Closed To Play The Part (Isalie, Khida)

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

There is was, the Common tongue again, and a harsh quality to the woman's voice which was the first thing to snap her out of her trance-like daze. To say there was a switch in Isalie's mind, or anyone's mind, for that matter, which could be flipped, would be naïve to say the least. But the harsh command was just that: a command, and it was enough to have the subservient creature do as bid. As her eyes meet with the other woman's, something flashes across her eyes, something akin to the defiance she had so often displayed growing up; she didn't want to. But she does so anyway, the will to be argumentative just for the sake of it had disappeared with her freedom.

Pale blue eyes drift away, back to the path of tents which lie in front of her. Though she shows outward signs of following the woman's instructions, there were no internal workings, no will to focus on what her eyes were seeing, other than to avoid walking into them. Thinking over the woman's words, the only thing that she can ask herself is, how?

The man ducks inside a tent, and Isalie, after a moment's hesitation, follows suit. Another silent conversation takes place before the newcomer to the group addresses Isalie, which makes her jump ever so slightly. He speaks Pavi, to which Isalie responds by staring at him blankly, and then he changes tact, switching to Common. This time, following her understanding, her gaze flickers over to the pair who lead her here; clearly they wanted her to go with the fourth. Her continual blank stare is joined by her slow shuffle forward, and she trails after him.

In her right mind, the young woman might have wondered why she was here. Or she wouldn't, having had enough brain power to see the garments and materials for sale and work it out for herself. But she doesn't look around, nor does she care. She knows she was here because her supposed guardian wanted her to be here, and that was all she needed to know.

The new man turns and regards her in silence, though from his expression anyone - except Isalie - could tell that he was far from impressed by her malnourished state. He mutters to himself as he circles her, taking mental notes about her size, and potential size, for new, sturdy clothing.

OOCI am honestly terrible at writing shopping scenes, particularly when someone else has to pay... Feel free to take over!

[Khida]

He said not now, but the girl straightened regardless, and Khida thought she might have seen a hint of flicker in the eyes. Maybe not. But she stood, and looked, even if the turn of her head seemed utterly aimless. It was a start, and the falcon Kelvic felt a sharp, bright satisfaction which no doubt echoed to her bondmate. She had wanted nothing more than the adjustment of posture, for now, and was content with that outcome. The Threaded Hide and its keeper, on the other hand, held no interest for Khida, a fact plainly and immediately telegraphed in the idle glance she gave the interior. There were tables, and cloth, and clothes of all manner and size and color, which... really weren't anything the Kelvic cared about. Though her salvaged robe wasn't by any measure tailored to her frame, it did all she needed, which was all that mattered. As the shop's staff -- proprietor or attendant, whatever -- walked the girl back for new clothing, Khida faded back out the tent's entrance to the outside. She really didn't feel like standing around in there for however long it took... Walking out the door soon turned into walking down the avenue, which remained quiet and largely empty as far as she could see; such was the draw of the auction. Khida detoured down a cross-path, with no agenda for where she was going but also no concern about getting lost -- she could always find her bondmate, and if all else failed, she'd resort to flying. But for now, she walked... for there was nothing around the cloth-seller that the Kelvic found worth standing and watching, either. Some of the tents marked with red flags and designs seemed closed down, if they even sold wares at all; others had goods on display, just a few, hinting at the products available inside. There was one which caught her eye for having two entire walls raised, allowing a clear view of the barrels and bins and stacks which... all seemed rather haphazardly strewn about, to Khida's undiscerning eye. In all that, she might find something of actual interest... oocDon't feel in any rush to catch up! Oh, and shop in question is 'Garthos Supply'.

[Colt]

He thought he saw a flicker in Isalie’s eyes, but it was gone before hope could spring into existence, hidden beneath the apathy once more if it have indeed been there at all.

The man sized the woman up, noting the lightness of her frame with a frown. It was rare to see one so thin here; on the grasslands, the weak fell quickly. Still, she was a customer—or at least her companion was. With a sigh and something muttered in Pavi, the man trotted around the tent, picking out appropriate clothing, and within a few more moments was ushering Isalie into a back room. He handed her a neat stack of the articles he had selected: a sleeved tunic and light breeches, both small enough to fit her, a set of silken underclothing and a pair of sturdy sandals. They were unadorned, but well-made and quite able to withstand the rigors of the Sea of Grass. To Isalie, some of the workmanship may have seemed unusual; backstitching a small strip of leather into every seam was a trademark of the Threaded Hide, and one that strengthened their wares, but it was a method unique to the horseclans.

