Closed Ink of My Heart [Zayva]

[Zuhre]

Timestamp: 29 Autumn, 518 AV

A few days had passed since Aberdal’s sudden leaving. Zuhre couldn’t say that she blamed her for leaving- she had her reasons and they were valid enough, but something kept scratching at the inside of her heart, telling her that she could have done more to prevent her from having to leave.

She mulled this over in her head as she traipsed through the town, avoiding cracks and fractures in the ground as though there was some superstition attached to them. With her head cast down to see which cracks she should avoid, a wad of hair stuck in her face, almost drowning her in its sheer thickness. Zuhre grabbed the dirty blonde dread and threw it back over her shoulder, looking back up.

The day had a crispness to the air which bit at her cheeks as she walked through the town. Odd, she thought, being that autumn had only begun not more than several days ago.

She pondered, her head naturally falling back down towards the ground, if the Gods and Goddesses had made the seasons in order to cleanse the world. Were the leaves that brandished the trees always changing colour, until inevitably then fell? Were the trees not shedding their old selves and readying themselves to brute the force of the cold in order to replenish once spring had come round again? Was that not the same for people?

She instinctively reached up to her head, touching her temples with delicate, cold fingers. Her hair and her horns, during the nighttime, consequently changed colours as the seasons did. “Maybe I’m a visual representation of how people change throughout the years.”

Her contemplative and philosophical self chuckled, her crystalline blue eyes scanning the horizon until she found what it was she was looking for. Two stories made up the gradually decaying structure, as strips of brown gave way to the red that lay beneath.

Zuhre pushed on the wooden door, and stepped over the threshold, greetings of warmer air encompassing her.

Matthew, the head tattooist at the shop, stood hunched over a strip of animal’s skin, drawing, smudging, and redrawing intricate shapes and designs. Zuhre noticed his deep concentration; his brows were pulled inward and his lip was clenched between his teeth.

“Having fun?” Zuhre said, crossing the room to take a closer look at what it was he was drawing.

“Ye, a tribal tattoo for a pretty particular young man. He was specific as to what goes where, what doesn’t go where, and what colours everything should be. I’m trying to make sure everything fits together nicely. I don’t want to just slap it on him haphazardly, you know?”

She stifled a laugh. “You work too hard,” she told him, going over to the side of the room where her supplies were.

He stopped his working and looked up at Zuhre. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have much of a business, now would I?” His big toothy grin always made him look much younger than he truly was.

“Are you ready for today?”

Zuhre shrugged, organizing her needles. She placed the thickest of needles at the top of the table and the thinnest near the bottom. She categorized the colours of ink based on shade. She started with warmer colours- yellow, red, orange- and ended with the cooler colours- green, purple, blue- until they were lined up in a single file that stretched horizontally across the surface of the table.

“Hope ya are,” he whispered then. “Looks like you have your first client.”

Zuhre’s attention snapped to the front door as a wisp of cold air filled the store. There stood a tall man with an unkempt beard, his eyes harsh as he surveyed his surroundings, and beside him stood a slightly smaller woman with golden eyes. Golden eyes.

Zuhre cocked her head to the side. Her eyes, she saw, were large orbs that reminded her of the sun. Did she have aspects of Syna in her? She wondered, taking a band of fabric and tying her hair up into a tail behind her head.

“Hey,” Zuhre called out to the couple. “Here for a tat?”

[Zavya]

Zavya’s molten gaze was downcast as she and Ryker stepped inside the building, brushing a few strands of dark hair from her face. The Kelvic remained one step behind her master as he approached the woman who’d addressed them, hands interlinked in front of her. She was adorned in a simple blouse of gold silk paired with woolen breeches, the etched collar locked round her neck glinting dully in the light that filtered through the windows. Only when they were standing directly in front of the stranger did she look up to catch the eyes of their new companion. Blue as the sky, deep as the sea with dreadlocked blonde hair—her aspect practically screamed Svefra. The tigress had seen some of the elaborate pod tattoos the people of the sea so proudly sported; it made sense that one would be an artist here.

“I am,” was Ryker’s rumble of a reply, offering the woman a charming smile. He rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a muscular forearm weathered by sun and wind alike. Ryker was part of the Valdinox family, practically Ravok royalty, but he was also a hunter and bore the marks of such a challenging and dangerous profession. “I want to get the Valdinox family sigil tattooed right here.” He indicated the softer part of his forearm between his wrist and the bend of his elbow. Looking back toward his slave, he commanded, “Zavya, show the woman.”

Without a word, the Kelvic withdrew a small slip of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and handed it over to the artist. It was a precise sketch of the Valdinox sigil, a complex symbol of interconnected lines in an overall curved shape. Objectively, it was an attractive design, but it was one that inspired distaste and loathing in Zavya whenever she glanced upon it. She could barely contain the distaste on her face as she gave the woman the paper. Part of her had been frightened Ryker had brought her here to have it tattooed upon her flesh, but she should have known better than that. If he wanted the mark on her skin, he would carve it in himself.

“So?” Ryker prompted, indicating the drawing Zavya had given the artist. “How much will this cost?” The stance of his shoulders and tone of his voice indicated he was not a man used to hearing the word “no”—he took it as matter of fact that she would accept his patronage. He doubted she had any other clients coming in that were important than he was, anyhow. She’d be foolish not to tattoo him.

