Closed The Welcome Party (Various)

[Colt]

41st of winter, 514 a.v.
almost evening

It had been an eventful day for Shahar.

After leaving the strange Chaktawe at the River Flower the day before, Shahar had spent most of the morning in the Ruby district, purchasing supplies and clothes and all sorts of things that a denizen of the Tent City would need, and the entire ordeal had frayed his nerves until the city had dissolved into meaningless white noise, at which point he had returned to the camp and left the rest of the purchases for later.

He had come away with basic necessities––tent, bedroll, blanket, tunic, trousers––but there still remained things to be bought. Shoes, for instance, Shahar had had no idea how to handle; linen clothes could afford to be a little big or a little small, and Shahar had added a belt for that purpose, but shoes were meant to be much more precise in their fit. That would be something for another time, and who knew? Perhaps the Chaktawe’s shoes didn’t need replacing.

He had been halfway through setting up the new tent when the messenger arrived, informing him that the fever had broken and that the Chaktawe’s space was needed for more patients. Hitching up Drelah to the travois, Shahar had returned to the Opal district and retrieved the still-unconscious man, departing with reassurances that the worst was over, the wound was treated and that as long as the man didn’t exert himself he would heal smoothly. Apparently the stranger had a very hardy constitution.

Under instructions to get the man into shelter, Shahar had completed the tent raising, set out the bedroll and laid the fully-clothed Chaktawe upon it. He didn’t know how much longer the unconsciousness would last, and so he set the clothes and belt just inside the threshold and let the stranger sleep.

Once that was done, having done all he could think of to do, Shahar made his way to the firepit and sat down. The entire day had stretched him thin, and aside from the morning circuit of traps he hadn’t been able to hunt; the sun was descending, and they’d have to dip into their stocked rations to eat tonight, and that always made him nervous––

––no. Stop. He had to stop. Inhaling shakily, Shahar closed his eyes and tried to center himself. He didn’t like how much the Chaktawe’s presence was unnerving him. The camp was still there, the fire still needed rebuilding so there was fuel to be gathered, there was water that needed fetching––

Stop.

Don’t.

No thinking.

Just breathe.

[Khida]

The news that he had brought another stray home was... not precisely a surprise. It was never an expected thing, but it was also a characteristic of her bondmate, one the Kelvic accepted with equanimity. Just as she had accepted the news that another would be joining them, when the healers released him. And in short order, the healers did just that; the hunter went to fetch the newcomer, and Khida remained at the camp, knowing her bondmate had that part well in hand.

For her part, she settled in at the back of the camp, where no tents -- or horses -- obscured the wan winter sunlight. Khida took with her that brown robe that had seen better days, one she rarely wore anymore. But it was still a useful garment, or would be, once she had addressed the sad state of its hem. The robe was simply too long for her, having been sized to a different frame altogether, and she had trod upon its hem several times too many. Folding up the edge and sewing a new hem seemed straightforward enough... and, armed with a sewing kit recently purchased from the city, the Kelvic thought herself prepared to do it.

Thus, while the hunter raised yet another tent, Khida attempted to thread a needle. The brown thread was at least easy to see against the bronze tool; it was much, much harder to get the tip through that little hole. And very frustrating. She tried until the tip began to fray; twisted the strands tightly back together; wetted and pressed them between her lips until they made a point; and finally got the delicate little string through the eye of the needle. Success!

...a success her bondmate did not echo in the slightest. As her immediate preoccupation resolved, his growing tension nattered into the void it left behind, like a handful of flies careening around the interior of a tent. A very distracting handful of flies. Khida looked across the camp to find him slumped down beside the firepit, his manner on edge and perhaps even anxious.

She whistled at him, short and sharp. It wasn't a real whistle, the piercing sound the falcon might voice, but the closest she could get in human skin; and it cut across the camp well enough to carry a simple message. One that, coincidentally, echoed his own resolve at that moment: Stop.

