[Flashback] Good Intent (Gideon)

[Naama]

Timestamp: 2nd Fall, 509AV Location: The Pavilion Stepping foot into the city of gold seemed to her like an extravagant occasion. Everything appeared to be wreathed in jewels, shamelessly gilded and glittering under Syna's relentless gaze. In contrast, Naama was garbed in only shades of brown, with leather visibly marred by abuse and age. She'd assumed in a realm where the people sported a freakish number of arms she'd escape the scrutiny she often recieved for her unnerving eyes, and for the most part, this was correct. Until she arrived at the Pavilion, that is. They began shooeing her from the stalls, as if her fingers harbored some unseen plague. Annoyed, she carried on, towards a stall that screamed of liquor. Large and exorbitant it might have appeared, she was drawn in by the prospect of drowning the fickle slights these people imposed on her by indulging her obsession with alcohol, and so she approached. Abruptly, the proprietor barked something in his awkward foreign tongue. "What?" She snapped, in a heavily accented Common, "I don't speak your petchin' language, as you should plainly see." He rolled his eyes, as if concluding the young woman was clearly not worth his precious time, "You have no money, you will not get drink." With a dismissive wave of his hand, he turned toward the next customer. "Hey!" The half-breed growled, "I was talkin' to you. I have money, do you understand?" She lifted a leather pouch, shaking it wildly in his face with a sonorous clinking to accompany it. With a fool like this I shouldn't even have to pay. Her attitude, however, did little to appease the proprietor. He slapped her arm away, sending the leather pouch and its contents scattering across the dusty, hard packed floor. In a way, such an act would have invited a kiss of her blade, but in a realm as foreign as it was severe, she had no inclination of the repercussions. "Oh, that was an unpleasant thing to do, deyhan." Her Myrian words were spoken with a trembling undertone. Fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist, but the eyes that watched them from afar seemed to stay her hand-- and her temper. They meant business, and Naama was in no mood to get skewered by their menacing curved swords. Next time, snake-petcher, next time.

[Gideon]

The somber weight of beryl eyes shifted between two smiling Jackals cast proudly against the molten touch of Syna. The depravity in their expressions was exaggerated by the deep shadows that cut across their coppery flesh, white teeth glistening in wicked relief against silhouette. Their consideration of the desert traveler seemed to be one of recognition. Gideon on the other hand, found it difficult to differentiate the Eypharian people by physical attribute alone. “Well well, Outlander. We thought you’d died,” began the desert dweller to his left after the three had time to gauge each other, his voice sweet like the waters running from the city‘s spring. “Psiris here made a bet with a few friends from the south winds that you wouldn't outlast the year,” interjected the other in a more gruff and subtly venomous tone. “I’m beginning to think we might have to do it ourselves if he‘s to claim all those mizas.” The name they offered did little to corral Gideons thoughts however, concern for the retention of such useless information a trifling matter. Rather, their conversational prey seemed far more immersed in what the pair was doing with their plethora of shapely arms. It had become common knowledge what they were capable of should they decide to slip down to the weapons dangling from lithe hips. “I go, may I?” He’d dealt with the Jackals enough in the past to know their threats were nothing more than a waste of breath under normal circumstances. Here at least there was some semblance of order, thinly veiled by an ancient sense of dignity. As long as Gideon refrained from stirring up trouble though, his visits were much akin to how he was being ‘pampered’ now. Psiris was the first to part for him, a simpering grin still etched upon his features as he stood quite arrogantly at attention. His left appendages were lifted to entreat the traveler passage on through, gaze no longer focused on his entertainment but rather listlessly drifting outwards into space. The Eypharian that still remained nameless however, only begrudged him access, clipping Gideon’s shoulder intentionally with his own before sauntering in the opposite direction. The Outlander advertised but the slightest of sneers at the effrontery, recoiling from the Jackal’s muscled arm and stuttering once in his sandaled step before pressing onward with his pride still intact. The impact had seemed to shake most of the sand from his clothing at least, the various tones of whites and tans doing well to mask just how crowned in the grit his body actually was. Tugging against the keffiyeh that wound around his neck, Gideon breathed a momentary sigh of relief. There was little about society that did not unnerve the Outlander, his fingers slipping unconsciously around the pommel of his sword tucked neatly away at his side. It was little more than a comfort to his security than anything, an edge that in this stage of his life was more likely to wound him than any party wishing to test his mettle with it. Still, usually its glinting surface was enough to give pause to those seeking trouble with him. Another, more gilded glimmer of metal caught his sea blue eyes from an uncomfortable proximity nearby, each piece touched by the watchful gaze of the god in the sky that tracked them across the sand-swept stone to final resting place around him. From what little Gideon could discern from an even unraveling just off to his right, two parties seemed at steadily climbing odds with one another. One of them did not possess the more notable characteristics of the Eypharian race, her arms little more than a slender pair, and her choice of garments unembellished. Stepping close enough to hear a language that was foreign to his ears being hissed at a man whose chip on his shoulder was evident, Gideon stooped down to retrieve one of the pieces of currency from the ground. “Seems you dropped something,” he offered solemnly in tawna, hardly aware that his tongue had defaulted to the language of his adoptive people as he held out the coin in the flat of his palm.

