The Desert Beauty & the Forest Beast (Basah'ir)

[Bartal]

89th Day of Summer, 512 AV Dusk Streets of Syliras A small crowd was gathered around a group of performers. Instruments and voices sang, and an exotic woman danced for tips to the music of her band. Their outfits were flashy and the dancer jingled with bells and small metal discs sewn onto her revealing outfit. Bartal was in the middle of the crowd, easily peering over the other bystanders' heads at the entertainment. His bare foot tapped to the beat; his only real sign of interest. Mizas were occasionally tossed into a colorful dish lying on the street by the band. Something bumped against his leg and he looked down, seeing a little girl wriggling for a view. His eyebrows raised in mild interest but he turned back to the band. This band was most likely the only worth while thing happening the city at the moment. He didn't like Syliras, at least not as much as the wilds. It smelled, everyone in this crowd was clustered too close to him, and he was pretty sure the man behind him had sneezed on his back. Good thing he was wearing a shirt. Which he also didn't like. Clothes were so constricting, and he never wore shoes. His pants were at least a little loose and his long sleeved white shirt was baggy, cut with a small 'V' at the neckline. It showed a portion of his chest, which made things better. The more skin that was open to the air the better. Another bump alerted him to the little girl again. He twisted around to peer down at her. She was trying to squeeze between a pair of legs but to no avail. Bartal leaned down, looming over her little body. "Let me help you?" he mumbled, holding out a big hand.

[Basha'ir]

The evening was a sultry one, Sivah hanging on to his time with hot, grasping digits. The smells of the streets were somehow even more intense than on most days, and the dark of evening brought little relief from either the heat or the stench. Basha’ir had not planned on being out so late. But she had been taking in some sewing on the side, just to see if she could turn a profit, and her very first piece was done and now delivered. Already tired from a long day at her regular work, she was anxious to get home. But Nondi, who had of course accompanied her for the delivery, had asked to stop so they might perhaps watch the impromptu street performance. Basha’ir was inclined to say no, but the child had asked so sweetly, and, truly, she was a patient, tractable little thing. Nondi asked for very little, and Basha’ir already felt guilty for dumping her most days with a neighbor, who had three of her own to tend to. She didn’t begrudge the coppers she paid the woman to keep an eye on Nondi as well. But she was sorry that she had so little time to spend with her. There was little reason or rhyme as to why Basha’ir had not yet taken the four year old to the Welcome Home. Over the last week, she had learned all she could about the children’s home, and had even gone on a lunch break to find it and scout it out. There was just…something, that made her inwardly wince at the thought of dropping Nondi off there, like so much dirty laundry. She had heard only good things about the place, but still…no. It just seemed wrong somehow.

If Basha’ir had really been willing to be truthful with herself, she would have admitted, Nondi filled a gap in her heart and she was reluctant to give the child up, for her own sake as much as the little girl’s. When had she ever know such sweet, uncomplicated, undemanding affection? She could love the child and receive love back, without conditions. And moreover, she saw in Nondi some piece of herself. She hadn’t been too much older when her own mother had been forced to sell her into slavery. Even though slavery was not legal here in Syliras, Basha’ir knew, personally, that it still existed. The child would have been perfectly safe at the Welcome Home, almost certainly. Almost…

So for several reasons, Basha’ir allowed Nondi to stop and listen to the upbeat music. They were not in the very far back of the crowd, but neither were they in the front, and Nondi was trying to wedge herself between the watchers in front of them. Basha’ir was attempting to hold onto her hand, and tugged back, trying to get her to stop pushing up against people. Then, to her consternation, the extremely large man standing next to them bent down and Basha’ir was sure he meant to reprimand the little girl. She had just opened her mouth to apologize, when, instead of a rebuke, the man offered to help the child. Before Basha’ir could react, Nondi, who wasn’t a shy child, had eagerly turned to their neighbor and lifted her arms to him.

“Oh, pardon, sir,” Basha’ir said, reaching herself to hoist Nondi to her hip. “I’m sorry if she is bothering you.”

But Nondi had a much better bead on this gruff looking semi-giant (at least in her eyes, he looked amazingly huge) and she leaned from Basha’ir’s arms, in danger of falling right from the young woman’s grasp. With big, dark eyes, the little one said sweetly, “Please can you lift me up? I can’t see.”