Meanwhile, Zavya was fairly oblivious to their exchange, looking around the shop with interest. Her gaze roamed curiously over the artwork lining the walls, the instruments laid out on the tables. She didn’t particularly understand why someone would want to willingly inflict such pain upon themselves, but she had to admit the finished products were beautiful. Her branded hand throbbed with the memory of its origin, a shudder running down her back. No. She wouldn’t be getting any tattoos any time soon. At least not willingly.

She soon turned her attention back to the conversation between her master and the artist, her face impassive as she glanced between the two. How long was this going to take, she wondered? And why had he brought her along in the first place? He hardly seemed to need her here. But then, it wasn’t unlike the man to keep Zavya in tow as a simple show of his wealth and status. The tigress suspected that was his reasoning this time around, but who was he really showing off for in a tattoo shop? Better than sitting at home, I suppose, she reasoned, settling into a more relaxed posture. Might as well enjoy the change of scenery.

[Zuhre]

It need not take a master of observation to tell that the relationship between the two strangers was something unusual. The context of the situation did nothing to allay the speculations Zuhre had about them. The woman’s eyes had drifted quickly towards the floor whenever the man spoke, as though she wasn’t allowed to view anything higher than the tone of his voice.

Aberdal’s words were ground into her memory, and Zuhre was incapable of shutting them out any longer. “People will try to hide themselves from you,” she had said. “When sometimes all they want is to be found.” The words had resonated with her since Aberdal’s retreat.

She had retreated.

There was no other word that could be deemed appropriate for what she did. She didn’t flee, nor did she simply walk away. Aberdal retreated. And it was then that Zuhre found it striking, yet humourous, the irony in Aberdal’s words. Retreating was hardly one’s trying to find themself. The pain Zuhre continued to feel upon realising she could have tried harder to look through the woman’s facade was enough to distract her for a few moments.

The man started to speak to her about the tattoo he wanted to receive, but it was not he who explained it, but rather a piece of parchment handed to her by the woman that did. Zuhre studied it, noticing the semi-elaborate design and structure. Her eyes followed the concavity of the lines as they swooped downward before reversing direction and travelling back up.

It wasn’t that the tattoo was too complicated for Zuhre, for she had some experience with more tribal looking designs, it was just the size of the design that had caught her off guard. She bit the inside of her cheek and quickly checked her supplies. She considered the multitude of sizes in the needles she had and made a mental measurement of the amount of black ink that would be required to create this design.

She was briefly taken back to the first day she had come to work for Matthew. He had told her the various prices of tattoos based off the different sizes and levels of complexities that each held. She glanced back down at the paper and then back up at the man’s muscular arm. Holding an image of reference in her mind she used it in comparison to the size of the canvas she would be undoubtedly working on in the next few chimes. The space between his wrist and inner elbow wasn’t small like a scrawling on the top of a foot was, but it wasn’t necessarily large either. She concluded that the price would fall into the size category of medium to large. The lines of the piece were intricate, yet thick, and completely interconnected like a vast web. While it would be considered a hefty challenge for the Ethaefal, it could hardly be considered anything other than simple for artists such as Matthew.

Her eyes drifted back up to the man, but her perception of him blurred, her focus drawing towards the woman that stood behind him. Zuhre watched her gaze wander through the store, those golden eyes moving ever so quickly from one thing to the next. Was she nervous? Uncomfortable?

Zuhre began to retain her focus, finding her thoughts drifting to herself as a person, to her existence, to what made her... her. She felt a shiver crawl underneath her skin, like something was flowing through her veins much colder than blood. The chill began to seep into a pool in her gut, coalescing into a central mass right below her diaphragm. The nippy sensation turned tepid, starting to raise in temperature in gradual steps when Zuhre unexpectedly saw something.

At first it was a small halo dog positioned directly to the right of the woman. It was small, so very small, Zuhre would have indefinitely missed it had she not been looking directly at her. But as soon as the seemingly essence-like projection had appeared, it vanished. Zuhre hadn’t known she had been holding her breath until a flash of colour blinded her vision, forcing all the air out of her lungs like it was being taken from her. It all happened in a sequence of milliseconds: the halo dog, the flash of colour, and now there was a sour taste coating the inside of her mouth. It felt like a gelatinous mass had just finished dissolving under her tongue. It had a mixture of something sour and something dull, metallic.

Fear.

The acrid taste lingered in the back of her mouth for what felt like several chimes as Zuhre struggled to quickly regain her composure. She breathed silently in and out of her nostrils, brushing a stray piece of hair from out of her eyes.

“Well,” she finally said, looking back towards the man. He wore a subtly sinister grin which subconsciously sent more chills down her back. Zuhre’s heart skipped a beat. I don’t need to see more, thank you, she thought to herself, mentally pushing away the Djed that resided inside.

She cleared her throat. “It’s a decent size-” her tongue clicked the roof of her mouth- “and it’s got some detail, but it’s nothing too extravagant. I’d say we’re looking at a simple medium sized tattoo; that’s fifteen gold ones.”

Zuhre reached over the table to where a thin slender rod lay. She grabbed it and the razor that sat next to it placing it next to her needles, for she would need them both when she began her work.

“How about you?” she asked, turning her attention towards the woman. “Are you up for getting a tattoo today, or are you just here as a friend?”