[Naama]

A pulsing migraine manifested, most likely from her lack of liquid intake, or perhaps due to the sheer effort it took to understand the mentality of these pompous people. She'd been about to unleash a flurry of swears on the eypharian when a voice sheered through her thoughts. Something in her snapped, and the half-breed whirled, connecting her fist to the stranger's jaw with a ferocity only a Myrian could wield, except her victim was not a multi-armed denizen of the city. "Oh, petch," She extended a hand, in case he'd been rocked off his feet, "What an unfortunate way to say hello. I'm so sorry, I was expecting to hit one of these shoe-lickers." She gestured toward the eypharians swathed in fine linens with a jerk of her thumb. Although she spoke Common, the half-breed had the vague inclination that he'd just spoken the language of her father, she eyed him with a quirk of a brow. "If you're not too mad, I'd appreciate if you could show me the nearest stall with a lifetime supply of liquor.... Unless, you're as oblivious as I am, in which case I certainly hope they treat humans better than us scum of the world." Almost as an after thought, she extended her hand in a friendly gesture, "Naama, a pleasure."

[Gideon]

The sloppy wet sound of sweat-kissed flesh being bashed by the shallow slopes of battle-tested knuckles had everyone’s eyes in the vicinity wincing and teeth hissing. Gideon had been punched enough times in the past to familiarize himself with this pain, neck twisting to the side before absorbing the thunder of the blow. While it troubled him to know he could be caught so easily off guard, the bigger travesty of this affair was the blatant disregard for the coins that littered the parched earth, the one in his hand dropped back down in light of recent events. Spittle hung from his bottom lip as he stooped to retrieve the coin, wiping his mouth with the peppered sleeve of his rolled up tunic and noticing the throbbing pain that emanated from the area. He gave careful scrutiny to the miza with one glistening eye closed, blowing away the grit of the earth that managed to cling to its surface from the sweat of a hand. The flesh around where her fist had pummeled was a blotched white ring, a blood red scuff mark elevated at its center. “Need work on your technique,” he spoke plainly in the dry words of the common tongue, lifting himself from bended knee and retrieving the remainder of coins from the parched and salted earth. Looking up, it was the first time his eyes caught sight of the woman from the front. Instantly he could feel his breath buckling at the back of his throat, the ruggedly tan skin around his face pulling taut. Eyes from his homeland stared back at him, an elaborate mask of white paint that was decidedly uncharacteristic on the other hand sheltering most of the upper half of her face. She was beautiful, but that seemed hardly to concern him. Gaze drifting shrewdly to each side to encompass all the faces still staring at them, Gideon noticed that the pair of Jackals he’d left behind were also gathering a keen interest. Evidently they’d chosen to turn around at some point in their patrol, their hands resting comfortably over the hilts of blades stationed at their hips. Their ambling was one filled with restful purpose, and they were still a minute's walk away. But if one of the merchants was given the chance to explain the situation to either of them, this woman resembling Chaktawe was sure to be dealt with. Eypharian justice was not exactly something Gideon found appealing, even if he held a small reservation that the woman deserved it. Grabbing the wrist that had been intended to suffice as proper greeting, the Outlander led her away from the crowd before questions could be raised. “Won’t want stay around,” he offered as explanation, turning down a gaping side street that seemed mostly empty save for gilded fixtures and the all consuming color of sandstone. “I Outlander. My kind little better than yours in city. Come.” With no idea where he was headed but releasing his grasp all the same, Gideon snaked a path through various twists and turns of increasingly darker alley until the thoroughfare expanded back to busier street. Halted at the threshold where the feet of many passed, the desert traveler turned back towards his charge and eyed her. “I find you drink, but we...hide for while.”