[Bartal]

The little girl reached up to him without hesitation. He was just about to lift her when the woman who'd been holding the child's hand hefted her up against her hip. Bartal brushed away her apologies with a wave of his hand. "Why would this little one be bothering me? She is so tiny, if I were still her size I would want assistance as well. I haven't forgot how frustrating it was being small. Many things were out of reach," he reasoned sagely. Again the child reached for him, a more daring move this time seeing as how she could topple from the woman's arms. He couldn't let that happen, so when she asked to see he plucked her up and effortlessly placed her on his shoulders. It was like lifting a rabbit. She tangled her little fingers into his graying hair, holding it for balance. He wrapped his hands around her small feet, keeping her in place. She was soft like a rabbit too. He couldn't remember when his skin had been so soft. Now it was weathered and calloused, hardened from an challenging life. Bartal smiled, and the expression took years off his appearance. He gave the woman a sideways look, raising his eyebrows. The thought struck him that she may not approve of him grabbing her child. Mother bears were very protective of their young, as were other animals. Humans were bound to be the same. "She is yours?" He spoke just loud enough to be heard of the crowd and music. The child perched on his shoulders gave an exclamation of excitement as the dancer did a particularly graceful move. Bartal didn't see what it was, his interest was elsewhere and he was never a good multi-tasker.

[Basha'ir]

In a way, Basha’ir couldn’t say that she was upset that the man took Nondi, as the angle at which the child was leaning was seriously compromising the young woman’s ability to hold onto her securely. The man lifted the little girl to his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a feather, and Basha’ir kept a watchful eye on them both. But he certainly seemed to have nothing but a kind intent towards the child, and Basha’ir smiled gently, seeing the enthralled expression on her little darling’s face as she could now see the dancing. She even noted the smile that slid onto the man’s face, as he settled the girl and she curled her fingers into his hair.

“You are indeed kind, sir. It’s hard to imagine someone of your height every being so tiny.” She gave a light laugh, happy to see the child happy. “Nondi, don’t forget to say thank you.”

“Thank you mister man,” the little girl said, giving his head a hug, though her eyes were still riveted in rapture on the gaudily dressed dancer.

When the man posed his question, it was one that Basha’ir had already been asked several times in the past week, but one she still found difficult to answer. Well, the answer was simple but the explanation after the initial answer was sometimes complicated, even in her own mind.

“No…she is not my child. I…I found her, in the street, last week. Her father had gone missing and well…” She shrugged. “I couldn’t just leave her, so…now she is with me.”

The last bit was said with just the slightest undertone of defensiveness, as if her right to the child would be questioned. So far, none who had asked had seemed to give a second thought to the matter. What was one more homeless waif? At least this one had someone to oversee her. Still, Basha’ir wondered if at some point someone would say that she really should just take Nondi to the Welcome Home.

Perhaps in an effort to avoid that very thing, she observed, “She seems quite content up there. You must have some experience with having children perched on your shoulder. Perhaps you have some of your own?”

She was looking at him, of course, primarily to keep an eye on Nondi. But now she looked more closely at the man himself. He was tall, yes, but also with a burly build. He looked quite strong, and solid. And not in the first blush of young manhood but not in the realm of the old gaffers yet either. Not by a long shot. He had an interesting face and she wondered what he did for a living. But as they were only thrown together for the few moments of the street performance, she confined her curiosity and said only, “I am Basha’ir, by the way. And the little one is Nondi, as you probably heard.”

[Bartal]

