark Bitch Taara in her quest for power. Lord Navos stepped down into the Twilight, holding firm the Balance, and granting unto the Goddess Eluna the Magic which Taara had not stolen. Thus two Goddess rule the powers of magic, with Navos between, and the Dawning of Serriel risen into the Light to take his former place. The Balance remains, but Animus is still dead." The elf and the sith stand near the gate of Mictlan, talking. <draconic>
Diemma has arrived.
"Hrrrrrr" the copper skinned Sith trills thoughtfully. "I imagine I should have heard of some of this history, but my lessons have been of a more immediate and practical nature, at the temple of Tarien, I admit. I have only been here from Am'shere for half a year." He tilts his head to the side, "But you still have not answered the query about the Sith, and what we experienced when we were taken to Charn." <repose> <draconic>
Mikilos shakes his haed, and shrugs. "I don't know the details. Nothing plesant, I'm sure. A few of the magics I might be able to understand, but thsoe guided by the dark gods, of involved with forces of artifice, and beyond my keen. And I'm content to leave them there." <draconic>
Un'eth crosses the clearing of Mictlan proper, tail swaying behind her as she moves to the "head" end near the small, claw-worn trail from the south. "Peace on your nests," she greets those present.
"It was vile." Is what he says. "Vile and horrible and malicious, and those from Rune did not treat us much better. Because of our magic. So you simply must understand that, known or not, it is going to be the utmost trust that is bestowed upon you by the shamans if you are allowed to observe the least of our rites. For which I would not let yourself have high hopes." He turns then to Un'eth, "And speaking of the most revered shamans." Tija bobs his head in greeting, "And to yours. It is good you have come." <draconic>
From the south, an elderly human woman arrives, leading an unloaded mule by the reins with one hand and hobbling against a long, thick branch with the other hand. On seeing the gathered peoples, she smiles slightly, and draws to a stop at a respectful distance.
Un'eth's snout pan from the copper, to the sil, then to the arriving human, and back. "Is something wrong?" she inquires of Tija before eyeing the others silently.
Mikilos nods. "Those wizards have no magic of the blood. They try to understand what they don't have, and take it for themselves. Elves have our own magics, we have no need for that of the sith." He glances to Un'eth, and shrugs. "A cultural disodance. Nothing which can't be talked out." <draconic>
"Wwwwrrrrr." Trills Tija, a note of concern to his tone as he glances over towards Diemma. He turns from Un'eth to Mikilos, switching to trade speak, "Thisss one wasss ecksssplaining to the Archmagussss why we might be reluctant to allow him to obsssserve ritualsss of our people in this placcceee. How othersss, Charn and Rune, and yessss, even elvessss, essspecially Mul'niessssa, have abusssed our people for our magicsssss." Then, bobbing his head he steps back, "I will let you two dissscussss, thisss further, asssss it isss more your placcceeee, than mine. Though, truly, it wassss you and your chiuhuaha I had come to sssspeak to." Then he is scurrying, astonishingly quickly, over to the side of the old woman, bobbing his head low, "Peaccccee unto your nessst, old Mother.. May thisssss one offer you aid?"
Un'eth remains quiet for a moment following Tija's words, her tailtip twitching with some agitation during that moment. After it passes, she speaks to Mikilos, "All are welcome in Mictlan who respect it and Ea. As for the rituals here, who may be present is the decision of the ritemaster at that time. Some may be open, some may not be."
Diemma looks at the sith-makar with a head cocked on one side, smiling. "Perhaps," she says. "I have come to observe the dragonkin; their physiognomy, their anatomies. I am a healer, and wish to learn more about this race, with which I am finding myself more and more frequently in contact."
Mikilos nods to un'eth, and smiles. "Of course. I wish only to observe and learn. I understand there is hesitation due to actions of inconsiderate wizards. i have no intention to force myself anywhere I am not welcome."
A low soft whistle, accompanied by shoulders sagging and tail flopping listlessly to the ground, is Tija's response to Diemma's words. "Come. Meet the ssshaman, healer. Thisss one isss called Tija." and the Sith touches a copper amulet shaped like the head of a coyote, howling towards the sky. The Sith then offers his arm to the old woman politely, while taking up the mule's reins, thus leaving her a spare hand with which to lean on him.