All well, Khida signed across the space between them, setting her task aside in order to do so. All well.

ledgerSewing kit: -18 gm

Common | Pavi | someone else

[Jalen]

It felt like he was floating over the plain, body parallel to the ground. The tips of the grass reached up to tickle his back. The wind curved over him, wrapping him in a cool blanket of air. His eyes roamed across the sky above him, but try as hard as he could the rest of his body would not move. Caught between earth and sky, he was the horizon between them; his limbs felt stretched along the length of Cyphrus. A flutter of wings caught his eyes. A crow circled the cold sun above him before alighting on his chest. It hopped around a bit before locking one pure black eye on his. He could have sworn the beak twisted in a smile as its claw traced a fresh scar on his abdomen. It cawed once. And it lunged for his eyes.

Sleep fell away from him like a curtain, and with a gasp his eyes rolled open. Pale light filtered through the canvas above him. He raised a hand to his face, still enthralled by the nightmare. Both eyes, whole and well. Blinking thankfully he propped himself up on his right arm. Wincing, he shifted the weight to his left side instead. After pulling up the unfamiliar shirt, he probed the pristine bandage on his side gingerly. It was no scar, not yet. It ached dully, but the improvement over the previous day was heavenly.

Relaxing, he lay back onto the bedroll for a bell. Where was he? He remembered, entering Endrykas, but after that the fever had swiftly taken over. Everything was dark and shapeless. He vaguely remembered... an executioner? Men and women in white clothes. No, not executioners. Healers? The poultice over his wound was promising. Why mend someone you planned on killing? But if they didn't want to kill him, what did they want? There was no way to tell from within this tent.

He was clothed, though they were a little large for him. The shirt would be fine, but the pants might not stay up without--his eyes latched on the belt by the entrance. Whoever had clothed him had thought ahead. Fastening the belt about his waist he stood slowly, testing how quickly he could move without pain. It seemed the wound wouldn't bother him terribly as long as he didn't stress his right side. Gathering himself he pulled back the tent flap and emerged into the winter air.

His tent had been raised as part of a small cluster of similar shelters facing a central firepit. Endrykas bustled in the near-distance, but the Chaktawe's attention was centered on the man who slouched by the pit. The same rider from the day before. Quickly, Jalen shifted his gaze to take in his surroundings. There was another human, a woman near the back of the camp. Besides Endrykas there was nothing but grass as far as the eye could see. He returned his focus to the man. The last time they'd spoken, he hadn't seemed to know common very well. But unless he somehow knew Tawna, common would have to do. "You... captured me? Who are you?" More importantly... "Why have you brought me here?"

[Colt]

His nervousness wasn’t limited to himself––it shuddered across the bond, to where Khida sat, playing with her own awareness until she sent him a short, sharp whistle, clear even in wordlessness: stop.

Stop.

Her signs were meant to reassure, and he found himself echoing them––more for himself than anything, hoping idly that repeating them might help.

All well.

All well.

Be calm.

Breathe.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, repeating the motion to himself. All well. All well. He drew himself away from the could bes and what ifs, pouring all of his effort into the here and now and what that might bring him: the wind through the grass, the insects rousing them for another night of song, birds chirping territorially at each other, the dull half-heat of the embers before him as they waited for stirring, Khida’s own focus on her task. These things wove together around him, coalescing in the world of almost-evening that opened itself to his ears now that he had the mind to listen. It was vast and unchanging, and in that solidity he found security––he was alright. The world still turned. All well.

It was in this clarity that he heard the rustle of a tent from behind him as the Chaktawe woke and moved about, presumably becoming acquainted with his new situation––a situation Shahar himself wasn’t quite sure of. Was the Chaktawe his captive? Perhaps, in that the man was far too adept at surviving for Shahar to be comfortable releasing him; he was not Drykas, and therefore did not belong on the Sea of Grass. But what more than that?

