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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 2, 2017 19:26:27 GMT
(A remake of “Sekhmet’s Rule” - trying to follow some history to make this, haha. Going to set up a framework of what happened so there’s a reference moving forward ^_^)
Ephesus was in uproar.
It had been forty years since there had been cause to attack the Romans who ruled the city, when Archelaus, one of Mithridates the Great’s generals, had stirred the city to killing all Roman citizens. Not even their monuments had been safe in the carnage. The massacre was known as the Asiatic Vespers, a cleansing of the city from Roman influence and blood. Ephesus’s support of Archelaus eventually fled at seeing one of his fellow generals mistreat the people of Chios, and turned on him, on Mithridates. Their overseer Philopoemen, a relative of Mithridates, was executed. Roman control was restored. The city was again peaceful, prosperous under the Republic.
The same could not be said of other provinces of Rome. Egypt was the prime example, a civil war between siblings - the intelligent and ambitious Cleopatra, against the male right of Ptolemy. Arsinoe had chosen her brother in the fight, having to flee with her tutor Ganymedes from the joint power of Cleopatra and Julius Caesar, into the arms of Achillas.
Achillas, the guardian of Ptolemy and leader of the army, soon proved to be a threat as well. Arsinoe had him put to death, installing Ganymedes as leader of the Egyptian armies. But Achillas may have been more of a problem after his death, for the army had no taste for the princess or her tutor, trading her for their King. Surely Ptolemy would lead them to victory.
It wasn’t long after Arsinoe was paraded through Rome as a prisoner, in Caesar’s triumph against the Egyptian uprising. Cleopatra had won. To avoid further scandal, however, Arsinoe was spared, instead placed into the safe keeping of the temple of Artemis in Ephesus, the loyal Roman city. The same temple that her own father, Ptolemy XII, had retired to a decade and a half ago after having lost his crown in an uprising against Rome. But that retirement had been by his choice; Arsinoe had no choice in the matter.
Perhaps it was foolhardy at the time, but she had been welcomed as queen by the eunuch priest, Megabyzos. Foolhardy, as her sister and rival Cleopatra was now ruling as queen in Egypt. Foolhardy, as her so-called benefactor only lived another two years before the fateful Ides of March.
Foolhardy, as only three years later, Cleopatra coerced Mark Antony to order Arsinoe killed on the temple steps.
Who could know that in just a few years that match of Egyptian and Roman power would almost destroy the Republic that now towered over all?
But there had been violence against a girl, a child who lived under the sanctuary of the temple of Artemis on the steps of the temple itself. This was unheard of. Sacrilege! Ephesus cried, and again discontent against the Romans rose. Fights began to break out on the streets, always with a Roman, be it citizen or guard. The unrest of the outside world was sweeping into the city after the girl’s death, along with more soldiers to maintain control and avoid another Asiatic Vespers.
It was the soldiers that had one pair uneasy, even though they were minor characters in the drama at large in the city. But this made sense; they were Persian, and had fought the Romans as part of the Parthian Empire. In only the last decade, Parthia had proven itself to be an equal power against Rome, fighting the Republic for control over lands in Western Asia. They were enemies, with only the rare, dishonest attempts of peace between them.
This was the only reason Roman lands were safer for them. Even the Romans couldn’t hold a grudge against one who had deserted his army for the quiet life of a traveler, sacrificing his Parthian life to be rid of the battlefield. He had fled to them, surrendering the blade and taking up a simple staff. Even the horse was no great war machine, a delicate looking mare who was no taller than her master. While they looked the part of mere Persian wanderers, they had been on the battlefield, had drawn Roman blood. They had also had their blood drawn by Roman blades. There was as much fear as there was hate of the soldiers.
The Roman guards clearly assumed that the two were simply intimidated by their proud Roman shields and armor, as eyes were averted and cast towards giving them a wide berth. At least the dark eyes of the man; the horse’s own pale blue were defiant, but obedient to her master… for once.
