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OC Spotlight: Sagra // mostly sfw
🕑 Added 2020-12-31 18:44:23 +0000 UTCLet’s begin this story with the arrival of Hande to a small village in the middle of the desert.
Hande is a thajir (a bird shapeshifter) who works as a courier and travelling apothecary, delivering mail and gathering herbs wherever he goes. His family used to run a medicinal shop, and Hande learned all the secrets of the trade before bad luck forced them out of business. You hardly make a fortune carrying post, selling ingredients at markets, and treating the sick, but he’s saving up his pay in the hopes of one day re-opening the store. Until then he tirelessly trudges through the desert, hard-working and earnest. Feathery white fluff covers him from head to toe and he has a friendly face, but don’t judge the book by its soft cover.
As he hands an imperial letter to the town elder, they tell him to stay in the safety of the village until the monster that lay wounded in the dunes has either left or died from its injuries. Hande learns that something had come from the desert a month or so ago, creeping into town to viciously attack both people and livestock. The soldiers and sentinels that should protect them had never managed to be at the right place at the right time, and there had been far more funerals than usual lately -- though sometimes there hadn’t been much left to bury.
During one nightly attack another creature had appeared, black as polished basalt save a few red patches, like a carved statue from a temple suddenly come to life. The elder had thought it spelled the end for their village -- but the second monster attacked the first, chasing it out of the settlement and hunting it down. A terrible battle followed that left the man-eating horror dead in the sand, but the victor hadn’t made it far before collapsing from its injuries.
Hande asks why nobody has offered a helping, healing hand to the being that apparently saved the village, and the elder admits (with some shame) that they had all been too afraid. You’d know if you saw it. And besides, there was no way of knowing its intent -- perhaps it had simply wanted to drive off a rival predator.
Hande decides to see for himself. If the monster is malicious, it will probably be too injured to act -- and if it’s benevolent, it wouldn’t be right to leave it that way. A few of the villagers point him in the right direction but daren’t follow beyond a certain point, so Hande continues on his own, a satchel of herbal blends and decoctions slung across his back.
And then he sees it -- a huge, inky shape, fallen in the hollow between two dunes. It really does look like a statue, motionless and half covered by sand, like a resurfaced relic of old about to be swallowed back up by the desert. It -- he? -- doesn’t seem to be breathing, and there’s deep gashes from claws and teeth all over his carved body. Hande understands why the villagers had been afraid -- the monster is regal in an ominous and formidable way -- but more than anything he feels compassion.
Drawing nearer, Hande chirps a cautious “... hello?” A few moments later there’s a voice, faint but deep and hollow from behind what looks like an obsidian visor covering the creature’s face. It tells him not to be afraid, and asks why he has come.
The herbalist offers to treat the fallen warrior’s wounds, and is met with a tranquil “If you so wish.”
Hande carefully pads closer, wary of being lured into the jaws of a sly hunter. But the monster doesn’t move a millimeter, and something tells Hande that he hadn’t lied. He kneels by the willing patient, examining the injuries and finding that his body seems more like animated stone than made of skin and flesh and bones. Even though he bleeds Hande can’t find a pulse or hear a heartbeat, and even though he’s clearly alive he draws no breath. The wounds seem more like cracks in a rock than torn muscle, and he’s cold like marble to the touch. But rather than letting these odd facts deter him, the crafty apothecary gets to work. As he painstakingly cleans each wound, whips up a salve, and wraps them in herbs and strips of clean linen he forgets about the potential danger. Not that the monster gives Hande any reason to worry, patiently enduring the treatment without complaint.
However, it won’t be enough. Despite his unfamiliar anatomy and stoic demeanour, Hande can tell that the wounded being is terribly weak and in dire need of continued care. Before long the fluffy pharmacist has set up a little camp next to his patient, deeming it far more convenient than running back and forth between here and the village.
The monster thanks him for his kindness, saying it won’t be without reward.
