Nemaisare

blackbird claw, raven wing [ closed for El Taco Taco && Nemaisare ]

Her smile was almost reassuring. Her tone… rather less so. Asuras was reminded then that he might know she wasn’t responsible for their problems, but that didn’t mean he should trust her with his family, or his problems. Though he dearly wanted to. He wanted to ask if she thought he didn’t already know that. That their trouble was only starting, and that he didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know how to stop it. He was tempted to ask if she did. Just in case… She’d probably think he was trying to bait her though, instead of genuinely hoping, like a fool, that she just might have an answer when no one else did. Now was not the time to let her know he was feeling the weight of his life ahead of him, instead of the lightness of what he’d already managed. In fact, there was no time when that would be appropriate. He was also, however, tempted to ask what she wanted with their strange prisoner. That was a question he could ask. But he held back, turning to look at the fellow who might well have been older than him, it was hard to tell, and puffing a raindrop off his nose while he did. “You really want him? Saw what he did to Jules’ arm, man won’t be holding a sword well anymore.” Just when he might be needing it most, too. “Well, I was going to let him go tomorrow, no use keeping him. Here.” He fished in a pocket for the keys that would undo gate and shackles, handing them over. “Leave tonight or wait for dawn, it’s all the same to me. Just make sure ain’t anyone else near for him to bite when you go.” Asuras turned to go then, having accomplished what he’d set out to. Two birds, one stone, if she wanted the man-thing, she could have him, though he wasn’t sure how she planned on keeping him with her. Spirit hunger wasn’t known for leaving folks with enough wits to feed themselves, let alone escape, and that’s what he knew folks were saying about their prisoner. But he didn’t think that’s what they were dealing with. Still, he was her problem now. But… What she’d said about the stags curled in his gut like sour milk. It echoed too closely with his own worries to be left hanging there. He didn’t know what he could say to wipe the air of it. Bravado wasn’t worth the effort. His hand fisted against his sword hilt and he turned back. “Samaire, go gently, eh. And remember us to the spirits if you hear ill.” Nagging doubts were hard to face, but he gave her a crooked grin alongside his worst fears and didn’t wait to hear her answer, moving quickly to rejoin his brother by the fire, away from the weather, where he could almost, but only almost, pretend that he wasn’t afraid of what was coming. ---------- “Wull, that settles that, don’t it fine. Not just me having nightmares, eh?” With his head and shoulders liberally draped with a double layer of heavy wool, Jules looked more like a walking potato sack than anything. A wet, walking potato sack. He’d heard most of the conversation, and couldn’t say he’d liked what he’d heard. He hadn’t meant to either, he’d just known who she was supposed to be spending guard duty with and had seen the blighter sitting pretty nursing a warm drink without any notion of heading out to join the cursed lady luck in the mud. Well, he hadn’t anything much to do with his time while he waited for his arm to heal. And damn if he’d have preferred not to hear the reminder that it wasn’t likely to. Not completely, anyway. “Wasn’t thinking on’t, but guess as I’ll be your farewell party if you’re heading on out. Though don’t see what y’want that beast for.” He couldn’t help scowling at the creature that had paused its pacing and was glaring back, a sorry sight in the downpour, but it still made him shiver. He was angry for it ruining his arm, but it was hard to stay mad at something chained up and sodden. He’d start again tomorrow. “Don’t think as Asuras were meaning for you t’keep the chain. Be a sight though, you wandering about with that’un dragging behind.” Jules snorted, then laughed roughly. Ten years younger and he might have gone with her if she wanted. Or even offered on his own. But this was his home, he’d never been anywhere else. Too old and lame now. Even the chance to leave whatever was happening behind couldn’t move him enough to do more than idly consider it. “Ahh, would’ve been nice having you stick around. Could use the new blood.” He thought she might have benefited from it too, but held his tongue on that opinion. No use bringing up what wasn’t going to happen. No use at all.

blackbird claw, raven wing [ closed for El Taco Taco && Nemaisare ]

Haha, well, considering I don't even have a picture of Matiir... >.> I'm really going to have to get back into the whole drawing schtick at some point. Not that I was ever really in it.... Doodles ftw!

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

Homework, defeated! For the moment... >.> I made stuff up. Wheeeee! Also, messi is supposed to be the equivalent of miss or ma'am, but slightly more respectful, only used on strangers, and those above your station. Messer (yes, I know it's a weapon and germanic, shhhh I like the sound) would be the masculine form. So, jinn could really use it on anyone who is not jinn(excepting slaves) and for whom they don't have a more specific honorific. Extenuating circumstances aside, anyway. :P

