A Matter of Opinion [Wrenmae]

[Ayatah]

|| 62nd Winter, 512AV || East Street || 18th Bell ||

Common advice told Ayatah to avoid the crime-ridden East Street in the evening and night-time. But Ayatah feared no gangs or criminals. She was armed with her longbow and dagger. She was Myrian - the rumoured Myrian that would eat your children if they didn’t go to bed! If anyone tried to mug her, the fool would be them. Still, she remained wary; Myrian’s fully believed that they should be completely aware of their surroundings.

Or so she liked to think, anyway.

Her stubbornness showed her nativity, perhaps, in living in a city like Zeltiva. Myri commanded that her people did not commit murder or assault amongst each other, so for the most part, Taloba was peaceful. Any conflict occurred between the Myrian’s and other races, especially the despire Dhani or Zith. Zeltiva was different; there were so many races in the city that there was politely unity and tolerance between them all. But at the same time, there was a cool aloofness between strangers. And even crime. It was just short of 30 days since a Waveguard had been horrifically murdered, and everyone still carried the weight of the event on his or her shoulders.

Still, there Ayatah was, in East Street, along with a few other brave travellers who were either equally courageous or stupid. Each of them who passed the woman gave her a questioning look, full of suspicion. It was something that Ayatah had come to expect and accept; it seemed that to the people of Zeltiva, she was a full-bloodied Myrian. Only other Myrians would look at her with a similar questioning look, knowing that she was, in fact, mixed blood.

I get funny looks wherever I go. She thought begrudgingly, holding the frosty gaze of a teenage boy.

The light was dimming, and a cold wind blew down East Street, straight into Ayatah’s face. Her eyes narrowed in the gust, and she hurried her walk a little. When she had arrived in the city, the fresh air and cold breeze had been a welcome change to clammy conditions of her Jungle home. Now, though, it seemed that Ayatah could not escape the biting wind. I will be grateful when Spring and Summer are here she though, thinking of the warmth and sun. Sh would welcome them back to her life like old friends.

The homesickness had passed her, Ayatah felt, and she was slipping into city life relatively easily. She missed her clan and family dearly, the way her Great Grandmother seemed to know all, and her mother’s cooking. She missed the sounds of the jungle, and the excitement of a hunt. All in all, though, she did miss her home, but she was enjoying her time in Zeltiva all the same. The fever did not scare her, anymore than the crime did.

I am a Myrian, she’d tell herself and others, I fear nobody.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Wrenmae]

He was almost a shadow himself, thin and clad in the black of the cloak he wore about his shoulders. As the others had passed through East Street, eyes dragging along the shadows, frightened, nervous, he had let them pass. Only one among them walked with a purpose, without fear or...perhaps with great confidence. It was a woman, a sensuous shadow delivered by the hands of fate to this very street, to this very moment.

Wren had been out, striding along the lightless alleys and basking in the scattered moonlight beneath dirt grey clouds. Now he stepped in front of the woman, an obstacle on an otherwise empty journey.

He was only known by the blades that glittered against dappled moonlight, falling slantwise to glow along their gleaming edges. Both were in his hand, revealed only to Ayatah of all people.

"Evening's like this..." The stranger said to her, holding out the blades, "They're dangerous for those who go alone...especially in this side of town."

Both blades spun along his hands as he approached her, step by step over loud cobblestone. "If you have anything of value, surrender it and I'll allow you to walk from here unharmed."

He hoped she took offense to that request.

Something about the evening, about the double lives he played, something tonight begged he test her. Perhaps it was how she walked, the exotic fragrance of her, overpowering the mundane smells of filth and rot.

She was a shake from the inebriated haze he'd been stepping through. The city died around him and no one stopped him. Imass was gone, spirited away and with him all opposition that represented the knight had also gone.

The world had laid down to die.

Was she but another corpse walking?

[Ayatah]

Something stepped out in front of her, and Ayatah froze before she had even processed what, exactly, it was.

A man.

Where exactly her had come from, she was not sure - surely he had not been ahead of her this whole time? It disturbed the Mix-Blood that he may have done. She was Myrian (or so she likened to think), so a city-dweller should not have caught her off guard.

He is armed. Her dark eyes dropped to both of his hands, which gripped daggers that glinted lightly in the milky moonlight.

Then her eyes met his, defiant, confident.

"Evening's like this... They're dangerous for those who go alone...especially in this side of town."

”I am Myrian.” She said bluntly, that accent strong and thick. There was certainly no mistaking where she was from, at least, ”I walk through the Jungle alone. This is a street. It is different.”