"I am called Diemma," the old woman tells Tija, leaning on him gratefully, and discarding the makeshift staff. "Manus Diemma, of the Hands of Ithildin. It has been some time since last I passed through, although I would not think much has changed."
"Should you exceed your welcome, you will know," Uneth explains before her snout pans to the escorted woman. "Some has changed, much has not. Welcome to Mictlan."
Mikilos nods again, before turning to offer a polite greeting to Diemma, his own interests set aside for the moment.
Tilts his head to one side, glancing from Un'eth to Mikilos and offering a sort of, "All is well?" trilling sound, before introducing Un'eth and Diemma, just in case names were missed, "Sssshe sssaysss ssshe wisshess to obssserve usss, assss well. Apparently, Mictlan hassss become ssssome ssssort of zoo for the amussssement of ssssoft-ssskinssss." There is a dry tone to the copper Sith's words, but his tail flicks lightly at the grass, as though this is meant largely in jest.
Diemma dips her head in shame, more than fifty years in a monastic cult taking its toll on her ability to discern humour. "That is not my intention, Tija, and others. Many of your kind are entering the communities for which I am responsible; it would be remiss of me to be unable to provide healing and care through a lack of education about your physiology."
Mikilos tsks, and smiles. "He's teasing, Manus. Mictlan is for all who honor it."
Tija places a hand gently on the old woman's shoulder, "I apologize for my teasing way, old Mother." then offers a slight "triru, triru" trilling. "Thissss issss perhapsss another lesssson. Humor between your peoplessss and thossse from Am'sssshere can differ. Our livessss are very different. It issss true that we are coming to your city from our jungle, and it issss good of you to assssk how to heal our peoplessss. In truth, thissss one hasss sssome little healing art. Perhapssssss I can teach you what I know of the Ssssith-Makar, and in exchange, you can teach me of ssssoft sssskins."
The venerable woman smiles, lifting her head, her wrinkled skin indicating amusement. "Very good," Diemma says. "And, please, I am not 'Mother'. I am a lowly Manus, a Hand serving the Hands. Aside from healing, education is one of our main missions. We teach others how to heal, so they may do so when we are not available. Still..."
Mikilos nods, and sighs. "Magic and do a great and many things. But there remain limits. For all my own powers, healing is a task to which I am not suited."
The copper makes his mirthful "Triru" again, but this time a single chirp, "It isss a ssssign of ressspect to our eldersss. If you preferrr Manusssss, then ssssuch ssshall I call you. We Sssith have ssstrong blood tiesss with our eldersss and ancesstorssss, however."
Tija Woari tilts his head to Mikilos, "Different giftsss from different ssssources." He looks down at his own hands for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. "Issss it ssso unusssual for sssomeone with healing artsss and divine magicsss to have other powersssss?"
Diemma smiles to Tija Woari. "We have much to learn of one another, then, Tija. The Hands of Ithildin are midwives and healers first, and educators second. To us, and to me particularly, 'Mother' indicates something quite different, and is not the calling of most Hands." To Mikilos, she says, "Our focus is on mundane healing, mage, unless there is no other option. Magic is wonderful, but is rare and expensive; many communities with which we work cannot guarantee such access. As such, we teach how one might cure without such techniques."
Mikilos shrugs. "Rare and expensive now. So train, teach. Not all are able, not all have the talent, or the gift. But if every single one who does were trained to use it, what sort of a world might this become?"
"Wrrrrrr" Tija trills, his whole upper body bobbing along with his head as he 'nods' in agreement with Diemma. "It isss besssst not to wassste the giftsss of the godssss, either. By thisss I do not mean the magicssss of healing, but I mean the gift of pain, which issss to teach ussss lesssssons, at timesss." He turns to Mikilos, "A dangeroussss one. Not all who have the giftssss are wissse enough to usssse them carefully."
"Our mission," Diemma says, at large. "Is to teach impoverished or disadvantaged females in how they might assist others in their communities. This helps those communities remain healthy, and strong, and united; it also gives a profession to the female in question. It is a noble mission handed to us by Althea."
Mikilos nods to Tija. "All the more reason they be trained fuuly, not only in how, but why and when."
"Yessss?" says Tija to Mikilos, "Perhapsss you ssshould make a pilgrimage to Charnnnn then, and teach them. Ssssince it isss ssso easssy to teach dark heartsssss." The sith's tail is not swaying merrily this time. "I am sssorry, but I mussst be going." he turns then to Diemma, "You may asssk of me at the temple of the Old Tricksssster, Tarien. Perhapssss ssssooon we can ecksschange lesssons about healing arttts."
