The style and design may have been different, but the pain was pretty identical. The Myrian breathed slowly, steadily, forcing himself to... detach, somewhat, from his own body and just let the man work. Focusing on the pain too hard would only enhance it, and he knew the process would not be quick.
“Why do you get a skull for each kill? Why mark yourself with death that is, apparently, so meaningless to you?”
Well, that should kill some time.
More than he knew, actually, because he did not respond right away. The sounds of the Flotilla crashed and chattered around them but Razkar did not speak, looking inwards and... frowning. Why did he mark himself? He'd been doing it for so long it was almost instinctive. How many skulls bedecked his back now? Forty? Eighty? More than a hundred?
Then he felt that familiar swell, undercut by something less familiar (or just less welcome), and chose his words carefully.
"So they are remembered. By me and by the Goddess-Queen. It say I am great warrior and..." a flicker of doubt crossed his eyes until he ruthlessly squashed it. This was not the place to start questioning who and what he was. "...a true child of Myri. I think you would call "ego". That is word for when do things for own mind, own feeling."
Another burning sting was added to him and he counted... yes, that was six. Razkar turned his attention back to Edreina and favored her with the ghost of a smile.
"Death does not mean no thing to me. That is why I remember them." His eyes clouded again, but they became unreadable. They were lost in times past. "All lives I take, they were in fight. In battle. Others were... not able to avoid. Were duty, ah... nec... necessity?"
The Myrian frowned again and paused as a new swirl of questions entered his head, but fell back on that Myrian mentality he had always possessed. Whatever doubt was there was replaced by some cold, hard and merciless.
"But I do not regret. Not just warrior, Edreina. Am killer. That means am good at it." His gaze fired with that battle lust she recognized well. "Gods know. Men know, when look at those skulls, that death is not meaningless. Death is my faith and my prof... profession."
The final tattoo was finished off and Razkar hauled himself upright without much difficulty. It wasn't exactly his first time.
"A man should take pride in what he is good at."
Pingere slapped a jar of that same green goo into his hand before he's even finished moving.
"You get the same, Myrian. I know I'm only adding to another's work, but I'm not going to have my art spoiled." The older man nodded judiciously at the plethora of images on Razkar's body, clearly impressed. "Some of these... wonderful. I only wish your inkers had better tools. Bone and bamboo stalks, correct?"
Razkar's expression of introspective seriousness was wiped away in a moment, replaced by surprise.
"Y-Yes!"
"Hmm. Ink was a combination of ash and dye from... looks like madder plants."
"Er... I do not know the name, but... yes. Plants and ash. How...?"
Pingere waved one hand away, frown creasing as if the question was of no consequence. Razkar supposed that to him, it was. The old inker spoke as he began packing away his tools with excessive care, washing each on of with a little bottle of rubbing alcohol first.
"There is an expression, Myrian: it takes one to know one. Show me ink on a man, and I can tell you the how and the what, probably the when, too." Sharp eyes under bushy eyebrows set into an old, wrinkled face met his and twinkled. A brief smile flashed. "But the why? Well... that's all up to the man."
Razkar couldn't argue with that, but he knew that artist as Pingere was, he still had a business to run and a belly to fill. The old man turned as he heard the chink and tinkle of metal on metal, saw the Myrian gratefully hold out a handful of gold mizas.
Grateful. He was sure to make sure that was his expression. Not merely paying for a product like one would at a market, with no passion or emotion between buyer and seller. This was almost... tribute. Respect shown to an artist for his fine work.
"Five gold mizas, sir. Forgive me, I am not sure how Svefra trade or buy, but... will you take?"
“Why do you get a skull for each kill? Why mark yourself with death that is, apparently, so meaningless to you?”
Well, that should kill some time.
More than he knew, actually, because he did not respond right away. The sounds of the Flotilla crashed and chattered around them but Razkar did not speak, looking inwards and... frowning. Why did he mark himself? He'd been doing it for so long it was almost instinctive. How many skulls bedecked his back now? Forty? Eighty? More than a hundred?
Then he felt that familiar swell, undercut by something less familiar (or just less welcome), and chose his words carefully.
"So they are remembered. By me and by the Goddess-Queen. It say I am great warrior and..." a flicker of doubt crossed his eyes until he ruthlessly squashed it. This was not the place to start questioning who and what he was. "...a true child of Myri. I think you would call "ego". That is word for when do things for own mind, own feeling."
Another burning sting was added to him and he counted... yes, that was six. Razkar turned his attention back to Edreina and favored her with the ghost of a smile.
"Death does not mean no thing to me. That is why I remember them." His eyes clouded again, but they became unreadable. They were lost in times past. "All lives I take, they were in fight. In battle. Others were... not able to avoid. Were duty, ah... nec... necessity?"
The Myrian frowned again and paused as a new swirl of questions entered his head, but fell back on that Myrian mentality he had always possessed. Whatever doubt was there was replaced by some cold, hard and merciless.
"But I do not regret. Not just warrior, Edreina. Am killer. That means am good at it." His gaze fired with that battle lust she recognized well. "Gods know. Men know, when look at those skulls, that death is not meaningless. Death is my faith and my prof... profession."
The final tattoo was finished off and Razkar hauled himself upright without much difficulty. It wasn't exactly his first time.
"A man should take pride in what he is good at."
Pingere slapped a jar of that same green goo into his hand before he's even finished moving.
"You get the same, Myrian. I know I'm only adding to another's work, but I'm not going to have my art spoiled." The older man nodded judiciously at the plethora of images on Razkar's body, clearly impressed. "Some of these... wonderful. I only wish your inkers had better tools. Bone and bamboo stalks, correct?"
Razkar's expression of introspective seriousness was wiped away in a moment, replaced by surprise.
"Y-Yes!"
"Hmm. Ink was a combination of ash and dye from... looks like madder plants."
"Er... I do not know the name, but... yes. Plants and ash. How...?"
Pingere waved one hand away, frown creasing as if the question was of no consequence. Razkar supposed that to him, it was. The old inker spoke as he began packing away his tools with excessive care, washing each on of with a little bottle of rubbing alcohol first.
"There is an expression, Myrian: it takes one to know one. Show me ink on a man, and I can tell you the how and the what, probably the when, too." Sharp eyes under bushy eyebrows set into an old, wrinkled face met his and twinkled. A brief smile flashed. "But the why? Well... that's all up to the man."
Razkar couldn't argue with that, but he knew that artist as Pingere was, he still had a business to run and a belly to fill. The old man turned as he heard the chink and tinkle of metal on metal, saw the Myrian gratefully hold out a handful of gold mizas.
Grateful. He was sure to make sure that was his expression. Not merely paying for a product like one would at a market, with no passion or emotion between buyer and seller. This was almost... tribute. Respect shown to an artist for his fine work.
"Five gold mizas, sir. Forgive me, I am not sure how Svefra trade or buy, but... will you take?"