Terribly sorry for the delay! It's been one heck of a week and i'm working insane hours. I've been so exhausted that on friday I just slept straight through lunch instead of eating. It's been one of those weeks where I've skipped more meals than I'm proud of, too....but i got an unexpected day off today so i can finally catch up on my posts!!
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Ridahne gave him a cold sneer. "The only case I need to make for myself is that I haven't fleed you open head to toe already. I had plenty of chance. And practice." And it looked like she meant that. Of course, she meant to say 'flayed', but her accuracy of less common words was hit and miss. Despite her spotty linguistics, she had enough confidence to make up for it and let him know she was dead serious. She could have. She could have chopped his head off, or his hands, could have cut him open, stabbed him, or for goodness sakes she could have left him in the dust after he passed out. But she didn't. She brought him into her home, despite how lame and dirty and shoddy it was. It was still hers.
Ridahne flicked her hair behind one ear, the silver piercings glittering in the light. She could have sold all the pieces some time ago, but the thought never even occurred to her. Not only were they so much a part of her that she did not often remember they were there, but it was a small piece of home. Of culture. She wouldn't sell that for the world. She considered the little case in her hands, turning it over a few times. "Fragile you say, mm?" She tapped it with her finger and then gave him a little smirk. "So...I should't do this..." she shook it like it was a martini, knowing from the sound it made when she tapped it that it was well padded. But she just wanted to watch him squirm a little. It was too easy.
But then he actually answered her question. Then he actually told her the details of the job he had in mind. The red zone. She stared daggers into him and after a moment of what looked like boiling rage she began to curse in a sharp, jagged language that made her accent suddenly make sense. "The red zone!? What are you, nuts? What kind of job would make you go into the red zone? Do you even have gear for that? Can you even get enough lead for that? Crazy!" She swung a hand to hit his shoulder with a loose, open hand. It was not enough to leave a bruise, nothing of the sort. It was almost...playful. Except rather than playing with him she was just expressing how stupid she thought he was. And this was simply the way she knew to do it.
Still, she did not let go of the case. She looked at it, and at him, and back to it, the wind making her ebony hair sway softly. This was no petty smash-and grab or something of the sort. No. This was bigger than that. "What supplies? How will you get them? And just how much of a payout is there exactly?"
Ridahne flicked her hair behind one ear, the silver piercings glittering in the light. She could have sold all the pieces some time ago, but the thought never even occurred to her. Not only were they so much a part of her that she did not often remember they were there, but it was a small piece of home. Of culture. She wouldn't sell that for the world. She considered the little case in her hands, turning it over a few times. "Fragile you say, mm?" She tapped it with her finger and then gave him a little smirk. "So...I should't do this..." she shook it like it was a martini, knowing from the sound it made when she tapped it that it was well padded. But she just wanted to watch him squirm a little. It was too easy.
But then he actually answered her question. Then he actually told her the details of the job he had in mind. The red zone. She stared daggers into him and after a moment of what looked like boiling rage she began to curse in a sharp, jagged language that made her accent suddenly make sense. "The red zone!? What are you, nuts? What kind of job would make you go into the red zone? Do you even have gear for that? Can you even get enough lead for that? Crazy!" She swung a hand to hit his shoulder with a loose, open hand. It was not enough to leave a bruise, nothing of the sort. It was almost...playful. Except rather than playing with him she was just expressing how stupid she thought he was. And this was simply the way she knew to do it.
Still, she did not let go of the case. She looked at it, and at him, and back to it, the wind making her ebony hair sway softly. This was no petty smash-and grab or something of the sort. No. This was bigger than that. "What supplies? How will you get them? And just how much of a payout is there exactly?"
Ridahne studied him carefully as she sat there, squeezing the nozzle gently so that a weak stream trickled into her mouth. Proper lady, she was not. His hand went to his side and she saw an unmistakeable flash of pain across his features. Pain. Oh. He must have been injured somehow, though she wasn't yet sure how. That explained the blood spitting...she tried to guess what happened to him;broken rib that punctured a lung? Some kind of gas exposure? No, his body hurt, his flesh hurt. A puncture wound of sorts. Of course. Ridahne kicked herself for missing it, as she hadn't really bothered to dig deeply onto his person for interesting objects. Mostly, she checked the pockets of his duster and anything readily accessible, as that's where people kept tools anyway. Tools she could find useful or at least valuable. She never once bothered to look underneath his shirt.