The black-eyed stranger made his way out of the tent and into the rapidly cooling air. The distraction caused Shahar to notice just how deep the temperature had dropped; the sooner he rekindled the fire, the better.

“You…” the Chaktawe’s voice caused Shahar to turn. “... captured me? Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”

The words weren’t particularly fast, but neither were they slow. Shahar took a moment to unravel their meaning, and had enough of a Common vocabulary to grasp at the general questions.

Who.

Why.

One was simple to answer. The other was not. Even the concept of captivity had to be bent to accommodate what Shahar now associated with the Chaktawe, and there was more to it that Shahar hadn’t had the time or presence of mind to define––the Chaktawe was not his enemy, but neither was he his friend, which was what made his close proximity so uncomfortable. Shahar had no word for what role the stranger now held, and “captive”––his closest equivalent––seemed inadequate.

He needed time to find a proper answer for the question, without losing the focus he was struggling so hard to keep

Come here, Shahar said, a gesture that would be obvious even if one did not speak Pavi. He shifted to his knees and pointed to the fire; time was what he needed, and he could use that time for something productive. Motion always helped him think. If he could communicate to the Chaktawe that the embers needed protecting, he could retrieve fuel without worrying that they would go out. That would give him time to find an answer.

[Khida]

He breathed, he slowed, and Khida felt at ease -- for the bare moment between calming breath and the stirring of the stranger from his tent. The man who emerged had the dark skin and peculiar features of the desert people, a profile Khida did not see so often here. Nor had it been common in Ahnatep, but even less so among the Drykas. She canted her head, peering curiously at the man even as he glanced back towards her.

His attention soon moved away. The stranger spoke Common, questions that seemed to disquiet her bondmate, though he did not return to the same degree of tension as he had been under before. For her part, Khida found them reasonable enough -- she just didn't have the answers the man wanted. She considered the two men for a moment, before choosing to supply what answer she did have. "You are injured," she stated to the stranger, as if that answered all of itself. The words, in Common, bore the accent of her home city -- though now adulterated by subsequent immersion in Pavi.

For his part, the hunter turned to other tasks, to the keeping of the fire. Khida followed suit, returning her attention to the problem in her hands. She suffered not her bondmate's qualms; but then, that he had brought the stranger here settled much for the Kelvic, and the fine details of status and relationships were not something she dwelt upon. How to tackle the problem of sewing, on the other hand...

Careful to keep the thread in needle, she folded the robe's hem over her knee, drawing it up several inches. It took a good bit of trial and error for her to figure out how to drape the cloth so that she could hold the folded edge and have it in a place easy for her other hand to work upon. Then she began to pass the needle through, inside to outside, her stitches reasonably small yet anything but even, and only straight by a very generous definition of the word.

Common | Pavi | someone else

[Jalen]

The Drykas didn't look like what Jalen expected in a captor. Memories of threats and beatings from his first days as a slave were still burned fresh in his mind. Boisterous men who took pleasure in the power they held over their prisoners. This horseman looked... nervous? Perhaps that wasn't the right word. Stressed. Preoccupied, certainly. With one beckoning hand he silently summoned Jalen to to the firepit.

It wasn't an order. It was barely a request. Confused, he looked to the woman, hoping she could offer more of an explanation. "You are injured," she stated simply. Her common sounded stronger than the man's, and was tinged hopefully in an accent reminiscent of his own homeland. But what did she mean? Of course he was injured, that did not explain why this stranger would pick him up out of the wild and march him to Endrykas. Shaking his head at the strange situation, he decided it wouldn't harm anything to approach the dying fire.

"I don't understand what you want from me," he tried to explain, kneeling by the dying embers opposite the man. The words took on a more immediate meaning as the man gestured to the fire in an attempt to communicate. The embers still glowed, though the cool wind threatened to extinguish them. Was that it? The man wanted him to shield the pit from the elements? Looking to the man for confirmation, he shifted carefully until his body was in between the embers and the wind. A little air was good for a fire though, and he leaned in to blow lightly. The red coals flared orange; a few sparks spit into the ash. Without wood the fire was doomed.