For the first few days the monster -- whose name is Sagra -- seems mostly asleep, although it’s hard to tell from his featureless face. On the third evening he’s capable of moving from where he had fallen, but it doesn’t sound like … whatever rasping and creaking sounds one might expect shifting stone to make. Sagra certainly carries himself in a statuesque way, noble like a sphinx carved from granite where he lays or sits, but his movements are eerily soundless and completely void of unnecessary flair.
Contrary to his intimidating exterior his voice is pleasantly low and unobtrusive, and as they talk Hande finds out what had happened. Sagra had indeed appeared at the village to defend it from the people-eating creature, but did not blame the mortals for fearing him as much as it. He would have gone as quickly as he had come, had it not been for his injuries. It all makes sense when Hande learns that Sagra is a spirit of Khalafa -- the god of protection and selflessness, loyalty and duty, defenders and guardians. The herbalist admits that he hasn’t had much to do with spirits before and wonders if perhaps he had been overly familiar, but Sagra assures him that no decorum or formality is necessary.
He certainly heals much faster than a mortal, and within a week Hande confirms that he no longer needs medicinal care. It had been oddly peaceful to camp next to the stone-like being’s side, but it’s time to get back to business. The apothecary bids him farewell, and returns to the village to spend one last night in the comfort of an inn.
Next morning Hande packs his things, ready to return to the road to deliver the rest of the letters in his bag -- but as he steps out the door, someone’s waiting for him.
It takes him a moment to recognise Sagra, because the spirit has changed from a huge leonine monster into a man, standing tall on two legs and dressed all in black. But his body is still stone, his face is still featureless obsidian, and his voice is still pleasantly deep when he answers Hande’s surprised questions.
“... what are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where are we headed next?”
“... we?”
“Of course.”
As it turns out, selflessly helping a Khalafan spirit equals earning the loyalty of someone who is devoted to the concept of devotion. As Sagra sees it, the logical consequence of Hande saving his life is to devote the rest of it to aiding and protecting the apothecary in whatever way he may.
Hande stands dumbstruck. He’d never expected such an intense commitment and tries to tell Sagra that there’s no need, but the spirit seems to have made up his mind. “You are my duty now. The desert is dangerous, and you are just one little bird.” Hande bristles, puffing out his chest and insisting that he’s been just fine travelling on his own so far. Even then, some of the rare ingredients he’s been collecting are basically monster bait, while the value of others might make him a target for bandits. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to have company ...
As they prepare to leave, the villagers gather, huddled together like a flock of trembling sheep but doing their best to finally thank Sagra for saving their town. He merely bows his head to them, and turns back to Hande.
They make an odd pair, to say the least, Hande marching ahead like a general leading his one-man army to war and Sagra following like a soundless shadow. Where Hande is peppy, excitable, and mildly exasperated with the nonsense of the world, Sagra is unflappably calm, collected, and down to earth. The downy soft apothecary regularly acts like he’s seven foot tall, while Sagra moves and speaks with purpose -- or not at all. Despite being an inherently intimidating and terrifying monolith of a man, it’s oddly easy to forget that he’s there, and it regularly happens that people mistake his stoic form for an actual statue.
At first glance you might think that he’s as unfeeling as stone, too, especially since there’s no facial expressions or unnecessary body language to imply otherwise. In reality it just takes a while to know him, and most mortals rarely get or take the chance. As they travel together, Hande gradually gets better acquainted with the subdued and low-key but oddly endearing personality of his unexpected companion.
In essence, Sagra is a guardian and protector, with compassion and unselfishness forming the roots of his very nature. If he can somehow help and defend the weak, the innocent, and the righteous in their need, he will. Being a shield against harm is the primary purpose of a spirit like Sagra, and he asks for naught in return. In fact he tends to appear where he’s needed, do what needs to be done, and disappear before anyone’s had the chance to even thank him.