A slow smile crept onto her inked face, warping and bending the marks like they were tentacles of a living being. "Who said I can't do both?" Ridahne rose, stooping down to grab something from a crag in her little broken fortress. In a flash of silver, a sword sprouted from its hiding place and glimmered in the sun, shaded as it was by a dirty sheet overhead. It was a shorter blade, a one handed thing that was clearly very well made and served both a ceremonial purpose as well as a practical one. It and her knife were the two things Ridahne actually took care of to keep clean and maintained. It looked at home in her hand. She used it to hook under one side of his duster and peel it aside, then slid the tip underneath his shirt and lifted it until she could see the hastily bandaged wound; she felt confident she could hold her own against him in a fight right now, but she wasn't about to get too close and take her chances. "Ah," she sighed in understanding. She withdrew her blade and went to sort through a canvas bag, returning to him with a fresh bandage, a flask, and a yellowy green salve in a plastic bag. "I might be a lawless thief, but I am not altogether cruel. Here." She lost a little of the harsh disdain in her voice this time, sounding just a bit more sincere.
He solicited some kind of work in exchange for some of his things back, and Ridahne gave a little smirk. "I might be interested." She was playing coy, but secretly she was absolutely desperate for the idea of food and maybe a little money. "But it depends on what kind of work you're talking about. And how much is in it for me. Also..." She produced the black case from her bag and held it delicately between her thumb and forefinger, holding it aloft to the light to get a better look at it. "By some of your possessions, do you mean this?" She did not move to offer it to him, but instead turned it over in her hands as if dangling it in front of him. Her tone turned serious, but not dark. "Start talking. I want to know what this is and what kind of job you have in mind."
A slow smile crept onto her inked face, warping and bending the marks like they were tentacles of a living being. "Who said I can't do both?" Ridahne rose, stooping down to grab something from a crag in her little broken fortress. In a flash of silver, a sword sprouted from its hiding place and glimmered in the sun, shaded as it was by a dirty sheet overhead. It was a shorter blade, a one handed thing that was clearly very well made and served both a ceremonial purpose as well as a practical one. It and her knife were the two things Ridahne actually took care of to keep clean and maintained. It looked at home in her hand. She used it to hook under one side of his duster and peel it aside, then slid the tip underneath his shirt and lifted it until she could see the hastily bandaged wound; she felt confident she could hold her own against him in a fight right now, but she wasn't about to get too close and take her chances. "Ah," she sighed in understanding. She withdrew her blade and went to sort through a canvas bag, returning to him with a fresh bandage, a flask, and a yellowy green salve in a plastic bag. "I might be a lawless thief, but I am not altogether cruel. Here." She lost a little of the harsh disdain in her voice this time, sounding just a bit more sincere.
He solicited some kind of work in exchange for some of his things back, and Ridahne gave a little smirk. "I might be interested." She was playing coy, but secretly she was absolutely desperate for the idea of food and maybe a little money. "But it depends on what kind of work you're talking about. And how much is in it for me. Also..." She produced the black case from her bag and held it delicately between her thumb and forefinger, holding it aloft to the light to get a better look at it. "By some of your possessions, do you mean this?" She did not move to offer it to him, but instead turned it over in her hands as if dangling it in front of him. Her tone turned serious, but not dark. "Start talking. I want to know what this is and what kind of job you have in mind."
Ridahne scoffed, a hardly delicate sound. She had the body type of a dancer, of a thin, elegant, graceful woman. And she was thin, and in some ways graceful. But her eyes proved she was no dancer, and the thick scars on her hands showed that she was no stranger to blades. Instead of being soft, her hands were calloused and adept, her arms slender but defined in muscle, and she had a resolve like stone. No, Ridahne was not delicate. "Maybe you aren't now. But you were. And if you weren't drunk, then I don't care to know what kind of drug you were high on. Your problem, not mine." She hadn't considered that he was severely injured--he didn't show any immediate signs--or else she would have tried to give him some medical aid. She was no doctor, but she did know a few things.