She dare not speak of she had seen, tasted, and worst of all… felt. But the ache in her heart started to spread like wildfire. Her curiosity blossomed, and she so desperately wanted to understand this woman and maybe, just maybe, help her with whatever it was she was fearful of.

[Zavya]

Fifteen gold mizas was nothing to a man like Ryker; money meant little when one carried the Valdinox name. “Sounds more than reasonable,” he told the woman with one of his characteristic ‘charm her pants off’ smiles. “How long will it take to get started?” The hunter had all day, but he wasn’t exactly known for his patience. The sooner he could get it done, the better. He was a man that appreciated efficiency.

Zavya looked up, startled, as the woman addressed her. She must not have been in Ravok long, the Kelvic thought to herself, golden eyes taking her in suspiciously. Not many deigned to speak to slaves, especially in the presence of their master. She could only hope Ryker didn’t take it amiss. Before she could answer, however, her master cut in, “Yes, Zavya, did you want a tattoo today?” The tone of his voice was mocking, cruel laughter in his eyes as he awaited her answer. He knew well her hatred and fear of needles, a phobia he had taken advantage of on more than one occasion. “Perhaps even a matching one?”

A furious flush heated Zavya’s cheeks as she turned to look back at the artist. “No tattoos for me,” she muttered softly, the shape of her teeth giving her voice an odd, raspy cadence and the hint of a lisp. Had Ryker not been standing right there, she would have laughed at the woman’s next question. Friend. That was about the last word she would use to describe their relationship. “I am here because my master wishes it. Where he goes, I go.” At Ryker’s expectant look, she continued through gritted teeth, “And it is my honor to do so.”

“There’s a good girl,” her master crooned, one hand running affectionately over her head as if she were nothing more than a beloved pet. Which in some ways, she was. Zavya kept herself utterly still as Ryker’s hand brushed through her hair, fighting to keep her disgust from her face. The hand running through her hair stopped at her jaw, reaching to gently cup her chin. He tilted her face back to look up at him, striking blue eyes holding molten gold. “And if I wanted you to get a tattoo today, what would you say?”

Hatred burned through her gaze, humiliation crashing over her in waves. He loved to demonstrate his power over her, especially in front of strangers. It made her crave the taste of his blood that much more. However, there was little she could do to change it, at least for now. Your time will come, Ryker Valdinox, she promised with her eyes, biting her lips to keep them from curling. One day I will hold your leash, and who will be begging then, eh?

“Whatever you wish, Master,” she forced out, even as her fists clenched painfully at her sides. Cold sweat broke out on her brow and shudders ran down her spine, unsure if the threat was just an idle one. He loved to tease her just as much as he loved to follow through; it was impossible to tell which way he would lean. “This unworthy flesh is yours to mark as you please.”

Pride shone on Ryker’s face as he released her chin, the ball of his thumb brushing over her cheekbone before letting his hand drop. Sadistic amusement practically seeped from his pores, letting the nail-biting moment stretch between them for a few ticks longer. “I think I prefer your unworthy flesh the way it is. For now,” he finally said, searching the Kelvic’s face for her reaction. Zavya couldn’t help her shuddering sigh of relief, gaze dropping once more to the ground. Ryker only barely managed to hold back a laugh.

“Thank you, Master,” she muttered, taking a step back and resuming her meek stance from before. Rage was a mass of comforting flames sizzling under her skin, though she was careful to let none of it show. I will not forget this, she promised silently, storing the encounter away with numerous other similar situations. All she said was, “You are too kind.”

“And don’t you forget it,” he told her, his tone a little more menacing than before. She quickly looked up only to glance back down, fingers white-knuckled as they clutched around each other. Zavya maintained her silence, ignoring the looks from some of the other artists. She wished more than anything that she could just melt into the floor.

Breaking the tension, Ryker turned back to the almost forgotten Svefra woman, smiling as if the preceding exchange had never occurred. He had a way like that, shifting moods as easily as changing clothes. “Where would you have us wait while you get set up, love?”

[Zuhre]

Zuhre wondered if the man’s smirk, to which she assumed at this point was something he was notorious for, was charming in his eyes. To her, it was cause for a sensation all too surreal; gooseflesh erupted on her skin forcing the small downy hairs to raise.

The back of her neck suddenly felt cold, like something from the the world of the undead had blown on it. She subconsciously shirked away from him. A part of her was tempted to run to Matthew for assistance with her client, but knowing the stubbornness that tended to weave its way into every situation, she stayed put. A profession, she deemed, never pushed off their duty because they didn’t like a client, now did they?

However, even his voice was sharp and sinister, incomparably demeaning towards his accompaniment. A moment wasn’t missed as Zuhre noticed the woman’s eyes flash in his direction.

The area directly underneath the Ethaefal’s rib cage began to heat up. The warm swam across her entire body, igniting her veins in a fiery sensation she simply could not avoid. Her awareness of the fever grew as she attempted to centralize it, willing it to be in her control. It was not solely psychological, as it physically moved from her abdomen up her neck and around the sides of her head. Settling at the point behind her eyes, she found her inner “-ness” calculating and finally expelling itself out in the form of astral vision.

As it seemed time and time again recently, she saw a billowing fog reaching out from the woman’s heart. She saw the tendrils grasping out for something as though they were alive. She watched as they shimmered and sparkled like the light was hitting them at all angles at the exact same moment in time. She wondered then as she stared at their elegance, if time was different for her than it was for others while this happened. The essence that enveloped the woman suddenly flashed a shade of crimson mixed with hues of pink.