Once more away from soldiers, the mare’s stubborn side began to show, wanting to wander and explore while he tried to keep her in line. This was hard as, despite her small stature, she was a strong Palomino, while he was already hindered by a limp that showed strongly in his casual step. His dark complexion was a strong contrast to the pale if dusty robes he wore, tied in place by strips of fabric and leather. His hair was mostly invisible beneath his turban, connected to a cloth that could easily be raised to cover his face as it did his neck and shoulders. A few stray curls of ebony had escaped, however, ensuring his youthful looks were not too disguised by his uncertainty. The horse was a perfect example of a Palomino, with her pale golden coat, white socks, mane and tail, along with the white blaze that blossomed to cover her entire nose. Her gear was made of soft, light leather, embellished with rich green tassels and cloth. A simple pair, really, noteworthy only for not being dressed as the predominantly Roman culture around them.
“Baharah, come!” the man tried to coerce, his tone growing sharp as she wandered off anyway, but at least for a purpose other than trying to steal another piece of fruit from someone’s stall or hand. A trough was placed near a stable, the floating pieces of hay indicating many horses had drunk there. Sohran was patient with his horse, partly out of a deep fondness and trust in her, partly out of having no choice in the matter. She was well trained, this he knew, and she had the sense to avoid trouble when the situation called for it. At the moment, it didn’t, so again she made the decisions. Remarkable, how such a delicate, petite horse could overrule her master so easily and forcefully. But he was not a fighter by nature, only interested in the grace and dance of a swordfight.
An interest that had died once he had been in battle. He carried none now, but could easily defeat any one of the Roman soldiers who brandished spear or sword with malice and glee. Sohran could do it with either his simple but sturdy staff, or even the soldier’s own weapon. Without a reason to put himself or his stubborn mare in danger, however, he had no desire to do so, letting them retain their unearned sense of superiority. Just because they were Romans… pah! He might not want a fight, but Sohran’s annoyance at their smug looks still simmered.
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Post by Kelathi on Dec 5, 2018 1:21:28 GMT
Friends are hard to come by, especially when snakes in the grass outnumber them greatly. An ally looks friendly until they bare their teeth, and you finally see the venom that was hidden within plain sight as they sink their fangs into you. Arsinoe had had such friends, and she had also had them dispatched accordingly without a second thought. To be ruthless was in her nature, and it did not make sense to mourn the loss of a life when it meant nothing compared to her own- so she didn’t. Her attachments were made purely based on what a person could do for her, and they extended only as long as that person proved to be useful. It was how she had been raised, how she had always been, and until recent events; had always served her well.
She had commanded an army. The thought still made her chest swell with pride. She had defeated her enemies, even the great Caesar. She had pushed back his army time and time again, and even lived to see the man himself, humiliated and sopping wet, being lifted to safety from the sea onto a Roman ship. That had been all her doing, and that day, she hadn’t minded that they had not dispatched him. To see her enemy, and the husband of her beloved sister, Cleopatra, having to tear off his armour and that precious purple cloak in order to swim to safety,- was better even than having his head presented to her on a platter.
But it seemed she had trusted the wrong people, as her efforts had been sabotaged time and time again from behind the lines, so on that fateful day when they had battled again, this time with the opposing force bringing forth reinforcements, her great army had buckled and then collapsed beneath the mighty weight of Rome.