"Whatever you were on, I suggest you kick the habit. I'll bet you have er..." She flung her hands, searching for the right word. At a loss at first, she tried her native tongue, hoping that might jog her memory a bit. "Tespah'jhi," she said. "Stomach blood." When she learned English, she never really was taught medical terms like 'ulcer'. Ridahne rose, taking the sun-bleached hose with her, and moved to stand over him; she really was quite tall. Instead of asking for him to hold out the cup, she just reached out her hand and hooked two fingers over his wrist and pulled it towards her. The move was not forceful but instead was natural, like she had no problem grabbing strange people's wrists, like she was supposed to. With a pull of the squeaky nozzle, she filled the cup again. Ridahne returned to her sitting place. "Drink."
If she had to make a guess, the man seemed a bit nervous. Or maybe jumpy, like he was waiting for something to happen. She didn't fully know and wasn't about to care until he asked about his things, guessing rather correctly that she had a hand in relieving him of them. He hadn't been aware of himself for very long and already he was concerned with his things. Beyond where he was, who she was, or what had happened to him. Ridahne knew that she only thought like that about things if they were very important to her, and though she could understand why someone might miss a weapon, she wondered about the little case she found. What was in it that was so important? And just how far would he go to get it back?
Ridahne seemed unmoved, simply tilting her head softly. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean." Her tone was innocent, but her eyes, those amber eyes, were very knowing. They were testing him, watching him, studying him. This, she made no effort to hide. Though she'd stashed her sword away safely, she always had her knife on hand, hidden underneath her loose tank top. Though she didn't know his fighting ability, she knew she'd lifted most, if not all, of his weapons from him and that he was not in prime condition. That alone was enough to give her confidence that if things got ugly, she had a strong chance of coming out the victor. Still, she liked feeling the weight of the metal weapon pressed against the small of her back, the wear-polished holster that had now conformed perfectly to her body. It was security, a backup.
"Whatever you were on, I suggest you kick the habit. I'll bet you have er..." She flung her hands, searching for the right word. At a loss at first, she tried her native tongue, hoping that might jog her memory a bit. "Tespah'jhi," she said. "Stomach blood." When she learned English, she never really was taught medical terms like 'ulcer'. Ridahne rose, taking the sun-bleached hose with her, and moved to stand over him; she really was quite tall. Instead of asking for him to hold out the cup, she just reached out her hand and hooked two fingers over his wrist and pulled it towards her. The move was not forceful but instead was natural, like she had no problem grabbing strange people's wrists, like she was supposed to. With a pull of the squeaky nozzle, she filled the cup again. Ridahne returned to her sitting place. "Drink."
If she had to make a guess, the man seemed a bit nervous. Or maybe jumpy, like he was waiting for something to happen. She didn't fully know and wasn't about to care until he asked about his things, guessing rather correctly that she had a hand in relieving him of them. He hadn't been aware of himself for very long and already he was concerned with his things. Beyond where he was, who she was, or what had happened to him. Ridahne knew that she only thought like that about things if they were very important to her, and though she could understand why someone might miss a weapon, she wondered about the little case she found. What was in it that was so important? And just how far would he go to get it back?
Ridahne seemed unmoved, simply tilting her head softly. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean." Her tone was innocent, but her eyes, those amber eyes, were very knowing. They were testing him, watching him, studying him. This, she made no effort to hide. Though she'd stashed her sword away safely, she always had her knife on hand, hidden underneath her loose tank top. Though she didn't know his fighting ability, she knew she'd lifted most, if not all, of his weapons from him and that he was not in prime condition. That alone was enough to give her confidence that if things got ugly, she had a strong chance of coming out the victor. Still, she liked feeling the weight of the metal weapon pressed against the small of her back, the wear-polished holster that had now conformed perfectly to her body. It was security, a backup.
I can throw an edit in there when I get home from work about her taking things, but it shouldn't affect your next post as it will just be her own thoughts, so feel free to post!
Ah sorry I never saw any of these OC posts!! Sure, we'll say she picked his pockets! Sorry for any confusion!
Ridahne didn't want to, but while she waited and watched her new charge lie there and breathe, she slipped into a very light doze. Light enough that anything but the rustle of the wind would have made her stir, but just into sleep enough that her mind wandered through gardens of sound and color that could not exist in real life. But then she dreamed of home. Of Azurei. Of the red sands that turned deep purple under the bluish light of the planet's two moons, of the cool, clear seas and the bright creatures within. She dreamed of family--first her brother and father, and then her mother. Her mother. She was the reason she was in all this mess, in some way. Ridahne knew it was all her own fault, but some part of her thought that if her mother hadn't been white, if she'd been Azurian like her father, there would have been nothing to drive her off her home planet when she left Azurei. If she never left, she never would have been here. Never would have been dirty, hungry, and broke in a beyond-dilapidated wasteland of a planet.