Zuhre had yet to take the time to write down what the different colours meant, and the tastes that often came immediately after, but she felt it was almost universal the meaning of red.

Red wasn’t entirely anger. Anger was a word, a feeling, whereas red was more of a sensation, something that didn’t quite belong to any single definition. Red welcomed a form of lust, the desire to be rid of someone or something to the point that anything was an option as long as the end result was solace. Red was the feeling of burning one’s finger on something undoubtedly known to be hot and hating oneself for being so stupid. It was mixed with sorrow, self pity, and uncomfortable and uncontrollable frustration and as her gustatory senses perceived the taste of smoke and charred wood, Zuhre could tell this woman had a lot of mixed feelings.

Like when you can’t explain what you’re feeling because there are no words that do its explanation any justice? she thought, biting her lip.

Zuhre looked down at the design the man wanted a tattoo of and inwardly sighed. She didn’t know what this design meant, and would probably never know, but based on the reaction of both individuals in the room, it caused a lot of friction. The room still felt hot. It felt red.

It was impossible not to experience her own pink hues, however, as the Ethaefal’s cheeks flushed. The relationship between these two, she deducted, was hardly a relationship at all. It was forced. And she felt the contempt radiating off the man. The way he spoke to the woman, the way he looked at her was enough to cause Zuhre’s stomach to explode with numerous winged insects. They took over her belly, flying haphazardly into her ribs in turn knocking the wind from her lungs.

She began to experience her own red, tasting metal in her mouth. She hadn’t realised she had bit her lip hard enough so as to draw blood.

Eager to replace the tension, she diverted her attention, directly it back to what she was here for. To work. She shant let her emotions and opinions cloud her judgement. Although, the red never fully dissipated. She would have to come to terms that the taste of charred wood and blood would linger on her tongue until she was done.

“Actually,” Zuhre interjected, already feeling the heaviness of the room start to lift. “I am practically ready to begin.” She licked her lips clean from blood and faked a smile. Her eyes were void of crinkles, the twinkle in them gone. She took a deep breath and purposefully disregarded wiping the man’s arm with a cloth.

She went to her tools and picked up a medium sized needle, placing and securing it into her wooden handle. Because black was the only colour to be used for this tattoo as denoted by the design given to her, she gently placed all other shades back into the drawer behind her. Two sides raged inside her: one wanting her to take her sweet time to annoy her client as a form of karma, but the other side ruled, telling her to hurry so as to not anger him.

She opened the vial of black ink and dipped the needle into the viscous fluid, making sure to shake off any excess ink before setting to work. She also made sure her wooden rod was within arm’s reach before proceeding. She pressed lightly on the man’s inner arm with her fingers, searching for any abnormalities. There was a thick vein that ran through its middle, but otherwise, there were no protrusions or obstructions that may have hindered the needle’s objective.

Zuhre drew in a deep breath, throwing her dreads behind her shoulder. She leant over the man’s arm. Taking a short peek at her page of reference, she raised the wooden rod above her wooden handle and firmly tapped it. The glorious sound of wood against wood filled her ears, as a small black dot appeared on the man’s otherwise unmarked flesh.

She continued, drawing the needle up and down, filling the surrounding space with ebony as she tap, tap, tapped. She had to begin with the basic shape of the design, starting at the bottom and moving towards the top. She knew there were particular parts of the human body that hurt more than others. She figured areas with less skin and less muscle were more prone to experiencing pain because there was less in between the needle and the important parts in the body.

She drew in a sharp breath as she continued to whack the rod against the handle.

“So, what are your names?” Zuhre ventured, feeling her previous introversion slowly begin to slip away. “And if you don’t mind me asking, what’s this insignia mean to you? Sometimes I’ve had people come in here asking for certain things to be tattooed onto their body; no meaning whatsoever. But there will always be someone who comes in and asks for something that means a whole lot to them.”

Zuhre stole a glance at her arm where more ink than tattoo was visible. “Sometimes they have stories too. Does this tattoo have a story?”

She wondered then if she was pushing her luck. She knew people were suspicious of others, or self conscious. She heard Tallon’s words run through her head. Trust was something that was hard to find. And boy, did she know that she hated feeling lost. She always strove to find trust- in people, in things, in experiences.

“Have you been in Ravok long?”

[Zavya]

The tightness of her eyes, the falseness of her smile—Zavya could read in the Svefra’s face that she wasn’t charmed by Ryker, not one bit. The tigress felt a smile start to form on her own lips, one far more genuine, but one she quickly stored away. Her master liked to think he was the ultimate catch, that any woman should count herself honored to be the object of his attentions. It was refreshing to see someone besides herself who didn’t feel that way.

The pair followed the artist back to her station, Ryker taking a seat and Zavya standing casually behind him. Her firelit gaze trailed the room as the artist began her questions, the Kelvic’s attention wandering back toward the art on the walls. Animals, people, scenery, abstract patterns, nonsensical doodles… there was something for everyone. Zavya marveled at the intricacy of some of the designs, amazed that any such work could come from human hands. In her experience, human hands were far more often destructive and cruel than creative or kind, but seeing things of such beauty gave her the tiniest glimmer of hope. Maybe they’re not all bad, she reasoned, even if such a thought tasted sour on her well-abused tongue. Lest she get too carried away, she quickly reminded herself, But this is Ravok. Nonhumans don’t matter here.