Diemma smiles to Tija. "Thank you, Tija. I will remember you, and remember this offer." She turns back to Mikilos. "They are trained fully, mage. We find they become respected members of their community --- better respected, even, than the Hands who taught them."
Mikilos waves to Tija, and turns his focus to Diemma, nodding. "I'm sure your healers are very well trained. Sadly, the same cannot be said of many wizards."
Tija Woari has left.
The old woman looks at him, puzzled. "How so, mage? I am aware that those who rely upon the arcane cannot use their spells to heal others. But is there something in a mindset that prevents their learning the mundane healing arts? They are well-versed and intelligent, as a general rule."
Mikilos laughs. "For the healing arts, most are merely uninclined. But many wizards are not fully trained in when and why to use their arts. The worst of these turn to the Dark Arts, such as necromancy."
Diemma's eyes darken at hearing mention of necromancy. "There are enough clerics who dare to do such dark arts, too. Those in Charn, for instance. Those who follow the gods of darkness."
Mikilos nods. "Many of those have been trained falsely. Taught that such things are acceptable. Seldom can such lessons be undone."
"Yes," Diemma says. "I am of the opinion that if one is to provide healing to a sick or injured person, then one must not take into account whether the person is good, or evil. This is not the opinion of the Hands of Ithildin, however."
Mikilos considers, and nods. The dead cannot learn the error of their ways. But neither can they do more harm. It can be hard to judge which is the greater need."
"Consider this," Diemma says. "When I was a young Manus, there was a war near Alexandria, and I was dispatched as a nurse to assist with the endless wounded." She sighs deeply, and pauses for a few moments. "There was a time when two soldiers were brought to me; one from the Alexandrian army, and one from the enemy army. I could provide assistance only to one at a time, but the enemy soldier was more gravely injured, and would die without my help. What was my choice? Despite orders to the contrary, I had to assist the enemy soldier first. This was the correct, and merciful, thing to do."
Mikilos nods. "When one's duty is to heal, the color of a uniform means nothing."
"That is true. But then, consider this," Diemma pauses again. There is a sadness in her eyes. "Later I found that the enemy soldier was responsible for the injuries, and deaths, of many of those for whom I had cared. She had been taken as a prisoner of war, and later was executed. Never did she repent her actions, and so..." She thinks carefully. "Were my actions justified, or are my only loyalties to healing?"
Mikilos considers. "That answer is ultimately up to you. Your loyalities are yours alone to chose. But, if you do what you think is right, at the time you do it, then you have done your best. And no one can do better than their best. For that case in particular, I think you did the right thing. To allow and enemy to die, when they could have been saved, is cruel. Perhaps even evil. If that enemy is to be exicuted later, that is a seperate measure. They might have repented, they might have changed, they might have been saved. Those things didn't happen, but they never would have had the chance had you not offered it. The chance, even a small one, is worth having."
"Questions of morality, such as this, are often encountered by the healer. Sometimes they weigh heavily on the mind; sometimes, too heavily." Diemma leans on the mule for a few moments. "Althea would answer as you did, but it was hard to understand at the time. Even with hindsight I know now that I would have made the same decision."
Mikilos nods. "Hindsight often helps make a path clearer, but doesn't change the route taken. With a thought, a gesture, I can kill. Destroy. Eradicate. Typically, this is not the right choice to make, and thus my path is clear. But sometime the path isn't certain. Does a foe need destroyed, or will merely disable do? How much is enough to disable, but leave them unable to harm more? It's not quite the same, but lives, often including my own, hang upon my choices. I do not always make the right choice. But I do try my best."
Diemma nods. "The morality of a powerful soldier, or wizard, can be similar to that of the healer. Many do not consider this. Now I understand your meaning about the training of wizards." She takes a seat on the ground. "Would you mind, mage, if I took a few minutes to meditate by myself? These thoughts are preying heavily on my mind, and I need some time to gather them."
Mikilos nods. "Certainly. If you wish to speak again, I'll be near the center tents. I've my own meditations, but they can be interupted. Fare well."
Diemma nods, and closes her eyes. Whether she's meditating or napping remains to be seen.