The woman smiled, so that must mean she wasn't upset. The apprehensive set of his shoulders relaxed to something more at ease; or as at ease as he could get in a crowd of loud and foul smelling people. Bartal's smile widened a little at the woman's remark then the child's thanks. "Everyone has to start somewhere," he replied, then switched his attention to the child tugging at his hair with glee. "Maybe one day you will be as big as me, little cub." Back to talking to the woman. The fact that the child was an orphan; it caused a strange feeling inside Bartal's chest. A sort of twinge, and his smile faltered. "I have a sort of understanding of her situation. I recall only very faint memories of my mother, and maybe one of my father. The rest are of Rosemary." The thought of his deceased bondmate brought a lot of emotions to the surface. Things he didn't want to deal with right now. Walling those thoughts off the best he could, he forged ahead with the conversation. "She raised me," he added as a sort of explanation. Never had he thought of himself as an orphan though. Rosemary had been both his mother and father, a comfort and teacher, and at times the punisher of his wrongdoings. Bartal smiled reassuringly at the now surrogate mother. The edge in her voice had been obvious, and he wanted her to know that he understood their current state quite a bit. "I have no young of my own," he assured her with a laugh, as if the idea were funny. "No mate. I just enjoy children. I had a very good childhood and have good memories. They remind of those times is all." He sobered as she introduced herself, nodding in acknowledgement. "And I am Bartal." Though he didn't know how long he would have that name. At one time he had been called Buttle. Then another, Berk. He liked the letter B; the way it sounded coming from his mouth. It was just one of those things, and so any name he'd had was similar to the last.

[Basha'ir]

Basha’ir nodded in return. “Nice to meet you, Bartal. You are a kind man, not always a common thing, here in this city. Or in any city.” She said the last reflectively, trying not to think about Ravok.

She had noted the way that he had spoken, thoughtfully at first, of his family of origin. He claimed only the vague memories of parents, and then much clearer ones of a surrogate caretaker, but one much beloved, apparently. And then he spoke with a laugh of his lack of any offspring, almost as if he found the idea of having any amusing. And he had no ‘mate’ – that seemed a slightly odd choice of terms, as opposed to wife.

Basha’ir smiled, even as Bartal resumed a more sober mien. “I never knew my father,” she mused, taking in the sight of Nondi on those hefty shoulders, finding it much more satisfying than the dancing that was going on a short distance away. “But I do have some lovely memories of my mother. A few, anyway…” Her voice trailed off, thinking back to those few years of cognition that she was able to share with the only parent she had ever known. And even those years had been hard, cruel ones, of biting, abject poverty. The rest, well, it was too sad to think about. Her life as a slave had not been a terrible one, those first ten years. But still, having a kind master was not the same thing as having a loving parent. And then after that…Basha’ir shuddered, despite the heat of the evening, as her eyes turned away from Bartal to look somewhere off into the distance of her mind.

“You were lucky,” she said softly. “Your Rosemary sounds like a good and loving soul, if she was able to make your childhood a pleasant one.” Her dark green eyes lifted to the child perched on Bartal’s shoulder, and with the instinct of love, her hand reached out to rest on the little girl’s dangling leg. “I hope that I can do the same for this one. Sometimes, this is how life goes, does it not? Like a wheel. Sometimes the gods give us the chance to give to another what we once were given, or sometimes what we ourselves never had, but wished for.”

She considered the tall man for a moment, before asking, “And you, Bartal? Did you never wish for children of your own? Or a wife? Or do you enjoy your solitude?” She asked the last question in a teasing tone, and laughed, light heartedly. “Families can be quite noisy, can’t they?”

[Bartal]