“My name is Ryker Valdinox, and she is Zavya,” her master replied to the woman’s inquiry, wincing at the initial strike of the needle. It was a pain he hadn’t quite been expecting, but one he was able to push to the back of his mind fairly quickly. He was a hunter; it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been through far worse. A tattoo was nothing compared to a wolf tearing out the back of his leg, but it was a unique pain in and of itself. “That name alone should tell you how long I’ve been in Ravok.” The arch tone of his voice was unsurprising. He was a man used to others knowing his name, or at the least, his family’s name. Any citizen of Ravok with a brain in their head would know it well, so he took it as matter of fact that she would, too.

“This is the Valdinox sigil,” Ryker went on to explain, gesturing toward the tattoo slowly beginning to form along his flesh. “I’m not sure I need to give much more of a story than that.” His charming façade was dropped as quickly as he’d assumed it, the fact that she hadn’t immediately recognized the design grating on his nerves. Bloody outsider, he thought to himself with a hint of disgust. Should have known better. Filthy sea wench.

The man didn’t deign to answer the same questions for his slave, who didn’t even think to answer them for herself. Both of them were used to others essentially ignoring her presence, except for the times he allowed her to take on her other form. Allowed… she supposed the better word was forced. She was rather hard not to notice then. It wasn’t every day one came across a six foot golden tiger on a leash.

“What is your name, girl?” he asked the tattooer, forcing himself into some semblance of politeness, even if he wasn’t particularly interested any more. His teeth were gritted as she moved up toward the bend in his elbow. The flesh was a little more sensitive on that part of his arm, he was coming to realize, fist clenched as she continued in her relentless tapping.

Zavya, meanwhile, had at last turned her attention back to her master and the artist, watching the subtle changes in Ryker’s body language. The flash of pain in his eyes, the tightening of his hand, the annoyance in the set of his mouth… Her own face was set in resignation as she looked away. His pendulous mood swings rarely boded well for her, and she was already wondering what imagined transgression he would punish her for after they left. The tigress was often the victim of his bad moods, whether she was the cause or not. The privilege of nobility, she thought bitterly as golden eyes flickered back to his face. When you’re rich enough, you can just buy someone to blame your faults on.

Feeling his slave’s eyes on him, Ryker cast a glare in her direction. “Zavya, sit,” he ordered gruffly as if she were a dog. “You’re making me uncomfortable just standing there like that.”

The look she gave him was full of resentment, finding a nearby chair to drag over. Had she sat down without his permission, he would’ve barked at her for slacking off on the job. She couldn’t win with him. Zavya settled on the edge of the seat, posture straight with her hands in her lap. The Kelvic had never been able to fully relax in his presence. Though, when have I ever been able to truly relax outside of it, either?

[Zuhre]

“You’ll need to relax for me,” Zuhre said softly as she wiped at Ryker’s arm. Dark ink seeped into the cloth, staining it’s otherwise already discoloured complexion. She studied the sigil again, admiring its complex design and burning its image into her head. She could tell from the man’s air of arrogance and tone of voice that any mistake on her part would result in nothing short of unpleasant.

The woman, who’s golden eyes were everywhere but Zuhre’s or the man she had entered the shop with as though trying to avoid the inevitable, had a beautiful name. Though she dare not test the way it rolled off her tongue quite yet, she was sure it’s being said made it five times more beautiful. It was strange, the way Zavya captivated Zuhre. Perhaps it was the aura she had read from her that drew her in, allowing her to develop a connection that only she knew about. Or maybe it was because she knew deep down inside that something didn’t quite sit well with her, that Zavya had emotions that needed balancing, closure. She wondered if the woman would ever find that closure.

The tattooist’s natural desire for helping others was almost becoming an impediment to her work, and the sudden poison that spit from out of Ryker’s mouth did nothing to help with it.

At first, she knew not what she had done wrong. Was it the pain that caused his words to be laced with such malice? Was it the way she had acted earlier, almost too pushy and rushed for this session to be over with so she no longer had to be stared at with lustful eyes? But while it may have been a little of both, the major reason stemmed from Zuhre’s ignorance. She did not know anything about this man, and his lack of recognition was evident by a subtle scowl.

She didn’t know if she was already too late, but she tried to save her hide anyway. As with any social situation, she knew people had feelings, and if those feelings were squandered, new feelings took reign by way of defense much like an immune system to a foreign invader.

“Silly me,” she blurted, blinking her eyes and raising her eyebrows in a way that showed her innocence. “I suppose I worded that question rather poorly. I just meant, the same story that may be common knowledge is vastly different depending on the perspective of the person you ask. While the-” she scrounged her mind for the name he had said was the design- “Valdinox sigil need no introduction, I always like to know the inflexion it has on one person.”

Was she making sense? Was that at all different from what she had asked prior to this new staleness tha lingered in the air?

She withdrew the needle from the man’s skin and transferred it to the bottle of black ink. She dipped the tip into the vial and tapped the edge to rid itself of the excess. Pressing her finger lightly next to her most recent addition of the tattoo, and tested the swelling. She didn’t know why the skin swelled as it did, but what she did know was that the rise of tissue made it more difficult to stab.

And stab she wanted to do, for her client’s sudden change in mood made her skin crawl. But she refrained. She knew better than that, and it would be below her to stoop to such pettiness.