And then she had been paraded in front of thousands like… like some…
She paused in what she was doing, eyes closed, trying to quell the fury rising within her. Her hands trembled for a moment with the effort, before finally becoming still once more as she regained control. Nevertheless, she fought to keep the bile at the back of her throat from rising as the ensuing scenes flashed across her mind…
…Caesar had wanted so badly to end her in front of all of those people. To wrap his fingers around her pretty little throat, and choke the light from her defiant eyes, - as he had so eloquently put it. They were words that had had little effect on her at the time. Even as his fingers had brushed against her jawline, and then wrapped around her neck, a gentle squeeze promising a taste of what was to come she had remained austere and unmoving. Such demise was to be expected, she had enough knowledge of Roman ways to know that it was customary that after parading notable prisoners of war they were usually strangled at the finale, and so she had already accepted the notion. Looking back now, she remembered witnessing all these events as if from the outside. At an attempt of self-preservation she had withdrawn from herself the moment she had been taken prisoner, to all the world an un-moved statue, a stoic figure void of fear and in fact any emotion that might have been expected from her at the time. Any fear she might have felt was far away, tucked inside herself whilst the statue moved and acted for her in the outside world. She was determined that the Romans would see her as she was in that moment, not a scared, frightened girl, but an Egyptian warrior queen.
And it had worked. Her calm, regal demeanour, paired with her obvious youth, had done something remarkable to the crowds, caused them to do something she hadn’t thought Romans were capable of. They had shown mercy.
Calm again, she opened her eyes and looked down upon the state of the object in her hands, and continued trying to bend the reeds with imperfect and untrained hands, willing the calathus to take shape even as it defied her. When pitch-black hair fell forwards over her face, she swept it away impatiently, wishing, not for the first time, that she had some means to cut her hair. As a queen, she had worn it short, barely reaching her shoulders, resting just below her chin, and decorated with gold hair rings. As a slave it had grown unruly and long, giving her a slightly wild look, only perpetuated further by her fiery gaze. A gaze that was currently smouldering as she glared down at the disaster that was meant to be her basket. Why was it so easy for the other women? Of course, she knew the answer. Because she was not a Roman woman. Even with her best will, her body rebelled against any such work associated with them. Despite her plain garb and unfortunate situation… it was evident that she did not see herself as a slave. Years of royalty and positions of power wrought a self-assurance and sense of regality ever-present in her manner- something that did not serve her well when faced with figures of authority, such as guards, whom were likely to find her evident pride as a sign of insubordination that needed to be stamped out.
She did not submit to the role of a slave. She merely waited.
And the day for her to throw off her shackles and deny that role for good was heading ever nearer; she had been counting them down, marking each passing day in her mind, watching every setting sun with a sense of purpose and fortitude.
When the time had come for her to leave the temple, herself and her guardian, Plinius, had sought out a witch. Not a phoney with a knack for herbalism, but a real one, and she had made disappear the recognisable proof that Arsinoe was who she was- the winged sun disk tattoo on her back, the sun sitting in the centre of her back, it’s wings stretching out and crossing over her shoulder blades. With that gone, Arsinoe herself was able to disappear. Until, of course, she had discovered her guardian’s planned betrayal, and fleeing… had ended up within the clutches of slave traders. Caught, and displayed naked for prospective buyers- the tattoo would have damned her. Although raising a pretty hefty price due to her olive skin and young body, her buyer thankfully was more interested in her skills at running a household than anything sordid. Only two days into her slavery, she had sought out the mirror in her master’s bedroom, and stood naked before it, only to discover to her dismay that her tattoo had begun to re-appear. If she ran, and was caught, she would be whipped, the removal of her clothing to do so would seal her fate. Equally, if she was spared a whipping but returned to the slavers, she would only be stripped and damned to a crowd. Her only option was to lay low and wait, to play the dutiful slave and avoid a whipping until she had a plan, one in which she could ensure that she would not be caught.
But she had no allies here, and no money to buy them either. And yet today, by sundown, was the last day of the guarantee. After today, if she caused any trouble, her ‘master’ could not send her back to the slavers for a return of his money. That meant that if her plan to escape did fail, she need only deal with him, which improved her odds substantially. And it happened to be on this day that he decided to send her on an errand.
So that was why she happened to step out into the crowds that day, hand in her pocket, clutching the coins firmly and vowing to break the fingers of any pick-pocketer that dared try their luck with her. She just had to prove that she could be trusted, to return to the house in prompt time with the goods her master had asked for, and wait it out till tomorrow. Just this one more day of good behaviour and then she was one step closer to freedom.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Dec 6, 2018 3:26:48 GMT
“Baharah!”