The wind gave life to her dark wavy hair, one near-sentient strand sweeping up to tickle her nose. Ridahne blinked, stirring fully awake. The man was still out cold. Drunken idiot. At least when Ridahne got that drunk, she had the good sense to do it in her own home. Or...waste hole, as was the case now. That's what she liked to call it--a waste hole. She didn't go stumbling around town spitting blood into people's faces. Ridahne wiped her face clean again even though she'd managed to wipe all the blood off earlier. It wasn't that she was averse to blood--she was hardly any stranger to that--but her ojih, the intricate tattoos on her face, needed to be clean and unobstructed. Always.
Ridahne's thoughts turned back to the man and what might be ailing him. Drunkards didn't spit blood. Hm. Curious, Ridahne squatted beside him and leaned in close, hovering her ear just above his chest to hear him breathe. A little on the shallow side maybe, but no wheezing or gurgling. Ridahne rocked back onto her heels, watching him loosely. He was dressed for work. What kind of work exactly, she couldn't be sure, but she knew the look of hard-worn clothing with an emphasis on practicality; this man was often outside.
The woman rose, kicking her shoes off to one corner of the little concrete slab floor. She hated shoes. About thirty feet from her excuse for an encampment was a rusty water spout, the kind that might have existed outside a building once, that still pumped water as well as the day it was made, much to Ridahne's surprise. But it was one of the reasons she chose her current living place; with a hose, she could have running water directly at her campsite. And that was nothing to balk at. The beauty of it all was that she did not exactly have prime real-estate--she was living in a sea of rubble that once was probably a road and a building of some sort and it was terribly dirty and got cold at night, so nobody wanted to steal or fight her for it. The water spout, she kept a hidden secret. It was to her hose that she strode to, squeezing the little nozzle a little until a small, lazy stream shot into her mouth. She thought about washing the dust from her hair when she heard movement behind her.
Ridahne sat back down to her place opposite the man. Slowly, he began to regain consciousness and she imagined he took a moment to evaluate his surroundings. And then he sat up and acknowledged her rather casually right away. Staring back at him were a set of honey eyes bearing the intensity of a hunting wolf, set into a russet face marked with ornate tattoos of black, white, and blue. She had piercings--a hoop in one nostril, two hoops near the middle of each ear, bone gauges in her lobes, and a curved plate of silver that followed the shape of each inner helix perfectly. Beyond her facial tattoos, she had a few others on her arms and body, most visibly a pair of black bands around her right bicep. She had the cold, hard look of a woman of experience.
Ridahne filled a plastic cup with water and handed it to him unceremoniously. "Here." Her accent was thick but her English seemed good. "Drink it all. I don't have any food for you." Her tone as all business and not at all warm, though not unkind. "I thought about leaving you in the street. But you spat blood in my face. Seemed like you needed at least some help." She didn't take her eyes off him, though she was not afraid. "You should stay down a bit, sit there 'till you sober up more. And drink water."
The wind gave life to her dark wavy hair, one near-sentient strand sweeping up to tickle her nose. Ridahne blinked, stirring fully awake. The man was still out cold. Drunken idiot. At least when Ridahne got that drunk, she had the good sense to do it in her own home. Or...waste hole, as was the case now. That's what she liked to call it--a waste hole. She didn't go stumbling around town spitting blood into people's faces. Ridahne wiped her face clean again even though she'd managed to wipe all the blood off earlier. It wasn't that she was averse to blood--she was hardly any stranger to that--but her ojih, the intricate tattoos on her face, needed to be clean and unobstructed. Always.
Ridahne's thoughts turned back to the man and what might be ailing him. Drunkards didn't spit blood. Hm. Curious, Ridahne squatted beside him and leaned in close, hovering her ear just above his chest to hear him breathe. A little on the shallow side maybe, but no wheezing or gurgling. Ridahne rocked back onto her heels, watching him loosely. He was dressed for work. What kind of work exactly, she couldn't be sure, but she knew the look of hard-worn clothing with an emphasis on practicality; this man was often outside.