The simple task gave him a moment to rethink his position. They hadn't bound him, luckily. His pack was within the tent as well and assuming they hadn't gone through it he still had money and some supplies. If not for his wound, he would risk leaving as soon as possible. The only reason he'd gone with the Drykas in the first place had been the crow that flew overhead. At the time it had seemed like a sign from Eywaat. Now he wondered if it had been a hallucination brought on by fever. The dream hadn't helped anything--if Eywaat had anything to do with it, it seemed the god was just playing with him. His faith had been wearing thin for years. It was time for him to be home, no matter what some birds were telling him.

For now though, he would stay in Endrykas. Besides the capture itself, they had done nothing to harm him. Even that may have saved his life, and if he left now it might very well reverse whatever good their care had done. But as soon as his side had healed enough for him to travel he would leave.

The woman had returned to her sewing, but she seemed to know more common than the man. "What is your name?" he asked her, watching over the wilting embers.

[Colt]

Khida spoke, and, as she often did, managed to summarize so much of the situation in a few short words. You are injured. Yes, that was at the root of the entire situation, wasn’t it? It was what had prompted Shahar to shield him from the Watchman’s irritated arrow. It was almost amusing, despite himself, how much those three words could explain of their new relationship with the Chaktawe.

A Chaktawe who was now approaching, kneeling opposite Shahar with confusion in his words. Their meaning just managed to pull at Shahar’s vocabulary, and he understood the gist of it, but that was, again, a question Shahar needed time to answer.

“Fire,” he said. “Stay fire alive. Need… wood.” Irritation, inadequate speech. I am going.

Though he knew that the signs would be lost, the Chaktawe seemed to understand the basics of what he was saying and moved to keep the embers lit. Nodding approvingly, Shahar stood and turned towards the travois, where the last of their fuel lay. It was, unfortunately composed almost entirely of thick branches and a few logs, which would be useless against low embers––he needed tinder, then kindling, and then maybe some of the smaller pieces in the pile.

There was still enough light for him to operate by, at least to weed through dry and brittle grass for what he needed. There were large, long blades but there were also smaller ones, and ones with long fronds that had held seeds in the fall. Shahar took those, and then some of the paper-thin layer of plant matter on the ground that would crumble to dust if handled too roughly. Delicate sheet upon sheet would be gentle enough to burn from embers, and then there was the grass itself. Some large, some small, all turned thin and rickety by the season and quite suitable for fuel.

It was only when the sun had set too deeply for him to see that Shahar returned, relying the glowing fronds of the Web to light his way. He returned with what he needed, and he dumped it unceremoniously by the fire before retrieving larger pieces from the pile by the travois––they just needed to cook dinner and they already had the water, and after that they would be done with the fire and could let it return to embers.

[Khida]

The stranger acted to shelter the firepit, and the hunter went in search of fuel. Khida glanced briefly at them between stitches, satisfied that they shared at least some measure of common cause. She had her own problem to attend, as her attempt to reposition the robe led to it flopping over its own folds and spilling out of her lap onto the ground. Keeping the needle in hand, she leaned over to recollect the cloth, seeking the place she had been stitching. She got it centered in her lap once more -- only to find that her thread had been pulled free of the needle.

How completely frustrating.

The stranger addressed her then, and Khida decided the interruption was overall a welcome one. Folding her hands in her lap -- though mindful of the needle's sharp tip -- she looked across the way towards him. "I am Khida," she answered, readily enough. He was... he was tall, dark of skin and darker of eye, and now that they were staring at one another across the camp, she realized he also had bands of darker skin in a distinct pattern. It looked like the reptiles that were sometimes found in the river and estuary around Ahnatep. She pressed her fingertips to her own cheek, mirroring its placement. "What is your tattoo?" Her other hand would have shaped curiosity, but she stopped it mid-motion, realizing that would result in dropping the needle.