“My name is Zuhre.” The sarcastic side of her, which she had no idea she had, wanted to elaborate. But who I am is another thing entirely.

Zuhre cleared her throat and went back to her tattoo, lining the tip of her newly wetted needle with the last position of the last line she had drawn. Setting it firmly on top of Ryker’s skin, she hit the back of her tool in succession, causing the thin black line to further its travel up his arm.

It was a good thing the girl hadn’t the needle in Ryker’s skin when his voice boomed. It filled the room just as fast as the heat filled Zuhre’s cheeks. By no means was the Ethaefal a submissive woman; shy, maybe, but to be ordered around by someone who’s narcissism spoke volumes? Her brows furrowed as the man looked in Zavya’s direction. Her lip curled involuntarily as well, but as quickly as it had adorned her face, it vanished.

She was trying her hardest not to feel judgemental. Questions kept bombarding her head at speeds she couldn’t fathom. Why would this woman let him speak to her like that? Did he have something over her that prevented her from standing up for herself? Regardless, she was surly sitting now, such as Ryker had commanded.

Oh how she wished she could communicate via people’s minds. She would have made a connection with Zavya and told her that she knew something was off. While it still wasn’t fully apparent to her what it was, she had a hunch. To her understanding, this relationship they had was abusive. And it made Zuhre wonder if Zavya felt trapped, confined… enslaved. And then she knew.

She cleared her throat.

“Forgive me for being so inquisitive, and pardon my ignorance, but I am always interested in a good history lesson. I am still relatively new to this city-” and to this life- “and would love to know more about the Valdinox.”

She gave him a tight smile, inwardly rolling her eyes but at the same time bracing for his response. “And Zavya,” she began, kicking herself for stirring the pot. “Are there any nice joints around town where gals like ourselves like to hang out at?”

Out of the corner, Zuhre saw Matthew bustling about, a new client standing beside him with a huge grin plastered onto his face. Though she wasn’t alone before, she had felt lonely. Knowing Matthew was back into view and with someone else, gave her the reassurance she didn’t know she needed.

[Zavya]

Ryker seemed equal parts annoyed and amused at Zuhre’s attempt at recovery, though she knew the right questions to ask to soothe his wounded pride. Even if she was an ignorant outsider, at least she was willing to fill the gaps in her knowledge. “My family is everything,” he briefly explained, gesturing toward the lines she was filling. “That is my reason for the tattoo. It is because of my family that I have what I have today.” He grimaced at the tap of her needle into his reddened flesh, but quickly wiped any trace of pain from his face.

In order to distract himself from the increasing discomfort, he decided to answer the artist’s next question. It was with no small amount of smug pride that he went on to explain a bit of his family’s history, “The Valdinox are one of the five great families of Ravok, alongside the Nitrozians, the Larks, the Galatos, and the Lazarins. Though, of course, we are far superior.” Zavya looked away at that, rolling her eyes, though Ryker seemed not to notice. He continued, “My grandmother is the family matriarch, the Valdinox herself, and one of the only female Druvin to ever exist.” He did not deign to explain what a Druvin was; by Rhysol, the woman was living in Ravok, she ought to have some familiarity with its workings. “My family contributes significantly to the Black Sun, and it is from that and her that we gain our name.” He shrugged with his free arm. “There are those who dislike the Isur blood that flows in our veins, but at least it’s better than some bloody Kelvic, eh?”

The look he gave Zavya was one of pure contempt, her own answering expression bland and unreadable. He threw those sorts of barbs at her quite often; most of them simply rolled off her ears by now. The gold of her eyes and the collar around her neck betrayed her heritage almost instantly, so it wasn’t as if he was betraying some great secret. She was used to the seething racism of most Ravokians, so his had little effect on her. Though you’d think a little compassion might come from their own discrimination, the tigress mused on the Valdinox family. Then again, I don’t think the words ‘Ryker’ and ‘compassion’ have ever been used in the same sentence. Her gaze continued for a moment longer before she looked away. If he hated Kelvics so much, not sure why he thought he should buy one.

Zuhre’s next question shocked and unnerved Zavya, throwing the slave deeply off-balance. She looked between her master and the Svefra woman, at a loss for what to say. Her gaze dropped to her lap instead. Places to hang out? Zavya could hardly even conceive of such a notion. Was the woman truly that blind to the nature of the pair’s relationship? She’d thought it’d been rather obvious from the moment they’d walked in the door. To most Ravokians, it would be. Was she deliberately trying to goad Ryker into anger? Or was she just simply stupid?

For Zuhre’s sake, Zavya hoped it was the first option. Goading Ryker’s anger served no pleasant end for either of them, and stupidity for a woman new to Ravok didn’t bode well for her chances of survival. With the constant eyes and ears of Rhysol’s minions surrounding them, one simple misstep could put her in her grave long before her time. And no one would be the wiser.

Zavya attempted to warn her of all this through the look in her eyes as she finally glanced up to meet Zuhre’s gaze. Though how much could a look really say? Aware of Ryker’s sharp attention trained on her and waiting for her response, the Kelvic swallowed deeply. Forcing the words out through gritted teeth, she replied, “My master’s side is the only place I wish to be. Why would I go anywhere else?” She held those piercing blue eyes for perhaps a moment too long, doing her best to warn her not to push her luck. Zuhre wouldn’t be the one to pay the consequences for such prodding. Zavya would.