The woman rose, kicking her shoes off to one corner of the little concrete slab floor. She hated shoes. About thirty feet from her excuse for an encampment was a rusty water spout, the kind that might have existed outside a building once, that still pumped water as well as the day it was made, much to Ridahne's surprise. But it was one of the reasons she chose her current living place; with a hose, she could have running water directly at her campsite. And that was nothing to balk at. The beauty of it all was that she did not exactly have prime real-estate--she was living in a sea of rubble that once was probably a road and a building of some sort and it was terribly dirty and got cold at night, so nobody wanted to steal or fight her for it. The water spout, she kept a hidden secret. It was to her hose that she strode to, squeezing the little nozzle a little until a small, lazy stream shot into her mouth. She thought about washing the dust from her hair when she heard movement behind her.
Ridahne sat back down to her place opposite the man. Slowly, he began to regain consciousness and she imagined he took a moment to evaluate his surroundings. And then he sat up and acknowledged her rather casually right away. Staring back at him were a set of honey eyes bearing the intensity of a hunting wolf, set into a russet face marked with ornate tattoos of black, white, and blue. She had piercings--a hoop in one nostril, two hoops near the middle of each ear, bone gauges in her lobes, and a curved plate of silver that followed the shape of each inner helix perfectly. Beyond her facial tattoos, she had a few others on her arms and body, most visibly a pair of black bands around her right bicep. She had the cold, hard look of a woman of experience.
Ridahne filled a plastic cup with water and handed it to him unceremoniously. "Here." Her accent was thick but her English seemed good. "Drink it all. I don't have any food for you." Her tone as all business and not at all warm, though not unkind. "I thought about leaving you in the street. But you spat blood in my face. Seemed like you needed at least some help." She didn't take her eyes off him, though she was not afraid. "You should stay down a bit, sit there 'till you sober up more. And drink water."
"Hey now, don't be bringin' any trouble in here with that thing." A one-eyed man, thin and knobby with a bit of a wheeze in his breath, leaned across the shoddy counter to peer warningly at the tall, wisp of a woman that now entered his little establishment. By day it was a place to get some food (restaurant was a strong word...) , by night, a bar. He motioned to the sword strapped to her back, upside down and at an angle like a quiver of arrows, held there by a handmade leather harness of sorts that looked to be as much a part of the woman as her own skin. He couldn't see the knife she kept underneath her shirt, nestled away in a similar fashion as her sword, though much less obvious under her loose tank top. He'd never seen anyone come in with a sword before. A machete, once, and the poor sap was desperate and scraggly. She looked somewhat dusty, but no more than anyone else here. And she was not scraggly. No, he thought she moved like the forward roll of an incoming storm; confident, indifferent. He wondered why she'd have such an archaic thing, but then again, he'd seen lots of other strange things. "I got enough trouble without you puttin' holes in people's lungs er takin' heads off."
"I don't want any. But I'll end it if it comes to me." There was a coldness in her tone that made him absolutely certain that she meant it. Something about her was off-putting. Was it her eyes, too light a honey color for her dark russet skin? Was it the chilly seriousness in her manner of speaking, the jaded attitude? Or just the tattoos? The many, many tattoos. Something. But he just hoped she'd stay to herself; she didn't seem to be the sort that would play nice with others. "I need something to eat."
"Yeah?" He said dispassionately. "I need money."
Ridahne splayed the five dull tabs of metal, stamped with an odd symbol, out on the splintering counter. "Here," she huffed with a sigh.
"Credits!? That's all you have? Credits! Worthless pieces of scrap...ohh, alright. Fine. For that...er...I can give you a slice of bread or two--" Ridahne scooped up the credits and turned to leave without ceremony. "Wait, wait, alright. I think I've got some ship rations in the back." Ridahne did not answer, but instead just dropped the metal tokens back onto the counter and waited for the man to retrieve her prize.
The meal was bland at best, chalky at worst. Ridahne thought it might be something like hot oats, though it'd been too long since she had real proper Azurian hot oats for her to make a good comparison. Except the one difference was that the rations were packed with all kinds of nutrients and carbs and proteins, and the rations also tasted like sawdust. Wet. Gooey. Sawdust. Still, it was food and that was something right now. In fact, that was all she had, now that she spent her last five credits on it. She'd have to scrape up some change somehow if she wanted to eat tomorrow. That would be fun. Really, really fun.