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

She hadn’t been leaving. And he’d been caught flatfooted when the trader stormed away from the haggling guards in a huff. He didn’t have a plan for how to leave the city. He either would or he wouldn’t. With only two options, it had seemed like too much effort to believe he’d be successful, so when the woman and the guards left, he stood for a time, mulling over what to do next. He might buy some provisions, he supposed. Or the usual sweet dates Lady Gerun often wanted. An alibi no one would ask for. He didn’t really know what he was doing, yet he continued regardless. What else was he to do? One last desire to fulfill for his lady and then he would be free to go back to his home, as she hadn’t been. His home, maybe his family, and another contract, he supposed. He was too old for another life service, probably too old to be a guard again, too. Useless either way, but a moot point if he couldn’t even make it through Renna’s gates. It was as he turned away that a different stall caught his attention and dragged him back to a standstill. So far, he had followed tradition with a half-hearted care, favouring secrecy over exact rites. Preferring some chance at success over making everything just right. The dead would understand, and Fiira had never been witness to jinn death rituals before she died, even should she be watching now she wouldn’t know he did differently. And if she ever found out, he believed she might forgive him. But those woven cloths stood out as a point of reproach against his justifications. So bold as to make him wince. Very well, if fate set tradition in his path, he would not argue. He could, however, hesitate awhile. Unlike most jinn, he likely had money enough to pay for what he wanted without needing donations or loans. Fiira had always given him a little extra when she sent him to the market, with the expressed wish that he treat himself if he found something. Sometimes, he had returned the extra, other times, he had kept a little of it set aside. Enough that she would not think her generosity wasted, but not so much that the rest of her staff would be upset that she gave money to a Jinni already fed, clothed and housed at her expense. It was, however, his money, even if she had given it to him, and even from a distance he could see that the weavings were not incompetent, and the woman struck a hard bargain. He didn’t see what he wanted amongst her wares, but there was variety enough within the designs and styles that he thought she might carry something similar to what he wanted… Still, it pained him that he might have to part with his saved coin for an item no one would care about. Curdle was still struggling over this internal debate when he realised she’d noticed him, conspicuous as he’d become in the thinning crowd it would have been remiss of her not to, and he started when he brought his gaze up to see her dark eyes directed right at him. Quickly, he inclined his body in the beginnings of a bow, his stiff spine obvious, though his bones were thankful the old requirement of true bowing had been abolished when he was still young enough to think it meant something. “It is all lovely, messi.” He averted his gaze again, given the excuse of looking where her hands drew it, and decided that it would be her wares that finished the issue. If she had what he needed, he might buy it if he could. If she didn’t, he would not go looking. And he would stop standing about like a statue. “But I am looking only for mourning cloth.” His voice was lighter than might be expected of a man with his shoulder width, hesitant, though there was a faint promise of strength in the harder accent he gave to the words she needed to notice. It also, though he would hope no one realised, did not give away the danger of what he was admitting. He had no one else to mourn but the Lady Gerun, and any guards would know that, along with not a few stall owners. If they overheard the conversation, or noticed what he was trying to buy… Perhaps he could get away with saying it was for a friend, but he knew of no other jinni who’d lost someone recently. Maybe she would forgive his loitering with that answer, or she would send him quickly on his way. Mostly, what jinn needed, jinn made, particularly if it was not a shared commodity. He risked not only eavesdroppers, but insulting her if she took his answer to mean he thought she was likely to have any. Unless she did not mind, and that chance was almost half and half, these days, though he still did not think it likely she would have any. Similar, yes, made for the purpose, unlikely. What he was looking for was a piece of cloth at least large enough to hold the ashes he would pour onto it, but not too large to be carried easily. The design, however, was the challenge, requiring equal amounts of red and blue. Lazy weavers could make it easy on themselves by making two fat stripes. Trusted, and skilled, weavers could do almost anything they liked, including making scenery and adding other colours. Most remained contentedly somewhere in between and general consensus, as far as he had seen, kept to simple representations of wind and sand by curving the stripes in some manner or another. Variety was always acceptable, provided the cloth fell within those limits. He’d seen nothing on display that fit both. “I am sorry to have taken your time, messi.” He gave his partial bow again, meeting her gaze this time on purpose, muddy grey eyes barely focused as he prepared to look somewhere else for a departing merchant. He should have paid more attention to the caravan schedules…

blackbird claw, raven wing [ closed for El Taco Taco && Nemaisare ]

Lol. SAMAIRE JUDGES YOU ALLLLLLLLL! :P Balancing is hard, man. It is, it is. (please read that with a surfer dude voice that turns into Ducky)

blackbird claw, raven wing [ closed for El Taco Taco && Nemaisare ]

For the record, Asuras is impressed with her. But would appreciate less of the childing. :P Rofl If Matiir knew what they were calling him, he'd be fussy too. Pfft, comparing him to a man. Thing's allright though. I's just sitting here amused. Amused, I tell you. :) And I liked them walls o'text, though I do like me some frequent replies, too. Ah well, one or the other, eh? Still, I'mma just sit here grinning at Asuras' thought process right now. Yissyissyiss

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

Well, I think you hit the nail on the head with this one. I may or may not have half a reply already in the works. >.> But now I have to do homework... I keep telling myself, just notes, Nem, that's all you're typing here, and then notes turn into rawrg look! a post! How'd that happen? I blame you lot.

Rising Winds and Shifting Sands

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I love her! She's wonderful! And now I want a tapestry.... >.> lol