Ryker’s smile was lit with a sort of grim satisfaction as he looked back to Zuhre, his free hand reaching to give Zavya’s knee an affectionate pat. “That’s my girl,” he praised his slave, though his gaze never left the oceanic hues of the Svefra. “Zavya knows little of the city. Perhaps your questions are best directed elsewhere.” His tone was friendly on the surface, but his eyes were anything but. He was not a foolish man, and did not appreciate being mocked. His expression almost dared her to say something else, while Zavya’s begged her not to.

The tense moment went on for a few ticks longer, Zavya’s cheeks burning as she returned her gaze to her lap. I know more than you think. At last Ryker broke the silence, impatiently asking, “How much longer is this going to take?” He was clearly ready for this interaction to be completed, and had no intentions to frequent this tattoo shop ever again.

Zavya, on the other hand, had more mixed emotions about the whole encounter. She admired the Svefra woman for her very pluckiness as much as she wished she’d simply kept it to herself. Given her own choice, she’d happily come again just to learn a bit more about the woman who’d so easily gotten under her master’s skin.

[Zuhre]

Zuhre could detect the irritation that Ryker gave off. She knew she had done something stupid. She was always so stupid. It was stupid to think she could have been able to fit in. One mistake and everyone hangs the perpetrator for it. Just because she didn’t know everything, it meant she was invalid, ignorant, immature… stupid. She hung her head and let out a heavy sigh, feeling defeated. She felt like she was being cursed for something. Falling from a beautiful fantasy and hitting the reality like a rock falling… well, from the sky, was never anyone’s description of a dream come true.

The story Ryker told was interesting, but not as interesting as the negative thoughts swirling in her head. Why were there so many rules enforced? Why did these rules seem to be applied even harsher to those who didn’t know they existed? Zuhre just wanted to roll into a ball and hibernate for the next season or two. She didn’t understand how people were so fickle, so unsocial. She thought that if someone thought so terribly of other people, then they shouldn’t try to interact them. People had their opinions and emotions, she understood, but it wasn’t her fault if her sole existence caused people to act like atrocities. It was impossible to say anything to anyone without having it be altered into something offensive.

Her eyes filled with tears but she blinked them away, all without anyone seeing her. If she were to retort, to prove her point, to explain herself, she would just be put down again. Sometimes it was best to just walk away; trying to show someone they were in the wrong was a worse journey than feeling as insignificant as she felt now. Perhaps tattooing wasn’t the best job for her. Perhaps this intimate connecting she attempted with her clients just dug herself a different hole. People were so cynical, so selfish. Everything was about them, and if you interfered in their world with just a step of your foot, you were shot down.

Zuhre felt shot.

She felt stupid.

She didn’t ask what a Druvin was, she didn’t ask for clarification on what the Black Sun was, she just pursed her lips into a tight line and nodded her head sharply. The glitter in her eyes disappeared, the respect for anyone completely vanished. If people wanted to act that way to her, then why couldn’t she act that way to them? There was a part of her that wanted to, but she knew deep down inside that she was better than that. Though she still felt like this attempt at letting things go was still futile. She didn’t understand how a cordial conversation could accrue so much negative energy in such a short amount of time.

She felt Ryker’s gaze slide over her and she shivered inwardly. She wished more than anything for this situation to be put to an end. She wanted Matthew to come over and take over for her. She wanted to return to her unit, just another space of complete and utter loneliness, and think things over. But thinking would only worsen things, especially if she was secluded.

His words spat like venom from out his mouth as he mentioned the Kelvic. Zuhre may not be Kelvic, but she wasn’t human. Did that make her life less valid? She licked her lips and looked away for a moment, trying to regain control over her mind. It was spinning up inside her cranium.

She had horns, she had iridescent skin, she could age things by a day with a simple touch, she even fucking shifted forms. Was she just some freak? Was she doing everything wrong? Her stomach grumbled then, as she realised she hadn’t eaten anything for a very long time. While her celestial form need no food or drink, her earthbound form did, and she couldn’t recall then when the last time she had any.

She now knew that this woman with golden eyes was a pet to the man. When he had mentioned the Kelvic specifically, she deducted the woman’s race. The eyes were also a give away that Zuhre was able to make connections to. But it was when the word “master” filtered into her ears that it all made sense. She wondered then if she was a slave to life. Life happened the way it did and she was just along for the ride. What people thought of her was out of her control. At the same time, she wanted to change herself, but didn’t want to alter a thing.

“I’m sorry for asking,” she muttered. She couldn’t hardly hear her own words, so she repeated herself louder. “I apologise for my idiocy.”

She was just finishing up the last line of the man’s tattoo. The anger she held for herself seeped through her actions as she hit the back of the wooden handle which held the needle a little harder than was necessary. She could feel the slip of the needle into Ryker’s skin and she could feel it slip out. She silently breathed through her clenched teeth. She wiped the residual ink from his skin before gesturing in a way that signified its completion.

“You can give your money to Matthew,” she said as she got up and started to pack up her materials. “It was nice meeting you.”

*Sorry if this isn’t what you were expecting. The real world is seeping into my writing. If you want me to rewrite this, I will. I also don’t want you to read this note as though I meant to send it with any emotion other than neutral. My writing apparently needs fixing in that area. Thanks.