"Did those tattoos hurt?" Some overweight man in a sweat-stained shirt asked as he leaned in closer to where she sat at a slender bar.
"Sure." It was a noncommittal noise, simply spoken to appease his curiosity and end the conversation, not to actually answer him.
"Do they ever seem a bit...much to you?" Ridahne bristled, but said nothing. "I mean, you seem real pretty, but it's hard to tell under all that jumbled ink--"
He'd only just finished the 'k' sound when she drew her hidden bowie knife, pressing its warm face flat on his forearm so he could feel the smooth metal. No one else seemed to notice the quick movement. The sharp end of her blade found its way to the base of his pinky finger and she pressed hard, though not hard enough to break the skin just yet. "Don't. Or you'll lose it." The man, now a few shades paler and far quieter, took the hint and left her alone after that.
So went most of her encounters with others in public places, particularly anywhere men were a little drunk and a little bold. She didn't take kindly to idiots, fools, or overly forward men (or women, for that matter) and had little patience for...well, anyone. This was not to say she was a cold person; once upon a time she'd been very warm and jovial, albeit a bit fiery. But the destruction and bleeding-dry of her current planet of residence soured her mood just a bit. It wasn't even so much that this world had become a giant sand dune--Ridahne grew up in the desert. It was just...desolate. Azurei was arid but there was beauty and life in those red sands, there was culture. Here, there was...nothing worth noting.
It was while she was dwelling on this particular thought that some drunk loser stumbled into her like a ship adrift in a current without a compass. He steadied himself on her, which of course meant grabbing her and that was never generally a wise thing to do to Ridahne. She was inches away from the handle of her knife when the man sputtered up blood all over her. "Ai!" She growled, equal parts stunned and enraged. But then he fell, crumpling to the dusty ground like a broken mech. Ridahne made no move to catch him. At first she just stood there with her arms akimbo, puzzled and offended all at once. And then she realized she had blood on her face, on her tattoos, and she cleaned it up with the backs of her wrists as quickly as if it were an acid that would burn her. It was only after this was finished that she paid much heed to the guy at her feet. She would have written him off as just a drunk who passed out and would regret his choices tomorrow if it were not for the blood. That was unusual. And while Ridahne had become hardened and abrasive as of late, she was not altogether cruel or heartless.
"Fine..." she sighed to the universe, crouching down to sling him over her shoulder like a dead animal. For her slender frame, she was surprisingly strong, though brute strength could never be considered one of her best assets. And slowly she hauled the stranger back to the little encampment amidst some rubble that she now called home. She'd dealt with sick people before--unwise fools who ventured into the desert seas without knowledge or equipment enough to keep themselves alive. For a long time, Ridahne spent her days cleaning up these poor saps and bringing them back up to strength, though not with out berating their stupidity first.
Ridahne put him down on the pile of blankets she called a bed, then stretched a dirty white sheet over the two opposing slabs of broken concrete that formed the walls of her sad fort; shade would do him some good. She took a spray bottle and spritzed him with it head to toe to keep him cool, checked his vitals, and sat back on the opposite side of the slab floor. There she waited, wondering why she bothered to drag the man all the way out there and what she was going to do with him now, but she resolved to pick his pockets if he didn't wake up by morning.
"I don't want any. But I'll end it if it comes to me." There was a coldness in her tone that made him absolutely certain that she meant it. Something about her was off-putting. Was it her eyes, too light a honey color for her dark russet skin? Was it the chilly seriousness in her manner of speaking, the jaded attitude? Or just the tattoos? The many, many tattoos. Something. But he just hoped she'd stay to herself; she didn't seem to be the sort that would play nice with others. "I need something to eat."
"Yeah?" He said dispassionately. "I need money."
Ridahne splayed the five dull tabs of metal, stamped with an odd symbol, out on the splintering counter. "Here," she huffed with a sigh.
"Credits!? That's all you have? Credits! Worthless pieces of scrap...ohh, alright. Fine. For that...er...I can give you a slice of bread or two--" Ridahne scooped up the credits and turned to leave without ceremony. "Wait, wait, alright. I think I've got some ship rations in the back." Ridahne did not answer, but instead just dropped the metal tokens back onto the counter and waited for the man to retrieve her prize.