The whispered call was ignored, of course, as the horse pushed her way through, smelling fruits from home being sold at a nearby stall. She had a true sweet tooth, preferring fruits and expensive sugar cubes to the oats and grasses she was supposed to eat, and that her master could more easily afford. But she was also strong, far more than she looked, and Sohran was helpless as she went off, only hoping that she’d decide to listen to him and stop before she spent both their lunches on one imported fruit.
Something did seem to distract the Palomino as she wandered through the crowds, ears flicking forward as she changed directions, still dragging Sohran along as he pulled on her reins. Rather than a pickpocket’s nimble fingers investigating the slave’s pocket, it was the soft lips of a horse, seeming to pick up traces of something sweet and worth pursuing. Or perhaps it was something else, but her curiosity was of the gentle sort, if perhaps out of the blue and from behind, but any startled response was met with kind blue eyes that immediately refocused on the pocket.
Sohran came up too late, of course, having to actually dodge people rather than push his way through as Baharah had, immediately flustered at the horse’s behavior. “Ah, forgive her!” he said quickly, finally grabbing the horse’s nose to force her back. “She is gentle, just force,” he went on, his speech heavily accented and at the moment, exceptionally embarrassed.
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Post by Kelathi on Dec 6, 2018 3:57:40 GMT
She had paused to read a sign, to try and decipher which way she was supposed to be walking, when she had felt the hot breath on her hand. The shock of the unexpected contact had caused her to jump, pulling away and turning to see what it had been. She immediately relaxed upon seeing the perpetrator, and a smile crossed her lips briefly, feeling foolish for her reaction. But as she withdrew her empty hand to show the horse that she held nothing of interest, the creature seemed far more interested in nuzzling her pocket, unconvinced by her response. Movement from behind the horse caught her eye, and upon seeing the man for the first time, she quickly pulled her hand away, suddenly aware that she could be punished for touching the horse when it was not hers. But it was clear he was not angry… in fact he seemed to be apologising to her, which she found incredulous. What kind of a man apologises to a slave? It must be obvious that that was what she was supposed to be, with her drab appearance and lack of finesse… yet he apologised to her as if she were an equal.
Very strange. And intriguing.
She fixed her honey-hue eyes on him, hand returning to her pocket to close around the precious coins protectively. “It’s no problem. They are just curious.” Unlike him, and despite her obvious Egyptian heritage, her Greek was fluent, her voice level. His obviously flustered state gave her remit to believe he did not intend to punish her, so she continued, seeing no harm in pausing to extend pleasantries. “It’s a beautiful creature. Do they have a name?”
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Dec 6, 2018 4:07:42 GMT
Baharah pushed around Sohran to sniff at the withdrawn hand, convinced the woman was hiding something, and completely ignoring the embarrassment of her owner. Sohran, meanwhile, had no true idea of the woman’s identity as a slave, but wouldn’t have seen it as a reason not to be polite.
“Uh, Baharah,” he replied to the question, sounding grateful that the mare’s assertive nature was being taken kindly. “Beautiful but, how you say… stubborn,” he added, the word seeming to catch the horse’s attention as she sniffed at his face at the insinuation.
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Post by Kelathi on Dec 6, 2018 4:16:43 GMT
The horse's persistence made Arsinoe hesitant as to whether she had got something in her pockets after all, that she had maybe forgotten. Experimentally, she placed her other hand into her pocket... only to find it close around an apple. Surprised at herself for finding some of her rations that had been meant for her dinner the day before, she pulled it out, much to the interest of the horse. Normally, she would have given it without hesitation, but she remembered her supposed role just in time. "Baharah." She repeated, sounding the name out, and finding it pleased her. "It seems you were right, you just had the wrong pocket." She smiled again, suddenly aware that this was only the second time she had smiled since the whole ordeal, the thought sobering. She looked towards the man again, offering the apple to him. "She can have it, if you wish."