Khida departed for reasons unknown to Shahar, and as Isalie was given clothing to try on he fell deep into his own thoughts. Where to start with the new addition to his hearth? How was he supposed to teach her to be a Drykas? What was it that made the Drykas what they were? Was it the land? The wind? The grass around them? The Striders? How had he become Drykas?

That wasn’t really a fair question. Shahar had learned the ways of the plains before the idea of humanity had been a glimmer in his consciousness. His journey had been a unique one, based in instinct rather than culture.

But is that really so poor of a place to start?

The man left Isalie to it and returned to tend to Shahar. “Do you see anything you like?” he asked.

No, the hunter replied bluntly, offering nothing else in explanation.

oocI’m not really the best as modding environments, so if you think I’m being too controlling please tell me so I can change it!

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

It was a look that Isalie had seen many times before in her short life. Every time the man looked over her, or their eyes met, as he passed her item upon item of clothing, she saw it again. Normally it would have inspired irritation within her, but now it did nothing. The only reason she even knew the emotion was because she had witnessed it so many other times on other people's faces.

Eventually the man is done with piling clothes upon her, and she is ushered away, there the man speaks in common and asks her to change. She nods in understanding and turns away, placing the clothes down carefully in a neat pile. Kicking off her boots, they land haphazardly apart from the other. As always, she is careful not to look down at her own body as she removes the rag that passed as clothing for her. That, however, she drops to the ground; she would be glad if she never had to wear it again. Making no effort to move at speed, Isalie examines each article of clothing with mild curiosity before pulling it on. The items were like nothing she had ever seen before; though she remembers back to when she thought the clothing of Syliras was bizarre.

The young woman felt foolish in putting on the clothes of the Drykas; she was not one of them, and therefore didn't understand why she was being dressed as such. Still confused at the peoples' strange concept of slavery, she wasn't quite grasping what she was, and where she fit into everything. Was her new owner someone important, so she had to reflect that? Or was this more of the Drykas peoples' odd approach to captivity?

Once fully clothed in what she had been given, Isalie picks up her old dress and oversized boots and heads back out to find the man milling about his shop and her guardian staring at nothing in particular. She waits a fraction of a chime before clearing her throat in truer to garner attention from the two men. When she does, she holds up her old clothing, a silent, noncommittal gesture that she didn't want them any longer, but didn't know what to do with them.

[Khida]

Finding anything in this shop, Khida soon leaned, was rather like searching through the grasses for prey... at their level. She looked around at everything, and at first it didn't seem like much -- barrels, sacks, satchels. A great sameness of colors -- browns mostly, with some grays and pale golds -- blended together, but then there were occasional vivid greens and reds and ambers that all stuck out like prairie flowers. Her first circuit through the space snagged on nothing, no wares that caught the falcon Kelvic's interest, never mind held it for any notable length of time. Then she realized her gaze was bouncing off the sameness of wood and leather and cloth, the way she would sometimes tune out the monotony of rolling plains and only really notice that which moved. The difference being, none of the shop's things moved. So she took a second pass through the shop, slower, more deliberately keeping herself on task. Not that Khida really wanted or needed to buy things... though... Her eye caught on a shape, round bone and flat leather, and she paused to work it out of the not-quite-orderly jumble of things on the table. In her hands, a bone-handled knife slid out from its hide sheath, one side of the glinting blade straight and sturdy, the opposite edge ultimately curving back in a smooth sweep to meet it in a sharp point. She was supposed to bring kills back now, more than just hunting for herself and her bondmate. To hunt as he sometimes did -- which meant she would need the same kinds of tools. Like a knife. Replacing the sheath, Khida regarded the table more intently. The shapes of other knives revealed themselves, now that she was looking. She didn't know what the vials towards the back were, or the pile of folded oilcloth mottled in green and brown -- or brown and gold -- but the thin, tightly-braided rope looked like things she had seen the hunter use. As she pored over these things, picking them up to examine in turn, a woman came confidently up beside her. "You are a hunter?" she asked, in the most fluent Common the Kelvic had yet heard from a Drykas. Khida blinked at her in surprise; having secured the potential customer's attention, the woman continued. "We have bundles of hunting supplies all ready to go -- one of those might do you better than buying everything separate. Just over here," she added, indicating the contents of a bin just past the end of the table. Khida watched her walk over, watched her hover expectantly beyond the bin, then tossed a slight shrug and went to look. Maybe the whatever would prove useful...

[Colt]

Semele’s skin. Zulrav’s breath. The grass that connected them in a neverending dance. The Striders, sung from the earth by the earth and sky. Weren’t those what the poets and tale-tellers would claim as what made the Drykas, at their core? That that was why they were charged with surviving and protecting the Sea of Grass?

Land.

Strider.