More than just patient and composed, he’s downright imperturbable in situations that could grind anyone’s gears. Strong emotions never seem to compromise him and you’ll never hear him raise his voice; Sagra is a mountain who won’t move for either the wind, the rain, or the sun. Feelings like irritation and outrage seem completely forgeign to him, and personal pride never plays a part in his decision-making. Slander, provocation, and challenges run off his skin like water off a rock; someone could hurl a litany of insults his way without Sagra moving a muscle, responding in a civil and polite way, or not at all. (The same can’t be said for Hande, who is far more likely to pop off if someone is being rude or hostile. If anyone pisses Hande off he will let them know, and Sagra eventually adopts the habit of laying the bristling thajir over his shoulder to carry him away from any such situation.)
In short, Sagra will never engage in an unnecessary fight. But the secondary purpose of a Khalafan spirit is to be a sword that cuts down evil. He won’t let cruelty prevail by standing idly by and doing nothing; sometimes, the best way to protect and defend people in danger is to disarm or destroy that which ails them.
If someone proves themselves deserving of punishment, the normally peaceful Sagra acts with deadly purpose. In a moment’s notice he can go from motionless tranquility to attacking with startling intensity. When he fights he’s fast and sure like an obsidian arrow, each movement executed with terrible efficiency -- and once he’s set his sight on a target, it’s near impossible to convince him to change course. After neutralising a threat (in whatever way necessary) he returns to his usual statuesque attitude as quickly as he had taken to violence, any blood or grime seemingly soaking into his lithic body and leaving no trace.
The letters and packages he needs to deliver generally dictate where Hande travels next, but his passion for herbalism regularly results in various detours. He can never resist offering a helping hand to any sick and injured people they come across, even when these impromptu patients can’t afford to pay for it. Wherever he goes he gathers plants and other ingredients he might use for his medicines or sell to other healers, either unprocessed or turned into powders, salves, potions, and decoctions. He sometimes sells these goods at local markets and festivals, or directly to persons who have use of herbs and concoctions -- ranging from scientific doctors in the capital to lonesome desert witches.
Some of the people they meet along the way occasionally glance and whisper at Sagra like they know him from somewhere, maybe not by name but from rumours and stories. Hande tries to ignore the possible implications and in any case, his new spiritual companion is ever ready to assist, whether by carefully picking dainty flowers, grinding roots into dust, or killing a blood-thirsty monster to retrieve its valuable kidney stones. Seeing the pharmacist’s excitement over being presented with any such little gifts makes Sagra feel an unexpected spark deep inside his stone body.
Of course, being Hande’s self-proclaimed bodyguard and assistant does not mean that Sagra ignores his other Khalafan duties. Sadly there’s no shortage of malice among mortals, so no matter where they travel, Sagra can keep carrying out his purpose. The only times he leaves Hande’s side is to deal with situations he can’t ignore, ranging from local officials abusing their power and bandits attacking a village to villainous mages disrespecting divine law and wild monsters preying on caravans.
When they had first started travelling together, Hande had thought that such excursions might distract the spirit from his pledge to accompany him -- but Sagra always came back. Even if he was injured he would return to Hande before allowing himself time to rest, with the thajir pharmacist treating his wounds and scolding him for making him worry. Maybe I should just come with you instead, he huffs and puffs, so I can patch you up at once. Despite refusing to admit that he’s started to care about his strange companion, Hande comes to sometimes follow Sagra to wherever he needs to be, instead of the other way around.
During these journeys Hande gets to meet a variety of famed and fabled people who greet Sagra by name; he seems to be old friends with some of them, while having a more rocky history with others. He has apparently worked with the spider guardian of crypts, Te’oma, but seems more watchful of the great Gatekeeper spirit Nehaneru and of Roshan, the first golden dragon. On the other hand he kneels in front of the rabbit god Minoru and Nesu, the king of sphinxes, offering his services should they ever need him again. Hande hardly knows how to behave among such renowned individuals, shrinking into his fluff and stuttering a few polite words of reverence. There’s even indications that the empresses are aware of who the spirit is. When he asks how Sagra knows all these illustrious people, he simply replies that when they call, I answer.