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Dec 6, 2018 4:28:54 GMT
Baharah almost made the decision for Sohran, as upon sighting the apple she nearly got it. Sohran managed to grab her head in time, pushing his way between the mare and the woman. Her push back meant he ended up standing closer than intended, but it was difficult not to be on such a busy day.
“Ah, no… no thank you. Generous of you to share, but she is spoilt enough,” he replied with a sheepish smile, fully aware of how much such an apple would cost… and fully aware of how poor the woman looked. To share something so valuable… he was genuinely touched, but couldn’t bear the thought.
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Post by Kelathi on Dec 6, 2018 5:17:19 GMT
His refusal to take the apple when so freely offered, even if not for the horse, only further confused her. Her head tipped to the side slightly, considering him for a moment, before returning the apple to her pocket- much to the horse's dismay. After a moment's pause she seemed to be considering her words, but then, she decided she would go ahead and say them anyway. "You are kind." It was a flat statement, not a fluffy one meant to appeal to the stranger's ego, but more of an out-loud observation. What was strange about what she said was the tone in which she had said it- it was not immediately clear if she was suggesting it was a good thing or a criticism. Either way, she seemed to remember herself, breaking her intense gaze to bow her head. "I must go... enjoy your day." She didn't know his name, but she cast a fond look towards his horse before she left, and offered a quiet, "Baharah." as a way of saying farewell to the mare. Then she turned on her heel and swiftly left.
***
She went about her business quickly without further distraction, sure now of the direction she needed to head to get to the shop she sought. Upon finding it, she had emerged happily with a wrapped parcel of meat. It smelt so good it was almost sickening, and she carried it close to her chest like a prize. One more day. One more day and she would try her escape. She had had plenty of time to formulate a plan, but it had become very quickly clear that there was no way to guarantee anything. With no-one waiting for her, she had nowhere to run but away. She would grab as many coins as she could carry, and leave on that day to work in the field like it was any other, then she would…
A hand grabbing her arm suddenly jolted her from her planning, spinning her round and letting go, and the meat, despite having been clutched tightly, was torn from her grip. Panic set in immediately, and she automatically reached for it, the word leaving her mouth before she registered who had snatched it from her… “Wait…”
The side of her face exploded in pain, and she found herself stumbling back from the force of the blow, the strike literally knocking her from her feet and onto her backside. Laughter ensued, and as she caught her breath, the surprise in her eyes very quickly turned to anger rather than fear. Anger at the guard, who was standing over her with a grin splitting his stupid face, one hand curled into a fist and the other clutching the wrapped ham, and anger at herself for not noticing his approach. She picked herself up slowly as the brute began to speak. “What’s this, slave? Have I caught a thief?” He had evidently followed her from the square, choosing to make his move when they were in a narrower, quieter part of the street. Not that anyone would stop his treatment of her; people were free to treat slaves as they wished, but it was generally frowned upon to beat someone else’s, which was probably why he had chosen this setting.
“Sir.” She began, unable to keep the terseness from her tone as she muttered it through gritted teeth. “Please, I am no thief. I paid for that package with money from my master.” His grin seemed to widen, and she was ready for the next blow this time, standing firm. It was just as hard, and the force made her take a step back despite herself, her head whipping to the side… but she merely took it, standing her ground. This time she tasted metal in her mouth, her lip splitting with the impact. The guard looked amused as he next spoke. “You dare to call me a liar, thief?” he challenged, clearly pleased with how the interaction was going, as he took another step forwards. Still, she did not move. Not even when he towered over her, and grabbed a fistful of her hair, forcing her to look at him. “I asked you a question!”