He shifted his weight self consciously. Compliments weren't the norm for him. Normally people were trying to avoid him here in the city because they sensed his surly nature. Or out in the forest when he was in his other skin, he'd occasionally been hunted. People see a bear and automatically think danger. They believed he would eat their children and kill travelers that camped in the woods. It was quite the opposite. He avoided people if he could, though when it was close to winter and food was short, he may try his luck with stealing from the humans. He'd been insulted, attacked, spat on, and many other things. But called kind? He honestly couldn't remember a human saying that with his name in the same sentence since Rosemary had been alive. Something inside Bartal's chest loosened. Could your heart have a knot in it? No, but something definitely warmed from her words. Something that had been hard and frozen was now a little less cold, a little softer. His eyes were intent on her face while she spoke. Many people found this unnerving and as such wouldn't meet his gaze. It seemed that even if they didn't know he was a beast, they could sense his difference. His otherness. The conversation lulled as the woman stopped and shuddered, looking at something he couldn't see. The emotions were rolling off her in strong waves. He could sense that as well as any other animal could. There was sadness there; a lot of that. And then the moment was gone and she was talking again. "You will succeed with the child. The Great Mother Oriana will make sure of that. She will not let you fail," he assured her, completely confident in the bear goddess. He thought deeply on her question of family. When he had been young, having a mother in the form of Rosemary had been his one true happiness. Would being a father make him that happy? And children? Could he sire cubs that would grow strong and healthy and happy? He wasn't sure he was capable of being a good father. He had been on his own for years, only socializing when he had to. Bartal's only constant companion since Rosemary's passing has been himself. A sad thought once he considered that fact. Being alone had turned him bitter and hard; enough to where he often rejected prospective relationships of any shape or form. This woman and her youngster reminded him now of how things could have been for him. Of course Bartal was assuming having a happy family life was out of the question now after all these years. It didn't cross his mind that things could change at any time. He was just too used to being alone to think of life being anything other than what it was now. He sighed deeply as he prepared the answer. "I do not enjoy my solitude, but I also do not dislike it. I am... neutral." Thinking a moment before he continued, "I think I would have liked to have had a family of my own. A mate and young to take care of. I have..." And then he froze mid sentence. What did he have? Bartal didn't even know what he was going to say. He had nothing. "I have nothing," he finished, echoing that last thought. He lapsed into thoughtful silence now, wondering how the conversation had turned so emotional. He had never confided in a human about his life. This was an entirely new experience and Bartal wasn't sure he enjoyed the feeling it left him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a commotion of movement and turned to give a curious glance. The performance they were watching was just outside one of the taverns; he couldn't remember the building's name and frankly didn't care. He didn't drink the fiery liquid that humans found so addictive so the information was unimportant. The movement had been three men stumbling out of the doorway, arms thrown around each others' shoulders as they shared some joke that must have been the funniest thing said in the history of humor. They laughed raucously and stumbled drunkenly against a couple who were watching the entertainment on the fringes of the crowd. There was some loud protests and a little wave of unease rippled through the small group of onlookers. A few people broke from the crowd and scuttled off down the street, not even wanting risk being around if something happened. Bartal could smell the tension tie a knot in the humans' minds. The drunken trio jeered at the scantily clad woman dancing for change. She faltered in her steps and glanced uncertainly at her band, wanting some reassurance. The lute player nodded and smiled, but the others were growing nervous as well. They didn't share their band mate's enthusiasm. Or maybe it was stupidity they didn't share. One of the drunk men, a short fellow with wild red hair shoved through the onlookers to the front row of the audience. He leered at the woman's bare skin and made a few suggestive gestures, much to the disgust of almost every other person in the crowd. More than half threw some money in the bowl for the band then turned and left, unwilling to deal with the drunks. Bartal could smell the alcohol even over all the others smells in the street. It was like a cloth had been soaked it in and pressed into his nose. He curled his lip with distaste. The short man's two friends goaded and shouted slurs of encouragement for their bold buddy. Idiots. The redhead reached out and grabbed the woman's arm, and that's when things turned upside down. One of the band mates stepped forward and smashed his flute over the man's head, snapping the little instrument in half. He topped over and landed on his rear, a cloud of dust swirling up from his buttocks. Bartal had never seen a group coordinate an exit so quickly. The band grabbed their money and equipment before anyone could even react, took their shocked dancer's hands, and were out of sight before you could say Drunk men are idiots. Even Bartal's jaw hung open a little in surprise before he regained his composure. Very carefully he lowered Nondi to the ground behind him. Her little face was puckered in a frown of disappointment over the fact that the entertainment had gone so quickly. Things sure had shifted in the matter of moments. The sudden change of events was almost comical in the speed in which it had happened. Now only a handful of the previous crowd were left and they were murmuring uncertainly, too stunned by what had just happened to leave quite yet. He looked over at Basha'ir to see how she'd reacted to all of this, then back to the short redhead sitting in the dirty street. Technically he was standing now. His friends had gone to help him unsteadily to his feet.

[Basha'ir]

Bartal had a very direct way of looking at her, which Basha’ir found different, but not alarming, or discomforting. He seemed quite candid, and also a very intense listener, as opposed to many who, out of deceit or indifference, found it hard or not worthwhile to look her in the eyes. She returned his look with a direct one of her own, though a far softer, milder one. When he made his assurance to her that she would do well enough by Nondi, her smiled warmed, though she had no idea who this mother Oriana was that he spoke of. If she had, she might have thought Bartal all the odder for calling upon the bear goddess. But as it was, her attention focused on his answer to her questions, nosy questions to be sure. And the undertone of sorrow they evoked in the man made her sorry to have asked him. She hadn’t meant to expose his lack of companionship. It had been stupid of her to assume that most people eventually found someone to settle down with, and raise a family together. Now that he had made that bald, blunt declaration, I have nothing, how she wished she could have taken her ignorant prying questions back! Without really thinking, her hand dropped from the child’s skinny leg to Bartal’s well muscled arm, a gesture of sympathy, where she could not find any words to recompense him for that confession.