[Naama]

Patient man, was all the half-breed could discern from his reaction to her unceremonious greeting. She might have taken offense to his critique of her blow had he not shown concern over what she assumed was the crowd's attention. The Jackals had long since been hidden from view by the bystanders. Before she could unleash a wise-ass remark of her own, she found herself being lead through the winding maze of bodies that converged into the market region. They passed stalls that clawed at her attention, but the stranger seemed intent on exiting the area, and she had little time to peruse, nor even to filch what she could. Regardless of her discontent, she followed. "Outlander?" She remarked, amused, "Flashy name for such an unassuming man." It had always been strange for her to see humans in every part of the globe, perhaps due to growing up in a homeland where human presence consistently ended in a meal at the end of the day. Over the two years she'd been abroad, however, it has changed her perspective from hostility to curiosity. "By all means, Outlander, I'm going to assume you're friendly and that I won't end up in a snake-filled ditch somewhere, as that would be unfortunate." She offered him a devious smile, "I can't make promises, however, trouble has a way of finding me." She peered beyond the squat, golden buildings, "So how did someone like you claim a handle like that?"

[Gideon]

His name had been used as the stump to countless jokes, a supplement to derisive insults over the years. Naama’s badgering seemed hardly to concern him, instead carving a cleverly drawn smirk that consorted with a lazy shrug. He preferred knowing that others underestimated him, his unassuming status one that had never quite been planned, but was all the more pleased with himself that he could pull off. As far as being friendly went, Gideon could only snort his sentiments while his eyes watched the crowds carefully for openings. Brushing shoulders seemed to make him anxious, though not for fear of being pick-pocketed or things even more practical. He just didn't like being touched by strangers… “Who says you haven’t found trouble?” His gaze cast itself gravely towards her only for a moment, breaking down the next into a glimmer of dementia that coupled with smiling teeth. Already he could tell that he liked this one simply because he was conversing with her, most of his responses consisting of an array of grunts and changing facial expressions where others were concerned. “But no snake-filled ditches...'least not yet.” Their path had become so convoluted by this point that their direction was questionable. The tall facades of sandstone buildings that flanked them to each side now hid the sun from view. The air was cooler here, and the breeze more prevalent, the salt-sweet scent of the air permeating everything. But still Gideon pressed on, self-assured in his gait and not hesitating to peer down the side streets they passed. He’d avoided the crowds as much as possible up to this point, but now the sound of voices was rising again. The dull roar was the unmistakable sound of gathering, the occasional shout of a bidder rising crisply above the thrall before being subdued by another. Color and chaos came at the next turn, a sea of garishly colored tents awaiting their eyes where beneath them the feet of hundreds tread. So loud were the multitudes that Gideon nearly missed Naama’s question. “Raised by Chaktawe,” his voice lifted. “Never accept me as their own. Outlander my name.” The common tongue felt melodically bereft on his lips, though he had an inkling as to why there was need to use it in the first place. She had their eyes, but the spirit seemed lacking in traditional quality. Perhaps it was for the best. Only his mother and father had ever given him hope in his adopted people, and they were no longer with him. Turning back to the tents, Gideon squeezed the saliva from his tongue and swallowed harshly. “Come.” Into the sea he tread, body limber and avoiding contact as much as possible. His point of interest seemed to be one of the larger tents, its sun-washed green canvas lacking much in the way of decor, though its sheer size was enough to catch most any eye. Inside, squat tables and chairs were haphazardly placed all over the earthen floor covered by rugs, many of them occupied by the sweating faces of young Eypharians. The scent of perfumes found across the world clung to the air like libidinous adolescence, the native race known for their procurement of extravagance. Winding his way towards a spot of refuge that was thankfully spaced away from most the tent’s patrons, Gideon took seat at one of the strangely built chairs that seemed to hover strangely above the ground. Stretching his legs out seemed the only reasonable way to stay comfortable, his sandaled feet peeking out the other side of the table next to the chair across from him. With an amused look cast to his friend, he waited patiently for her to sit down before speaking. “Hear of elixater? Father loved them.”