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Dec 7, 2018 0:44:43 GMT
As if punishing him for not taking the apple, Baharah had tried to remain in the middle of the road as long as possible, only shifting when a group of Roman guards pushed their way through the crowds. It was their armor and weapons that kept the locals at bay, including the two Persians.
This was why they were navigating the quieter back streets, avoiding the crowds, the Romans, and most importantly, the fruit stalls. Baharah’s saddle bags already carried a meager lunch for the two, one they finished all too easily. Even as the mare investigated Sohran’s hands to see if he was holding back on her, he mused over their next step, never able to plan more than one at a time since their escape. On to one town, then another, and another… always outside the Ottoman’s reach.
The sound of a struggle caught Sohran’s attention, leaving the mare behind as he checked around a corner. No, that wasn’t where it came from… he heard the telltale sound of flesh against flesh again, and followed it, and was shocked at what he saw.
Not so shocked, however, to remain an outsider to the altercation between the hated Roman and… wasn’t that the girl from before?
“Leave her be!”
The guard paused, turning in surprise to find anyone challenging what he was doing. The owner of the slave, perhaps? It made no sense to risk a fight with a Roman otherwise. “Stay out of this,” he barked back, still holding the slave by the hair, “This isn’t any of yer concern!”
To his surprise, the Persian strode forward rather than away, expression dark. “Leave her be,” he repeated, glancing down at her for a moment. “Or are you so threatened by young woman?” The trick, of course, worked, as the Roman guard glanced back at his captive, prepared to scoff and drag her about a bit more. Instead, the walking stick the Persian carried was suddenly and rather deftly swung into his face as he turned to face him, cracking his nose and sending him flying into the wall. In shock, he let go of the slave, but before he could draw sword he was getting belted in the stomach, just under the breastplate, and again cracked behind the head, narrowly missing both armor and helmet as he was dropped.
Sohran’s breathing was ragged, less from the encounter and more from the memories it had brought up. The Roman wasn’t dead, but with blood streaming from his nose any other guards nearby would surely attack. But the Persian’s eyes were focused on the red spreading across the ground, his gaze haunted and no longer in an alleyway…
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Post by Kelathi on Dec 7, 2018 15:01:11 GMT
Her glare had remained steady even as he had grabbed her hair- she had endured much worse than being beaten by a lowly guard. This time she didn’t speak, knowing that whatever she said, he was just going to do what he wantd to do anyway. She was willing to face whatever his intentions were, so long as she could leave here with the parcel. But then in a sudden turn of events it had become clear that she might not have to. She heard the voice of her rescuer before she saw him, and at first she had thought she had misheard his words. - For who on Earth would speak against a Roman guard, for something like this? As the man turned, effectively dragging her with him, his hand twisted in her hair painfully, she was able to see the stranger properly, and realise that it was the man she had spoken to that same day. She had said he was kind, but it was clear now that that kindness also led him to act stupidly…
As might have been assumed, the Roman guard was not going to back down from mere words. But then, it had become clear that the stranger did have something to back up what she had initially thought of as his foolish actions- as he brought his staff up swiftly and mercilessly to shatter the guard’s nose. As shocked as the guard from this turn in events, it took her a moment to process that she was free. But she didn’t run, in fact she merely watched without so much as a flinch as the stranger beat the Roman beyond the ability to retaliate. It was over rather quickly, and still, she didn’t run. The reason for this, however, soon became clear as she moved forwards, stepping over the guard’s still body, to retrieve her parcel that he still retained in his grip. Clutching this, she went to make her move, to simply leave, clearly unfazed by the event. But a glance at the stranger caused her to uncharacteristically pause. He made no move to run, or to conceal what he had done, in fact, he appeared to be mesmerized by the sight of the slow spread of crimson on the dusty floor, his eyes haunted.