The meal was bland at best, chalky at worst. Ridahne thought it might be something like hot oats, though it'd been too long since she had real proper Azurian hot oats for her to make a good comparison. Except the one difference was that the rations were packed with all kinds of nutrients and carbs and proteins, and the rations also tasted like sawdust. Wet. Gooey. Sawdust. Still, it was food and that was something right now. In fact, that was all she had, now that she spent her last five credits on it. She'd have to scrape up some change somehow if she wanted to eat tomorrow. That would be fun. Really, really fun.
"Did those tattoos hurt?" Some overweight man in a sweat-stained shirt asked as he leaned in closer to where she sat at a slender bar.
"Sure." It was a noncommittal noise, simply spoken to appease his curiosity and end the conversation, not to actually answer him.
"Do they ever seem a bit...much to you?" Ridahne bristled, but said nothing. "I mean, you seem real pretty, but it's hard to tell under all that jumbled ink--"
He'd only just finished the 'k' sound when she drew her hidden bowie knife, pressing its warm face flat on his forearm so he could feel the smooth metal. No one else seemed to notice the quick movement. The sharp end of her blade found its way to the base of his pinky finger and she pressed hard, though not hard enough to break the skin just yet. "Don't. Or you'll lose it." The man, now a few shades paler and far quieter, took the hint and left her alone after that.
So went most of her encounters with others in public places, particularly anywhere men were a little drunk and a little bold. She didn't take kindly to idiots, fools, or overly forward men (or women, for that matter) and had little patience for...well, anyone. This was not to say she was a cold person; once upon a time she'd been very warm and jovial, albeit a bit fiery. But the destruction and bleeding-dry of her current planet of residence soured her mood just a bit. It wasn't even so much that this world had become a giant sand dune--Ridahne grew up in the desert. It was just...desolate. Azurei was arid but there was beauty and life in those red sands, there was culture. Here, there was...nothing worth noting.
It was while she was dwelling on this particular thought that some drunk loser stumbled into her like a ship adrift in a current without a compass. He steadied himself on her, which of course meant grabbing her and that was never generally a wise thing to do to Ridahne. She was inches away from the handle of her knife when the man sputtered up blood all over her. "Ai!" She growled, equal parts stunned and enraged. But then he fell, crumpling to the dusty ground like a broken mech. Ridahne made no move to catch him. At first she just stood there with her arms akimbo, puzzled and offended all at once. And then she realized she had blood on her face, on her tattoos, and she cleaned it up with the backs of her wrists as quickly as if it were an acid that would burn her. It was only after this was finished that she paid much heed to the guy at her feet. She would have written him off as just a drunk who passed out and would regret his choices tomorrow if it were not for the blood. That was unusual. And while Ridahne had become hardened and abrasive as of late, she was not altogether cruel or heartless.
"Fine..." she sighed to the universe, crouching down to sling him over her shoulder like a dead animal. For her slender frame, she was surprisingly strong, though brute strength could never be considered one of her best assets. And slowly she hauled the stranger back to the little encampment amidst some rubble that she now called home. She'd dealt with sick people before--unwise fools who ventured into the desert seas without knowledge or equipment enough to keep themselves alive. For a long time, Ridahne spent her days cleaning up these poor saps and bringing them back up to strength, though not with out berating their stupidity first.
Ridahne put him down on the pile of blankets she called a bed, then stretched a dirty white sheet over the two opposing slabs of broken concrete that formed the walls of her sad fort; shade would do him some good. She took a spray bottle and spritzed him with it head to toe to keep him cool, checked his vitals, and sat back on the opposite side of the slab floor. There she waited, wondering why she bothered to drag the man all the way out there and what she was going to do with him now, but she resolved to pick his pockets if he didn't wake up by morning.
Ridahne was no stranger to sun. She had lived under it her entire life, her skin darkened by it and the land she knew sucked dry from it. In fact, her home planet had two suns. One was thriving, the other, a hollow bluish-white mass that no longer emitted much heat. Many astronomers claimed it would explode like one final act of defiance before turning to gas, or dust, or whatever it was suns were made out of. Ridahne never thought about it much. But she did know how to deal with its effects; she knew all about hydration, about what kinds of things she could eat or drink when water was in short supply, or how to find it or filter it if she wasn't at home. She knew that animals lounged in the shade and thus, the best trap was simply a small tent. She knew how to tell time by the sun (she never was one for watches, really, never could afford one anyway) and even knew how to light a fire with it, given the right tools and resources.