Hande’s acquaintances may not be as legendary, but they sure are many; he knows plenty of people from delivering their mail, and others from trading in medicinal goods. He’s a known face in Ubdyi’s Rest, where he’s friends with Latif and his family, as well as the tricksy fox spirit Marjani. He also knows Sarnai and Yari of Dorousk, priests of Mezfirah and Khuthlya respectively, and even makes business with certain scoundrels. The Sun Knights and Shadow Guards know him as an imperial courier, and he regularly delivers herbs and roots to various clinics all over the land. They each have different reactions from seeing Hande return with a mysterious new acquaintance in tow, but there’s a red thread of surprised amusement at the mismatched pair.
While in the imperial capital for a grand summer market, they also visit Hande’s family. The pharmacist doesn’t really know how to introduce his equally soft and fluffy parents to the shadowy monolith looming in the doorway, and they welcome him nervously. Despite having little they share it all with kindness, and soon realise that Sagra is mild, polite, and oddly charming in his own solemn way. Before long they’ve forgotten their initial hesitation and treat him like one of their own, as if he’d been a friend of the family for decades. Shortly after the pair return to the road, Hande’s parents find an unexpected gift waiting for them in the kitchen; a few sacks of grain, rice, and dried foodstuffs, enough to last the season. After all, Khalafan spirits tend to reward selflessness.
Hande is used to setting up temporary camps or borrowing a room in exchange for his medicines, but now that he’s travelling with a spirit of Khalafa they regularly rest at the shrines and temples of this god. Khalafan sanctuaries are generally modest or even ascetic, but oddly serene and beautiful in their minimalism and practicality. As one might expect from the followers of this helpful god, their gates are always open to travellers and pilgrims seeking shelter for the night. They are also invited to share the priest’s simple meals, take part in the meditations, or even spar with the warrior monks.
The travelling pharmacist is mostly interested in resting up, but Sagra never refuses a respectful request for a training session. Hande notices that in every temple the priests recognise Sagra, and that some of the statuary seems very familiar. Eventually, he can’t resist asking the monks about his mysterious friend. The spirit always answers Hande’s questions, so it’s not that he’s secretive -- and Khalafan spirits do not deal in dishonesty, so they are utterly incapable of lying. But Sagra is hardly in the habit of saying more than necessary, and sometimes it’s hard to know exactly what to ask to find out more.
From the priests, Hande learns that Sagra is indeed a living statue, carved from stone and given life by Khalafa’s own hands. As Hande had already seen he can be broken and mended back together, but he doesn’t need to breathe, eat, drink, or sleep any more than basalt, obsidian, granite, or marble.
The duty and purpose of a Khalafan spirit is to ensure the safety of the empire and every good-hearted person who inhabits it, so they go wherever there’s crisis, turmoil, conflict, and looming danger, working in different ways to defend the defenseless. Much like sphinxes, Khalafan spirits seem capable of detecting both innocence and malice in mortals, so they know who to protect and who to neutralise. Despite their intimidating exterior, most people have nothing to fear from them, and as Hande has already discovered Sagra is very gentle and kind. But if your heartless and harmful behaviour earns you the attention of a Khalafan spirit, there’s little chance of escape. Once they’ve set their mind on something, they’re incredibly persistent and unyielding.
That said, Khalafa is a more lawful god than, say, Khuthlya, and the same goes for Sagra. He follows divine law above mortal rules and regulations, so he may disregard the latter in favour of acting according to the former -- but he prefers not to. Whenever a Khalafan spirit deems it appropriate to act as judge, jury, and (possibly) executioner, you can bet that their target is either already wanted by the police, or that mortal investigators into the matter will find ample evidence of their guilt. Sometimes these spirits even deliver prisoners to the court’s doorstep, with neatly compiled proof of their crimes. It should also be noted that Khalafan spirits do not kill unless they deem it necessary. Depending on the severity of a mortal’s offence, a warning or intimidating meeting might suffice -- or else, non-lethal force. Unless a crime or immoral act is truly unforgivable, they would rather see people change their ways and make amends than make them pay with their life.