She didn’t know why she decided to help him. It was unlikely to be out of goodwill due to the fact that he had helped her, - in his position she would not have done the same for a slave, and as stated before, he had merely served a purpose for her, and now that purpose was over she would normally be happy to move on. But whatever the reason, she found herself grabbing his wrist, and leading him quickly away. “You need to get out of here.” Her tone was calm and level, but firm, as she forced him to break into a run. He yielded to her easily, with no attempt to pull away, as if the sudden show of violence had shocked him, despite it being perpetrated by his own hand.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Dec 8, 2018 2:59:51 GMT
Like distant ghosts he could hear the sound of steel clashing against steel, the shriek of blades as they flashed in the light, drawing the blood that soaked the air itself. Screams, cries and roars all intermixed on the battlefield, a mingled mass of death and destruction…
It was the young woman’s hand that brought him back to the alleyway, eyes wide with surprise as if waking from a dream. “Ah?” was all he managed as she pulled on his arm, stumbling a little for a pace before catching his balance and following. His only hesitation was to glance back over his shoulder, gratified to see that Baharah was following, ears flicked forward in an expression of concern. No doubt she had heard the sound of Sohran’s challenge and recognized the smell that now seemed to permeate the air far more than it should. “Where we go?” he questioned, still breathless but at least recovering.
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Post by Kelathi on Dec 16, 2018 0:26:22 GMT
In truth, she hadn’t thought that far ahead. She wasn’t even sure why she was helping him, when she could have easily left him behind. Her answer was sharp, hinted with an edge of annoyance. “Away.” She stated, as if it was obvious. After a while, when she was sure no angry guard was chasing after them, she had slowed them to a brisk walk. She loosed his wrist now he no longer needed the encouragement to move, clearly out of whatever emotional stupor he had been in, if a little bewildered. She looked over her shoulder, the first time since they had started to flee, but there was no chasing guard as far as she could see. They were deep in the winding streets now, but she could hear the distant murmuration of many voices, which told her they were not far from the main street. They should be able to find their way back easily enough.
She paused, looking again behind them, before tucking the parcel under her arm, and holding her hand open towards the stranger. “Your staff.” After a short pause, he had handed it to her, seemingly a little baffled but with no clear reason to refuse. She held it in one hand and reached down with the other, lifting her skirt a little and cleaning it off on the inside of her slip without another thought. The motion was systematic and matter of fact, concealing the evidence of violence with ease and without distress at the sight of the blood. As she did this, she spoke to him without looking up. “Thank you for helping me.”
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Dec 16, 2018 5:52:58 GMT
Unlike the woman, he had glanced back over his shoulder several times, occasionally losing sight of the mare but she would invariably show up behind them again. As they finally slowed she was able to come alongside, and no longer seemed to follow but rather be led, and thus be far less conspicuous.
She finally stopped, Sohran now feeling thoroughly lost in the winding streets and grateful to not have to track Baharah down. But she hadn’t stopped leading the pair, as she insisted on taking his staff, of all things. Hesitating from confusion only, he finally passed it over, eyes widening as she began to clean it. He hadn’t even realized there was any blood on it.
Her thanks earned a look of surprise, Sohran not entirely sure who was doing more of the helping at the moment. To cover up his beating a Roman senseless… “Thank you,” he replied back, still clearly dumbfounded by the bizarre change of events. “What… now?”
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Post by Kelathi on Dec 20, 2018 2:02:16 GMT
She didn't acknowledge his thanks, handing the staff over without a word. His next comment, however, did get a response. "Do you know your way back from here?" Something about him seemed to drive her to do the complete opposite of what she would normally do in this situation. He looked so lost, and despite him being a stranger to her, she felt the urge to make sure he was alright before they parted ways. She decided not to think too much on it, stocking it down to the fact that this was a perfectly plausible reaction to being helped as she had been.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Dec 20, 2018 2:36:52 GMT
“Ah… I can find,” Sohran replied with an attempt at confidence, not really wanting to admit that it was more likely Baharah’s nose would lead them back to the fruit stalls than any sense of direction he would have after recovering. Then, continuing to show concern for her in turn, asked, “What will you do?”
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