It was no surprise, then, that she was not entirely phased by the warm summer wind--was it summer? It felt like summer--or the glare of the sun as it drew tiny droplets of sweat from her skin like a necromancer conjuring up the dead. But this was not home. This was not Azurei, and she did not know what kinds of plants to eat or not eat, what kinds of creatures were dangerous and which ones were decent to eat. She could find little water in the usual ways and, she noticed, it was never clean, no matter how hard she tried to filter it, boil it, or otherwise purify it. It had a very faint, sharp chemical tang that one would only notice if they hadn't been raised on it. To make matters worse, Ridahne had very little money to her name. Actually, she had only a handful of credits--a universal but altogether inferior currency, the acceptance and value of which was sometimes hit and miss, depending on the locale. But she had her knife. She had her sword. They were the only nice things she owned and she would not be pressed to sell them, not by any pains of hunger. They were all she had left of home. She used to have a gun, too, but that she sold long ago.
It was a mistake coming here. The whole planet was a waste and yet its inhabitants were staggering on with all the desperation of a virus still clinging to a dying host. Ridahne knew she could not return home, even if she did somehow find a ship to carry her there and she held no hope of that. If any ship were to bear people away from this place, they would be rich people. She was not among them. Even so, she wished that she'd gone somewhere else, landed in some other planet. Not that it was her choice but...a girl could hope.
The wind brought a sentience to her wavy ebony hair, giving it life to reach up and swirl around like kinked black tentacles. Her hair was the only thing she would ever let mask the intricate lines of tattoos on her face, mostly stemming from the base of her right ear and blossoming outward like a twisted mass of black, blue, and white foliage. Her stomach growled. Alright. She needed to eat something, even if it was scrubby brush or a half-starved bird, or the rotten remains of someone else's dinner a week earlier. Rising from her seat underneath an overhang of broken concrete slab where she made her hidden little camp, she brushed off her uri, a flowing sarong designed especially for ease of movement and hot weather, and started off towards where she knew she would find people. It wasn't much of a 'downtown', but it was as close as this place would get for now.
It was no surprise, then, that she was not entirely phased by the warm summer wind--was it summer? It felt like summer--or the glare of the sun as it drew tiny droplets of sweat from her skin like a necromancer conjuring up the dead. But this was not home. This was not Azurei, and she did not know what kinds of plants to eat or not eat, what kinds of creatures were dangerous and which ones were decent to eat. She could find little water in the usual ways and, she noticed, it was never clean, no matter how hard she tried to filter it, boil it, or otherwise purify it. It had a very faint, sharp chemical tang that one would only notice if they hadn't been raised on it. To make matters worse, Ridahne had very little money to her name. Actually, she had only a handful of credits--a universal but altogether inferior currency, the acceptance and value of which was sometimes hit and miss, depending on the locale. But she had her knife. She had her sword. They were the only nice things she owned and she would not be pressed to sell them, not by any pains of hunger. They were all she had left of home. She used to have a gun, too, but that she sold long ago.
It was a mistake coming here. The whole planet was a waste and yet its inhabitants were staggering on with all the desperation of a virus still clinging to a dying host. Ridahne knew she could not return home, even if she did somehow find a ship to carry her there and she held no hope of that. If any ship were to bear people away from this place, they would be rich people. She was not among them. Even so, she wished that she'd gone somewhere else, landed in some other planet. Not that it was her choice but...a girl could hope.
The wind brought a sentience to her wavy ebony hair, giving it life to reach up and swirl around like kinked black tentacles. Her hair was the only thing she would ever let mask the intricate lines of tattoos on her face, mostly stemming from the base of her right ear and blossoming outward like a twisted mass of black, blue, and white foliage. Her stomach growled. Alright. She needed to eat something, even if it was scrubby brush or a half-starved bird, or the rotten remains of someone else's dinner a week earlier. Rising from her seat underneath an overhang of broken concrete slab where she made her hidden little camp, she brushed off her uri, a flowing sarong designed especially for ease of movement and hot weather, and started off towards where she knew she would find people. It wasn't much of a 'downtown', but it was as close as this place would get for now.
(ignore this)
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