[Naama]

"I'm confident I can kick your vagik ass all the way to Falyndar and back." Her words likely drowned in the torrent of voices that swirled around them. The air was thick with a perfumed scent that made her almost choke, but luckily, Zulrav's breezes were generous today, and with them swept the overwhelming aroma of false luxury. She watched the world pass them; the glaring, vibrant colors that dominated her vision, the oiled flesh of slim eypharians and was suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer culture shock. This was not Falyndar. This wasn't the Taloba that she knew and loved. Goddess-Queen Myri did not dwell here, and for some inexplicable reason, she felt alone. "What?" The threat of insecurity seemed to subside, and she managed to catch the last explanation he'd given about his name. "Such a chaotic city. Romantic, even, if eypharians were even remotely attractive." Her musings might have been swallowed up by the storm of noise, but they'd soon entered a tent she was unfamiliar with. Not surprising, as everything here seemed indistinguishable. "No," She answered, as they settled themselves at a table. The Myrian glanced around, hoping to smell a whiff of liquor. "I don't come from these lands, so the chances are I know about as much as a slattern in a dark cellar. Enlighten me, if you please, I do love to learn."

[Gideon]

It didn’t take an intelligent man to gamble a guess as to the type of character he was dealing with, when everything about Naama was already explicitly bare for the world to observe. She had a roughness hewn around her edges that the desert traveler could admire, his sedate gaze revealing only the slightest glimmer of his amusement when she drew the attention of several from around the bar. If it hadn’t been for her sharp and vulgar tongue, the Eypharians might have valued her for the natural beauty she radiated. Instead, there was little left but the poison of their disdain as the desert traveler noticed several glances cast in their direction. They were somewhat obsessive in their ideologies of beauty, the traveler thought for a moment, each one his eyes passed over neatly groomed in a manner only a blind fool would fail to notice. But when it came right down to it, Gideon cared little for what the desert nobles held in high regard. They could do with some humbling, and at least Naama made it entertaining. His mouth opened to speak, but the words were cut short by a squat shadow of a man suddenly hovering over their table, eyes slit like unthreaded needles with hair queued in a dark braid. It surprised Gideon to see Rasken alive after so many years, still toting his wears with the same overbearing comportment that he used to alienate all his clientele. It had been the only thing holding him back from rising through the tiers of society, his father had once said, and that was about all that Gideon cared to remember about him. ”Ahhh, foreignerssss. Welcome! Welcome!” It took the Dhani only a moment to evaluate the two before his assumptions about them were made, hands clapping together as he first started on Naama, a devilish glimmer cast into the crucible of his predatory eye. “My elixirsss are one of a kind! One of a kind! You, Chaktawe. The desssert has been unkind to you I can sssee. A Cheva’ssss Graccce would do your ssssskin wonderssss.”