The smile on her face had faded, to be replaced by a sad look, but in the end, Bartal might not have even noticed the change wrought in her. For there was a commotion brewing, where the players were performing, it seemed. Basha’ir was too short to really see much, but she heard slurred words and rowdy laughter. With all her dark experience, Basha’ir easily placed the sounds as part and parcel of some drunken loutishness, and her sad look turned into a grimace. The performance had stopped, mid-note, and now, as people began to swiftly depart, Basha’ir could see, and hear, that three drunken men were focusing their unwanted attentions on the players, specifically, the dancer. In an instant, as these things are wont to do, the drunken palaver turned physical. One of the musicians cracked a flute over a pate of ginger hair, sending the cretin to land on the ground, on his bottom. Almost like magic, the performers disappeared into a side street, and the other two drunks moved to help their friend back to his unsteady feet.

Already, Basha’ir was turning away from her brief glimpse of the scene, her hand going back with worry to Nondi’s leg. As if reading her mind, Bartal was sliding the child carefully from his broad shoulder, setting her down behind the looming bulk of his not insubstantial frame. Basha’ir grabbed the little girl’s hand.

“It seems the entertainment is over,” she said, trying to sound pleasant, for the child’s sake. Nervously, she thought of the dagger she now sported in a sheath tied to the side of her lower leg, just below her knee. She had yet to use it, thankfully, and she had no plans to, unless absolutely necessary. Flight, and not fight, was always going to be her first course of action. With that in mind, Bash’ir gave Bartal a warm, fleeting look, saying, “I think it’s time to go. Thank you again for your kindness.” She smiled, but already she was turning and she began to walk away.

Meanwhile, the three drunks had regrouped, the redhead cursing a blue streak and hurling threats at the now vanished players. His two friends, somewhat more intent on getting on their way, tugged at him, encouraging him to leave off yelling at people who were no longer there, and just come on along. With a mean snarl, he threw one last invective at the alley and he turned, wobbling precariously. But a hand to each of his supporters’ shoulders steadied him, and he sort of launched himself forward, taking three over large and extremely jerky steps, propelling himself in a slanted trajectory, right into the path of the bear kelvic.

He pulled up before actually crashing right into Bartal, but had to put a splayed hand on the kelvic’s chest to keep from tripping over his own feet and falling. With an ugly frown, he looked up into Bartal’s face, and slurred, “Get out of my way, you! Whadda ya mean, standing here gawking like some great lummox. Come to jeer did ya? Think it’s funny, having a flute smashed o’er your head? Wanna sample, huh? Would you like tha?” He reeled back a half step, and tried to cock his arm, but this threw his balance off even more. He stumbled back another step and by this time, his two friends were beside him once more, and began making some attempt to placate him and drag him away. It was at this point that Basha’ir, hearing what was going on behind her, turned her head back over her shoulder, unsure if Bartal had left already, and fearful that he might still be there.

To her great dismay, not only was he there, but he seemed to be the clear target of the ginger’s ire. At the same moment, off to her side, she heard another member of the now dispersing audience saying to her neighbor, “Look sharp. The city guard will be here any moment. Mark my words.”

Basha’ir stopped in her tracks, hesitating. She knew that the Syliran knights weren’t prone to asking questions politely. They seemed to prefer knocking heads together first and then sorting things out once the dust had settled. She looked at Bartal, and hoped that he would choose to simply walk away.