Drykas.

In that order. It wasn’t much, but it at least gave Shahar some idea of where to start. She needed to learn the ways of the grasslands first, and she needed to learn to handle horses. Every proper Drykas needed to be at complete ease with those two things before all else.

Isalie returned to the front room, breaking his hundred-yard stare. The hunter shifted, then turned to look at her. The clothes were a bit loose, though her sheer gauntness was not nearly as striking as it had been in her ragged coverings. Still, she looked to be in dire need of food, then rest. After that, they needed to leave Endrykas, just for a while, and that meant that she would need a horse, and didn’t he still need to get her a tent? And then a bedroll, and things to go in the tent, and then…

The convoluted tangle of thoughts was brought to a halt when she held up her previous clothing, now useless. Shahar frowned at it, then looked at the shopkeeper with a hesitant would you--

He responded with a definitive do not want. Hm. What to do with them?

Shahar shrugged. They would leave them in the grasses then, for the creatures within to use as they saw fit. He turned to the shopkeeper, I wish to say in his posture alongside frustration. The keeper nodded in understanding, gesturing continue.

Dispose of them, later.

The keeper turned to Isalie. “You can get rid of them later.”

At home.

“At home. Not here.”

Shahar gave the mizas to the shopkeeper and then turned to Isalie, gesturing for her to come. She had clothes, but she needed a place to sleep with a tent and bed to call her own, and then they needed food. He knew that Garthos Supply was a small walk away, and if they lengthened their walk home then they would be able to pass by the Pride for an evening meal. Perhaps that would also be a good opportunity to purchase some more milk and blood; the three surviving kittens had begun to strengthen considerably since he had begun giving them the mixture, and every day they demanded more of it than he thought possible.

This way, he said, leading her out of the Threaded Hide.

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

The interaction between the two men was something very similar to how she had seen many other people communicate in Endrykas. Half of the conversation was silent and, because she understood little of what was being said, she wonders why. Clearly the men were hunters, and she could understand the value of silent communication in such a situation, but they weren't hunting now. It lost its potency when one had to be aware of ones surroundings at all times, of who was trying to talk to you, so you could watch and not miss half of the conversation. Clearly the Drykas were not a race of day dreamers.

When she receives an answer from the owner of the shop, she nods once again in understanding and drops her hands to her side, one holding the ragged dress and the other holding the pair of oversized boots. The latter item, she glances down at; they were not too worn, if slightly large. When her new owner takes her back to her new home, she decides that she might try to convince him to let her keep them. She had, after all, lost everything else in becoming a captive to the Drykas peoples. Her horse, her home, even the small blade she had stolen when she last escaped captivity. Sentiment drove her to wanting something to remember her appalling past by.

Next, the man who bought her gestures for her to follow, an easy sign to decipher, but she wonders whether it was a form of sing language as well as an iconic gesture. Was most of the language iconic like Myrian? Or more arbitrary like Common? She supposes that she was soon to learn.

The pair move in silence; Isalie had already realised the language barrier between the pair, but the silence seemed more pregnant than for it just to be that. The young woman drops this thought, however, her mind soon drifting back to comfortable nothingness, where she felt most calm. She ignores the occasional person who wonders past, though it was more of a passive action; she simply wasn't paying attention, only focusing enough to mirror her direction of travel with the man's.

[Khida]

The woman brought out a satchel from the bin, which proved to be not quite a satchel at all, but something that untied and rolled out to reveal a number of pockets and bands. One side was all a single tightly-folded oilcloth, mottled in green and brown; the other held against its inner surface a coil of rope, a knife, a dozen mysterious little glass vials, and equally obscure but larger ceramic jars. She brought the containers out one by one for Khida's closer examination -- salt, vinegar, scents which reminded her vaguely of beasts, like in kind to but manifestly not the same as the smell of wet jackal in a small room. The Kelvic wrinkled her nose at these things and shook her head; the smells, the salt, the large cloth had no place in hunting as she understood it. Neither did rope or knives, in the strictest sense -- but they at least had roles in his methods, the ways she would be borrowing. "I do not hunt with these things," she insisted. The woman seemed taken aback by Khida's response, not having expected such complete refusal of the kit by a supposed hunter, the very clientele the kits were designed for. But she didn't remain so for very long. "No? You won't try any of it? The scents, at least -- they are good for luring prey to you, or masking your own smell..." She pulled a vial out again, held it suggestively up towards her customer. Khida stepped back, shaking her head again. The knife, she still held; she picked up a coil of rope from the table, as something she knew him to sometimes use. The rest -- the rest, she had not seen him use, and she could not imagine using, so she would not buy it. The woman recognized a lost cause when her customer presented it, and conceded to selling just the hunting knife and thin rope. Khida paid from coins tucked into her sash, the knife taking their place, the rope coil sliding easily over her opposite shoulder. She had nothing else to do here, and stepped away from the woman, though did not quite turn her back on the stranger. At the edge of the shop tent, she found herself without a next direction -- she didn't, after all, have any true errands to run herself. Just time to kill while the hunter and his foundling did their business. But as her thoughts drifted to them, the Kelvic realized he was intent in that way she wasn't, a manner which spoke of directed intent. Perhaps they were moving on to something else... no, moving on to here, coming around a corner into her view at the stray girl's slow, slow pace. Khida blinked at the sight, then converged on them to take up a place beside and two steps behind the hunter, even as they proceeded -- -- right back to the shop she'd just left. npcThe shop NPC I used was Neelren Treeshadow. ledgerhunting knife w/sheath -- 1 gm * doubled cost to include sheath rope, hemp, 25 ft, thin -- 1 gm * doubled cost for fineness total: -2 gm