[Zavya]

Zavya watched the play of emotion over Zuhre’s face with increasing sympathy—the firm set of her mouth, the light dying in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders… they were all clear indicators that the woman was as eager to end this interaction as her master was. The Kelvic knew well just how harsh and demeaning Ryker could be and to see it inflicted on someone else made her sick as much as it gave her a twisted satisfaction that she wasn’t the only one. She did not wish anything negative on Zuhre, far from it, but she had to admit there was a small part of her that was glad someone else was receiving the brunt of it for a change.

Ryker, on the other hand, could hardly hide his smile at Zuhre’s discomfort. There was sadistic pleasure in watching outsiders squirm, and this was no different. There wasn’t even a small part of him that felt any remorse for it—as far as he was concerned, she’d asked for it with her foolish questions. It didn’t matter to him that she was new or different; if she was living in Ravok, she ought to know how the city worked. Ignorance was not a trait he held in any high esteem, and this woman was full of it.

It was with no small measure of relief on both their parts when the artist announced the tattoo was completed. Zavya glanced blandly at the design, hiding her distaste behind a careful mask of neutrality. That sigil would never be anything less than repulsive, as far as she was concerned. Seeing it permanently etched into the skin of her abuser made bile rise in the back of her throat.

Her master’s reaction was decidedly more pleasant, looking down at his arm in satisfaction. Even if the tattooist herself had managed to irk him to no end, the design was solid, and it was one he was proud to wear. “Thank you,” he rumbled, dropping a gold miza on her station as a tip. He hardly felt she deserved it after her attitude, but he’d never let it be said a member of his family was stingy.

“Come, Zavya. I’ve had quite enough of this place.” A snap of his fingers accompanied his command, the Kelvic reluctantly rising to her feet to follow.

I’m sorry, she mouthed to Zuhre after Ryker had turned away, the man heading toward the front to pay for his service. Glancing over at him to make sure he was out of earshot, she turned back to the tattooist. “And thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for not just… submitting. It’s nice to see.” She hesitated for a moment longer, wanting to say more, but unsure what else she could say.

“Zavya! I said come!” was Ryker’s bark of a command, interrupting whatever else she might have said with imperious blue eyes glaring in her direction.

A molten gaze flicked back at him before she offered Zuhre a brief smile. “For what it’s worth, I really did enjoy meeting you. You’re a talented artist, and you don’t deserve what the patrons of Ravok are going to give you. Keep your head up, Zuhre. Try not to let them get to you.”

Not another word did she say before she trotted off to join her impatient master, sparing only one more glance behind her. The look of defeat on Zuhre’s face was one she was far too acquainted with, and it disheartened her to see it. Zavya bit her lip as she looked at her, sighing softly. There was naught she could do for it now, but she could only hope the artist was the resilient type. She’d not last long, otherwise.

“What were you talking about?” Ryker’s suspicious voice brought her attention back to him, Zavya shaking her head.

“Nothing, really. I was just telling her how beautiful the tattoo was,” the Kelvic replied, flashing the man an unconvincing smile.

Her master made a noncommittal sound in response, his hand at her back propelling her through the door and back out into the city. “Aye, she did well enough,” he replied, the highest praise the Svefra could hope to get. “Nosy little twit, though.”

“Maybe she liked you,” Zavya answered innocently, pretending as if she hadn’t noticed the very clear animosity between the two.

“Watch that smart mouth before I make sure you can’t open it,” Ryker threatened, seeing through her ploy as if she were made of glass. “What have I told you about playing dumb with me?”

The tigress bit the inside of her cheek on a scathing reply, looking down meekly at her feet instead. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Haven’t I learned by now I can’t win? “Forgive me, master. I spoke out of turn.”

“You often do. You’re lucky I’m such a patient man.”

It was all Zavya could do not to laugh. Ryker? Patient? Hardly. She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, and she dared not risk a chuckle if he wasn’t. “Yes, sir. Very lucky,” she murmured instead, not even bothering to look up. She had no wish to see the look on his face.

“And don’t forget it.” There was the hint of a threat in his voice as he looked over at her, noting the downcast turn of her head. “I’m not a fool, Zavya. I know you hold no great love for me.” Grabbing her collar, he yanked her in closer and forced her to look up at him. “But always remember… there are crueler men than me in this world. Be grateful for what you have. It can always be taken away.”

Gratitude was hardly an emotion she’d ever associate with the man grasping her chin, but she nodded, nonetheless. She did know there were crueler men, but she’d never be thankful for her lot in life. It was easy for a man like Ryker to say such a thing—he’d never known life as a slave. He’d never known life without a choice. “Of course, Master. Thank you. You are too kind.”

He curled his lip at her before releasing her quite abruptly. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Stepping out toward the street, he hailed the nearest ravosala, offering the driver a smile as he approached. “Get in,” he ordered his slave, waiting for her to comply before doing the same. “Valdinox estate,” he informed the man of their destination, who nodded and poled off.

Zavya sat and watched the buildings go by as she thought on their encounter at the shop. Poor Zuhre. She couldn’t get the thought out of her head, nor the look on her face as they’d left. To have such talent only to be looked down on… I know the feeling. The Kelvic spent the rest of the trip pondering the cruelties of the world, her musings interrupted as they arrived back at home. Stepping out of the small boat, she sighed.

Someday, we’ll both rise above it. Someday, the world will realize our worth. Someday…

ZuhreI hope everything's all right, and that life starts to look up soon.