Taking a moment to contemplate the threadless needle and the descending sun, Khida sighed, giving up her evening's task as a lost cause. Tomorrow, when the daylight was once again strong; then she could continue. For now, she stowed the needle back in the kit and set about refolding the robe. The hunter returned as she finished, the Kelvic watching for a moment as he busied himself with rebuilding the fire.

Common | Pavi | someone else

[Jalen]

Jalen let the Drykas go about his business. If the man wanted him to sit by a fire, fine. Stay fire alive? Fine. Whatever you say. The Chaktawe shook his head at the strangeness of it all. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been struggling with Common himself. That first year of slavery had been difficult, trying to respond to orders he barely understood. But you learned quickly when failure was reinforced by whips and claws. It was difficult to sympathize with his current captor when Jalen was once again on the minority side of the language barrier.

It was lucky then that this woman--Khida, as he now knew--spoke common better than her companion. "Khida," he repeated, testing the new name. "I am Jalen," he responded, despite himself. (The J was breathed silently, making the pronunciation Ha-len.) Glancing up from the fire, he found himself locking eyes with her. Her amber gaze was direct, unapologetic. It had a distinctly predatory quality that made him shiver in discomfort. There was something familiar about it...

Her hand rose to the side of her face. "What is your tattoo?" He stopped himself from reaching up to touch the artificial pigment. Instead he let his hands absentmindedly run along his wrists where the flesh was pale with scar tissue. More clues to his enslavement. Should he tell her the truth? If she didn't know what it meant, then there was no threat of her selling him back to the Lynint. That was a good sign. But her ignorance also meant she hadn't dealt with such slaves yet, so perhaps there was no harm in it? In the end he compromised.

"It's," he hesitated. "A reminder of my past." Petching crocodiles. He hated having the creatures displayed on his face. To say nothing of the fact that the mark branded him as a slave, the animals had done nothing but harm him. His most 'impressive' scar was from a granidile's jaws. He spared no love for the creatures, or their more common cousins.

The Drykas hunter returned as the sky began to darken. His burden was unloaded by the fire--dried grass and other bits of plant matter. Ah, kindling. It was not unlike the scrub-brush the Chaktawe used to fuel their own fires. Looking to the man for confirmation he began to help arrange the tinder around the warm embers.

[Naiya]

As Syna began her decent from the sky Rue had found herself freed from work early. The kind woman who owned the shop could see all too clearly the younger girl's desire to leave - the fancy of a man proved too strong a lure.

The quickly falling darkness did little to deter Rue as the lights of the tent city began to appear. She sought the light of a cookfire surrounded by small tents, a sight that had become as familiar as the sights of home, yet the former was far more welcome a sight than the latter.


A thought occurred to her as she walked, that Shahar would not be expecting her there, almost certainly not at meal time. She would be imposing. Not that he or Khida would send her away, but perhaps she would stop and pick up something to contribute along the way.

She purchased two loaves of fresh bread still warm from the fire, and enough sausage for three, with more than enough left over for Hope if she were to join them.

Her strides were quick as she approached her destination, anticipation speeding her steps. The glow of the fire she sought was still low, not quite ready for the meal that would soon be cooked over it.

Khida sat near by, folding a length of cloth that might have been clothing, and Shahar was crouched by the fire lit by the embers in a way that cast most of his face in deep shadows.

Even cast as he was in shadow he held so tightly her attention that she failed to notice the extra male figure in the camp until she was close enough to reach out and touch Shahar.

Her entrance to the camp would not have gone unnoticed, though whether it still warranted great attention was a different matter.

She caught the tale end of some conversation, a reminder of the stranger's past, though she wasn't sure what the reminder was.

Good evening, Sorry for interrupting.


LedgerAntelope(game) sausage > -3 GM
2 loaves of bread > -4 CM