[Colt]

Isalie’s movements remained lethargic and uncaring, though Shahar had little idea how to deal with it. Khida had tried, though more bluntly than most might have, and that had done little. A flicker had been there, yes, a flicker of emotion, but it had been gone like a single flame in the wind. But it had been there, and that gave Shahar hope that it could be summoned again.

But he would have to go slowly, he knew. He didn’t dare push her, lest he lose it forever; he would have to tiptoe, as he did with Slither, and pray for the best. She at least seemed aware of what was going on around her, though she seemed to have little interest in her own wellbeing. A puzzle to be figured out, and a daunting one at that.

He felt her before he rounded the corner, and greeting found its way onto his hands. Behind her lay Garthos Supply, and her posture suggested that she had just come from there. Indeed, she had in her hands what looked to be a new knife and a coil of thin rope, and his greeting changed into mild curiosity. It passed, however, when Isalie came nearer. The sign quickly changed to one of need, there, with a gesture to Garthos Supply. Quick, not long.

He gave pause and a nod before continuing to the shop in question. Khida might come if she wished, though she had apparently just emerged from the place and perhaps had other business she wanted to attend to just now. Either way, Shahar entered the tent just as the keeper had settled from her last customer. She glanced up, then stood and was making her way over. “Hello there. Can I help you?”

Not yet, he said, turning to examine the wares that were on display. He made his way through them, picking out a bedroll over here, a backpack over there, glancing back at Isalie before choosing a tent. Bowl, spoon, waterskin, a comb and some soap, since she looked like they would do her good. He picked things from the shelves sporadically, repeatedly looking at Isalie to confirm that the specific object was suited for her.

He stopped by the blankets, gesturing for her to come. There were three blankets on display, and he gestured between them.

“Which?”

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

It took a while for Isalie to work out that the shopping trip was not over, that and the favct that the shopping trip was mostly for her. It probably took too long, longer than normal, for her to get her head around the situation. Never before had she had someone shop for her; in the past, when she was a slave before, she had been given the necessities as her body grew into a woman's... but the clothes had mostly been things passed down to her, that were ruined, soiled, things no one else wanted. Anything else she was given, any implements with which to do her work, they weren't hers. That had always been made clear to her, that she was being given these things on loan, and she was to look after them or face punishment.

This Drykas, however, was apparently just buying her these things. The girl frowns as she continues to follow on after her new owner, never faltering in her lethargic pace. They pass a number of other tents, and countless new faces, but Isalie makes no effort to remember her path, or any of the people. She had already resigned herself to the knowledge that this was her new home, and probably should make an effort in memorising places and people. But that could come later. For now, all she wanted to do was sleep.

Biting her lower lip, she watches the man she was following. It does not pass her attention that he was quite obviously slowing his pace to allow for hers. She also takes in the look of concern on his his face, a look that was too close to pity for her liking. She looks away, staring resolutely at the ground, and his moving feet, instead.

The pair enter another tent, and now Isalie had all but forgotten about the other woman who had joined them when she left the auction block. She continues to stare at the ground, ignoring the man who greets them; she would not understand what was being said anyway. The Drykas who bought her, however, draws her attention with seemingly meaningful hand gestures, and she looks up briefly to what he was motioning towards. The Common word he uses implies what he wants of Isalie and she looks between the towels.

Why? She questions internally, What does he want my opinion for? Why does what I think matter to him? And, most importantly, Why should I even care? Her pale blue eyes slowly rise, with her head, so that she meets his gaze. With no thought or effort on her behalf, her gaze remains impassive, just as she had stared at the towels: looking, but not really seeing. Her opinion didn't matter here.