Sagra is not the only one of his kind, but little is known about individual Khalafan spirits compared to those of other gods. These modest and humble beings have no need for praise and recognition for their actions, so they carry out their work with quiet efficiency and rarely stick around long after their task is done. Sometimes you don’t even realise a Khalafan spirit has protected you against a threat until they’re already gone -- if you realise at all.
Most people don’t know their names or faces, and as such the Khalafan spirits of the stories and songs are usually as anonymous as their real-life counterparts. But Hande can bet that some of the tales are bound to be about Sagra. As long as their request doesn’t contradict Khalafan principles, any god, great spirit, or mortal authority can call for Sagra’s assistance; no matter how great or small the task, a Khalafan spirit will always respond. Sagra, ageless like stone, has existed long enough to have answered many such calls, which is how he knows more or less mythical people like Te’oma, Minoru, and Nesu. (Hande still doesn’t understand why Sagra had bowed deeply to a simple doctor named Soha or the scoundrel Countess of Cards, but perhaps there’s more to them than meets the eye…?) Perhaps Sagra himself could have been a great spirit, if he had served another god -- but there are no great Khalafan spirits, because Khalafan spirits do not desire greatness.
When the priests ask how Hande met Sagra, the apothecary explains how he’d helped the wounded spirit even though the scared villagers warned him against it. It makes all the monks smile -- no wonder Sagra had decided to reward Hande’s unselfish actions by protecting and helping him on his journey. It had been a bit awkward in the beginning, but by now Hande has come to very much appreciate his loyal companion. More than just appreciate, in fact.
It doesn’t hurt that Sagra has several endearing surprises in store. For example he may not need to ever eat, and normally only reveals the mouth that hides behind the obsidian visor to bury his fangs in an enemy … but apparently he’ll make an exception to nibble on freshly baked bread. When Hande gets slightly drunk at the celebration of a festival he pulls Sagra to the dancing around the bonfire, only to discover the spirit has no sense of rhythm and that his best attempt at freestyling a move is a small bird-like wiggle from side to side. The sight makes Hande’s knees buckle from laughter -- which in turn fills Sagra’s lithic body with an unfamiliar warmth.
Something similar happens the first few times Sagra attempts humour. He’s come to understand that mortals enjoy “jokes” and “banter,” but alas, has no idea of how to successfully execute such a feat. In general, he has little experience of fun for fun’s own sake, but he tries and it’s very charming. The spirit also adores animals and they seem so drawn to him that Hande soon grows used to the sight of a cat in his lap, a bird perched on his head, or a snake curled around his neck like a scarf.
It also turns out his memory is flawless -- in fact he might as well be incapable of forgetting even the smallest and most throwaway details. A Khalafan spirit might not know how to explain it, since they never knew anything else, but a Khalafan priest might describe it as follows: A regular person’s memory is more like a pond, in which various recollections might float to the surface or sink to the bottom, and where the water might be clear or murky at different places or at different times. Sagra’s memory, on the other hand, is a well-sorted library where he can easily find any book, at any time, to access any information he’s collected up until that point. He can recite every page of a book he read a decade earlier or verbatim repeat what someone said years ago.
This feature regularly comes in handy for the occasionally featherbrained Hande, but more importantly it feeds into how attentive and caring Sagra is. The little ways he acts on it ranges from finding solutions to problems Hande ranted about so many weeks ago that the pharmacist himself forgot about them, to always making his tea exactly how he likes it. Hande can’t help but wonder if Sagra treats everyone like that, or if there’s more. The spirit himself already knows: he’s rarely spent such a long time with any one mortal before, and something about Hande makes him feel like he has a heart.