[Bartal]

Things changed again just as quickly as before. It seemed that in the redhead's inebriation, he found that challenging a man that towered well over he himself was a good idea. It wasn't. He may have been too drunk to even throw a proper punch, but that didn't lesson the annoyance that bubbled up into forefront of Bartal's mind. A challenge was a challenge, and it was completely against his instincts as a brown bear to turn it down. His kind were a violent, powerful breed that fought among themselves to the death sometimes just for sport. He'd been the audience for a battle that ended with both bears mortally wounded, and it was merely over a decent fishing spot. The greasy hand that stopped the man's momentum smelled just as bad as the rest of him. He glanced down at the unkempt nails with another curl of his lip. This was how nature ran its course. Of course this man didn't know he was about to take on a grizzly bear. He knew he couldn't change into that skin in the middle of the city, but even in his human body he was much stronger than the average man, and several levels more vicious. This man wouldn't walk away from the fight. Bartal would break him in several places and narry blink an eye. He knew Basha'ir and Nondi were still lurking. He could smell them behind him. When they had turned to go he'd nodded and murmured his goodbye, realizing he didn't like to see them leave but knowing it was necessary. Why were they staying? Of course he'd heard someone mention the guards, but that didn't register with him. He was too distracted by the drunken lot. Finally he answered the one who had issued the challenge in a low, menacing rumble. "You ran into me. I think you need to watch where you walk. I could always take away that ability by splintering your bones with my teeth. Your marrow will make a nice gravy for your flesh." The last word came out as a loud growl, his chest rumbling like thunder. For a moment horror crossed the three men's faces, but then the alcohol took over and gave them some more bravado. The redhead laughed and poked a stubby finger into Bartal's chest a few times to add to his next words. "Quite tha threat! But I got me some friends. Are yee gonna eat them too?" He burst into mocking laughter and after a moment of hesitation his friends joined in. After all, they must have thought, he was just a man. Bartal hoped beyond all hope that this man would poke him in the chest again. And he did. The grubby fingernail poked the flesh through his shirt and without any hesitation he grabbed the man's digit and snapped it with an audible crunch. For a moment everyone was silent, staring dumbfounded at the crooked finger. Then the man shrieked, holding his hand to his chest. "You monster! How could-?" he tried to shout, but broke off with a loud whimper. One of his fellows tried to make an advance to avenge his ignorant friend, but he picked the man up by the front of his tunic and threw him to land on his back across the street with seemingly no effort. Bartal looked over at the other man with a savage smile, inhaling deeply the smell of fear and anger. His muscles shuddered and he wanted nothing more to change bodies and make these men piss in their breeches. Maybe he would. A little voice whispered in the back of his mind; the voice of reason. It said, "The guards would kill you. Don't throw your life away just to teach them to show respect." But he didn't want to listen. Without meaning to he snarled out loud, but no one but him could that voice. It was a vicious sound that ripped its way up from the depths of his throat and through his gnashed teeth. His lips were pulled back as if to show off the fangs he didn't have in this body. Without him noticing, the third man had pulled a small but very sharp blade him inside his tall boot. It was hidden from sight because of the angle he was standing it, and it was tucked up underneath his long sleeve. He advanced a minimal step, trying to move around to Bartal's side. The other man was pulling himself up from the dirt street, a glare plastered on his face. And the redhead had retreated a few faces to nurse his mangled finger.

[Basha'ir]

Basha’ir stood, transfixed by her concern, for Bartal. She had no doubt he was capable of looking after himself, even against three. He was big and muscular and looked tough, though that did not always mean a man was an adept fighter. Her concern for him stemmed from what she now saw hurrying down a side street. The glint and clank of armor announced the imminent arrival of the city guard. Her head turned to look again at her new acquaintance, when she heard that snap, and the immediate howl of agony it dragged from the red headed man’s lips. Then the other man was flying back, to land with a thud on the cobbles. Basha’ir looked again at the knights that would be upon the scene in the next few moments. Scooping Nondi up in her arms, she ran, back towards Bartal.

The sound that came from the rugged man who had hoisted Nondi so easily to his broad shoulder made Basha’ir’s blood freeze. But she didn’t have time to waste considering what kind of person could even make a sound like that, so animalistic and fierce. She hurried to stand beside him, and if she noted the third drunk, she must have been assuming that he wouldn’t get any closer to a guy like Bartal, not after what he had just done to the drunks’ two friends. Pushing aside her fear, and perhaps a good bit of her commons sense, Basha’ir grabbed at Bartal’s sleeve to get his attention. The expression on his rugged features was enough to make her cringe, but she said in a low, desperate voice, “Bartal! The knights are coming! You must come away. Leave this riff-raff and come, quickly!”

She tugged at his sleeve trying to get him to move, wondering if he had even heard her.