"Are you sure you can't at least..try? Seems like you may have a bit more respect for such a procedure."
Another grunting sound that the human recognized as a low chuckle escaped the Myrian's throat, question posed as they'd already started to walk. That sharpened grin turned to her a second time but there was a thoughtful shrug following it; Razkar knew by now he didn't have to worry overmuch about watching where he was going.
People just got out of his way.
"Interesting way to say, I think. But think. Making hole in ear, just big for piercing, is not like putting hole in mans chest, or pulling throat out." She quailed at his words and again with that shrug, nonchalant and blithely honest. "Well, it is true! Better to go to a man who knows... who has training..."
"Well, okay. I think there's a man with, uh, needles near the entrance. Maybe I should get a tattoo while I'm at it."
Ever the gentleman (and you would be too, if you came from a place where the price for not being one was a sound thrashing on a daily basis), Razkar spread his arm ahead, a sign for her to lead. "You know the way, mistress..."
They wandered and meandered and Razkar pondered her last words as they did, feet assuming the patient, unhurried pace of a man who had experience in long, long leagues covered without exhaustion. Traversing the warren of the Stormhold was such a journey: that it was under stone, glass and wood instead of an endless canopy of trees made little difference.
"Ah... now... tattoo? I do know a little... but, only little." Shiress turned to see a nostalgic tinge on the savage's face, clanking of his many blades a strange counterpoint to the dreamy expression. "My aunt? She let me watch sometimes, when she would mark my sisters and uncle."
He tapped a design on his upper arm, a small but strange explosion of runes of the like unknown and unknowable to those not born of Myri's womb.
"Did good work, too..."
But she is not here, is she? You are.
That depressing but unavoidable reality weighed on the Myrian as they continued their journey. Tuxwa was skilled and patient with her ever-watching nephew, but the handful of times she'd allowed him to finish her work or try his own designs... they were but the attempts of a child, and how long had it been since? Four years? Five?
Thoughts of the past, images and memories... they blinded him, to a degree, so the question from the present floated in like the stirrings of echoes, and he blinked at the female as a man woken from sleep.
"Hey, Razkar? On a scale from 1 to 10 how bad is this gonna hurt? Actually..."
"Well, you might sc-"
"Don't answer that."
"... ah... yes... perhaps that is best..."
Supcheya had seen stranger pairs halt before his stall, but on that afternoon, he couldn't easily think of them. He blinked old eyes and assumed his sight was failing... but, no, a few hard blinks and they were still there, young and vital and not going anywhere.
A Myrian, clad in leather and metal and restrained violence... and a lovely young lady who drew a smile from wrinkled lips just by standing there. Until it faded, of course, and her... "companion" received a frown instead.
"You, er... here together?"
"Yes." Razkar said, already looking slowly around the old Chaktawe's simple but ample little business. A worn but sturdy chair, fitted with hand grips and foot plates, was next to it, and a plethora of needles and odd-looking devices was arrayed neatly next to it, by size order. "You make piercings?"
"Yes. Tattoos, as well."
Razkar cocked his head... and noticed the apparently-simple chair was in fact hinged, able to go back far enough for a person to go from vertical to horizontal... and vials of ink were packed into a little shelf below the table. A slow smile spread over his face and he unconsciously scratched his shoulder, the closest he could get to feeling the ever-growing swirl of skulls at his back.
Each one a life taken. A victory earned. And he needed more added...
"Need both today, Honored Elder," Razkar said slowly, using the proper term for a... well, elder, among his kind. "First for female... then for me."
Another grunting sound that the human recognized as a low chuckle escaped the Myrian's throat, question posed as they'd already started to walk. That sharpened grin turned to her a second time but there was a thoughtful shrug following it; Razkar knew by now he didn't have to worry overmuch about watching where he was going.
People just got out of his way.
"Interesting way to say, I think. But think. Making hole in ear, just big for piercing, is not like putting hole in mans chest, or pulling throat out." She quailed at his words and again with that shrug, nonchalant and blithely honest. "Well, it is true! Better to go to a man who knows... who has training..."
"Well, okay. I think there's a man with, uh, needles near the entrance. Maybe I should get a tattoo while I'm at it."
Ever the gentleman (and you would be too, if you came from a place where the price for not being one was a sound thrashing on a daily basis), Razkar spread his arm ahead, a sign for her to lead. "You know the way, mistress..."
They wandered and meandered and Razkar pondered her last words as they did, feet assuming the patient, unhurried pace of a man who had experience in long, long leagues covered without exhaustion. Traversing the warren of the Stormhold was such a journey: that it was under stone, glass and wood instead of an endless canopy of trees made little difference.
"Ah... now... tattoo? I do know a little... but, only little." Shiress turned to see a nostalgic tinge on the savage's face, clanking of his many blades a strange counterpoint to the dreamy expression. "My aunt? She let me watch sometimes, when she would mark my sisters and uncle."
He tapped a design on his upper arm, a small but strange explosion of runes of the like unknown and unknowable to those not born of Myri's womb.
"Did good work, too..."
But she is not here, is she? You are.
That depressing but unavoidable reality weighed on the Myrian as they continued their journey. Tuxwa was skilled and patient with her ever-watching nephew, but the handful of times she'd allowed him to finish her work or try his own designs... they were but the attempts of a child, and how long had it been since? Four years? Five?
Thoughts of the past, images and memories... they blinded him, to a degree, so the question from the present floated in like the stirrings of echoes, and he blinked at the female as a man woken from sleep.
"Hey, Razkar? On a scale from 1 to 10 how bad is this gonna hurt? Actually..."
"Well, you might sc-"
"Don't answer that."
"... ah... yes... perhaps that is best..."
Supcheya had seen stranger pairs halt before his stall, but on that afternoon, he couldn't easily think of them. He blinked old eyes and assumed his sight was failing... but, no, a few hard blinks and they were still there, young and vital and not going anywhere.
A Myrian, clad in leather and metal and restrained violence... and a lovely young lady who drew a smile from wrinkled lips just by standing there. Until it faded, of course, and her... "companion" received a frown instead.
"You, er... here together?"
"Yes." Razkar said, already looking slowly around the old Chaktawe's simple but ample little business. A worn but sturdy chair, fitted with hand grips and foot plates, was next to it, and a plethora of needles and odd-looking devices was arrayed neatly next to it, by size order. "You make piercings?"
"Yes. Tattoos, as well."
Razkar cocked his head... and noticed the apparently-simple chair was in fact hinged, able to go back far enough for a person to go from vertical to horizontal... and vials of ink were packed into a little shelf below the table. A slow smile spread over his face and he unconsciously scratched his shoulder, the closest he could get to feeling the ever-growing swirl of skulls at his back.
Each one a life taken. A victory earned. And he needed more added...
"Need both today, Honored Elder," Razkar said slowly, using the proper term for a... well, elder, among his kind. "First for female... then for me."