After months on the road together, Hande knows and understands the stone man better than anyone. He can read low-key but undeniable emotions from his minimal body language, like the shifting of his crest to the subtle tilting of his head. And had Sagra’s voice become less monotone after their time together, or had Hande simply become more wary of its subtle nuances? Sometimes the spirit doesn’t even need to say anything at all -- Hande somehow just gets him anyway.
One thing’s for sure: Sagra hadn’t always been a great cuddler. His stone body feels oddly like flesh, but the first time Hande had curled up next to him to seek shelter from windblown sand he’d been uncomfortable rigid. Soon, though, Sagra had learned to soften his arms, to lay them around him with surprising warmth. Without being able to say how it had become such a natural thing to cuddle up like that, Hande had started falling asleep to the low purring in the spirit’s chest.
One morning Hande seems to wake up to the abrupt realisation that he’s caught the feels. Despite all the puzzle pieces falling into place he spends a few neurotic days trying to figure out how to tell the statuesque spirit. He even rehearses a confession … only for Sagra to accidentally walk in on it. It leaves the thajir bristling with embarrassment, but he calms down as the spirit gently cups his face. Hande asks Sagra to raise the obsidian visor, tentatively pressing his lips against his, and practically melting into a puddle when Sagra kisses him back.
As storm season draws closer the desert becomes even more dangerous to traverse, and the pair decides to ride it out in Ubdyi’s Rest. Once they arrive, High Priest Kamau greets Sagra like an old friend.
Hande looks over his savings and is initially demoralised to realise that he’s still nowhere near being able to re-open the family shop. But the spirit helps him realise that he’s doing a lot of good as a travelling apothecary, especially whenever they visit remote corners of the desert where his medicinal expertise isn’t normally available. He has enough money to rent a little shop during major festivals, and spending the rest of the year travelling together with Sagra would actually … be nice. More than nice.
There’s always room for an herbalist in a bustling hub like Ubdyi’s Rest, especially when nomads and pilgrims flock to it for meetings and celebrations. The first time Hande rents a little storefront it just so happens to lie next to a certain faun’s bakery, meaning Sagra gets fresh bread every morning. The arrangement gives Hande the time and opportunity to concoct medicines he can’t craft on the road, and it feels good to sleep in a proper bed for a few weeks -- especially since he’s got company in it.
Just to make sure, Hande asks if Sagra still intends to accompany him wherever he goes. “You know you don’t have to, right? If you have somewhere else to go, or something else to do --” Sagra interrupts him with a press of lips. “I want to stay by your side for as long as you’ll let me.” That word makes Hande’s stomach flutter: want.
Night by night they come closer than ever to each other, as Hande asks for kiss after kiss, showing Sagra where he most likes to feel the touch of his hands. If the stone spirit had had a heart it would have beat faster from seeing Hande blush, from hearing him moan and gasp. One thing leads to another, and the next day the bubbly thajir walks with even more pep in his step.
From then on, Ubdyi’s Rest becomes the closest they have to a home, although the pair still spends most of the year travelling the empire. Just as before, they gather ingredients, craft medicines, and pause for local markets and festivals; just as before, Sagra’s Khalafan sense of duty regularly gets them involved in various troublesome events, large and small. One month they’re joining the fight against the Galtai raider clan; next month they’re back in Ubdyi’s Rest, babysitting Latif and Tsaga’s baby Maya. It’s a strange and exciting life, to say the least, but neither Sagra nor Hande would have it any other way.
---
… okay so, does it come across that Sagra is based on the trope of a fully sentient and sapient robot with true artificial intelligence? only that we translated that concept into a living statue, since this is not a sci-fi setting. i adore robots so i had had lots of fun adapting some of the classic tropes to a fantasy world, adding to the lore surrounding the god khalafa. i also love his and hande’s pairing dynamic of feisty small gay and scary-but-gentle big gay, and i want to soon make a few sketches of both of them to show how cute their aesthetic is ...
if you have any questions about sagra, hande, and their adventures, feel free to ask below <3
// art + sagra © me; hande © kubi.
