The bodies were hauled out back by the time Ridahne returned to the inn and she guessed someone was out digging them graves. That was good—she didn’t feel like digging herself, but she would help in the scrubbing effort. She had words with the Barman and tried to explain as best she could what had actually happened without revealing anything important. He eventually came to an understanding and let her stay in the inn, though he was clearly terrified by this dark, tall woman, her skin inked and bloodied. Who wasn’t? Ridahne was elegant, yes, but she had never been delicate and instead always had an intensity about her. It was one of the reasons she was scouted out and chosen to study the blade. It was either that or she would remain a fisher like the rest of her family, like Hadian still was. Would her life have been easier if she’d spent it at sea...? Probably. She wouldn’t be here, and she would not have her most recent tattoo in her ojih. Didn’t really matter, she supposed.

Ridahne bathed. She took extra care to clean her face and afterwards used the water to launder her clothes, which she hung to dry. When she came back down to the tavern, she looked much less like a road-weathered wanderer and more like a native Azurei. Instead of the sleeveless shirt she wore a fitted blue half shirt finished with small bone beads on its hem like clinking tassels, though now that half her torso was bare the smooth, worn leather harness that housed her two knives nestled against her lower back was clearly visible. The harness was dark and sweat stained, blood stained, and had seen probably decades of use, but it fitted her perfectly and it moved with her as smoothly as a silk blouse. She also wore a skirt-like garment that hung about her knees, wrapping in a specific pattern through her legs and around her waist. Called an uri by her own people, it was a casual, versatile daring worn in different styles by both men and women. If she hadn’t looked exotic before. She did now. But it also didn’t take away from the air of danger about her, as the outfit showed her knives, more tattoos, and many scars.

Ridahne took a bucket and brush and aided in the cleaning of the dark wood floors, pink suds rising between the bristles of the brush. When the wood was cleaned, she helped dry it with some old ratty towels before taking a seat at the bar and ordering wine this time. What she’d said to Darin about not bearing blades while intoxicated was true—to do so was dishonorable. But despite her lithe frame, Ridahne was no lightweight and could comfortably have a few before needing to disarm herself.

The barman was uncomfortable but avoiding her made him feel more so, so the man timidly tried to make conversation. “So...Azurei, right?”
“Aye.” Her voice was cool and impassive.
“Do you all have tattoos like that..?”
“Except young children, yes.”
“The ones on your face are important, right? Supposed to mean something?” When she nodded into her cup,  he asked, “well like what?”

Ridahne sighed and asked, “do you have sex with many women?”
He blinked. “I....I don’t see how that’s any of your business!”
“It isn’t. And my ojih is not yours. If you can’t read it, then it’s not for you.” She said this matter of factly, keeping her tone measured. It wasn’t like the contents of her ojih were a secret to outsiders, it was more that, in a culture that displayed one’s life on their face for all to see and read, it was refreshing to have an opportunity to keep some things private. If she had been close to anyone, she might have answered more fully, though besides Darin, she had no personal connections with anyone outside of Azurei. Besides, she didn’t want to talk about her most recent mark. 

It wasn’t like she regretted what she did. It needed doing, she told herself. So she did it. But that didn’t make her proud of what she’d done either. What would her father say if he’d been alive to hear of it? Her mother? Hadian didn’t talk about it, not directly, and for that Ridahne was grateful.