Fighting the urge to either step backwards away from him, or forward to meet his offence, Ayatah rooted her feet downwards, casting the stranger a dark look. She had heard of midnight muggings, even midnight murders.

You will not be a victim.

"If you have anything of value, surrender it and I'll allow you to walk from here unharmed."

The woman swallowed a smirk that almost broke across her lips, but her eyes glinted with nothing short of amusement, ”I have nothing of value on me.” Her words were true; she carried not even her long bow - just her own dagger. And the weapon was nothing special, just a two simple blades joined by one wooden hilt. She had once owned another, but that was now far from her person and in the possession of someone else.

”You will have to choose another victim if you want goods to steal.”

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Wrenmae]

She was magnificent. No give in her, no shift of stance and no desperate attack or fleeing. She met his eyes with her own and proudly declared her heritage, her defiance to his appearance here on a lifeless night as this. For a moment he considered simply letting her continue on her way unimpeded. Certainly she had shown a certain amount of bravery...or perhaps stupidity. It was hard to tell these days when both walked arm in arm in the form of Syliran Knights. Considering his options, he paused a few yards from her and chuckled, a sound that rolled between them, kin to the cold winds that bit at both their flesh.

Both were absent of any mercy.

"You demean your possessions," Wrenmae said quietly, spinning the daggers in his hands, "Your life, for instance, is something of value...your dignity...your sight...your beauty. You carry with you the gifts granted to you by the gods at birth. Who am I to say that they are not treasures worth taking...and who are you to ignore them so."

He indicated the ground at his feet with one of the blades, "Leave a treasure for me, or fight to keep them all. The result makes little difference to me."

His smile was white flame in the moonlight, "I never expected to see a jungle beast so far from her home...tell me, are the streets and your precious jungle so similar?"

He held one of the knives to his ear for a brief moment, smiling,

"The silence, I heard the jungle is always full of noise. So how does the silence treat you...savage"

[Ayatah]

"Your life, for instance, is something of value...your dignity...your sight...your beauty. You carry with you the gifts granted to you by the gods at birth. Who am I to say that they are not treasures worth taking...and who are you to ignore them so."

The words of the stranger confused Ayatah, and she tilted her head in one side as she listened. She had no patience for cryptic words or riddles, save for the humorous sort. But something in how the words were spoken to Ayatah made her pay more attention to them.

”I don’t understand.” Her words were honest, ”you want to be pretty? I hear that’s what make-up is for.” Whether or not he was trying to be… funny, or mysterious, mattered not to Ayatah. He would only get direct answers from her. She did not play mind games with strangers.

"Leave a treasure for me, or fight to keep them all. The result makes little difference to me."

”Depends what you class as a treasure.” Another casual shrug of her shoulders. She came across as more annoyed at the words of this stranger, as opposed to his attempt of mugging her.

"The silence, I heard the jungle is always full of noise. So how does the silence treat you...savage"

A frown was on her face now, and her dark eyes shifted sideways to watch the blade that was so close to her face. And her throat.

A trace of concerned flicked across her expression, but once the blade was retracted away, Ayatah held his gaze once more. ”You have obviously never visited the jungle before. It is loud, yes. But it can also be silent. Those are the moments before something dies.” She scanned him quickly, from his feet to his face, ”sometimes it is a tiger, a man. Or a pig.”

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Wrenmae]

The shadow paused, considering the weight of her words. She had misunderstood him although his intention was clear. Perhaps it was that common was not her first tongue, an answer to the confusion of circumstance. However, as the wind blew past them both, bringing the scent of skin and sweat, the myriad identities of their bodies, to each nose and past…she spoke again. So, she did understand, but she had no fear.

In honesty, Wren had only heard of the Myrian. Some whispered in Alvadas they were savage creatures that fed on human flesh. Others would regale their legendary skill with combat. Here she stood, fearless, and perhaps Wren could not blame her. The Jungle was likely far more dangerous than this. Trouble never spoke, it only acted. She would have reacted if he’d attacked her…and perhaps the reason in his voice calmed her to the point of this bravado. The air itself fell still, as though the gods had called for a cease of the world itself to allow their meeting. Different worlds, different heritage, an d both were killers.



Or perhaps he imagined the smell of blood on her skin, the sickly iron aroma of it.

And just like that, his resolve crumbled. It was not that he lost his nerve, simply that killing her would make no difference to anyone. She would fight without sound, he felt, methodical and trained. Even if he landed the final blow, she would die defiant. Vayt might have liked her, wanted to test her, but personally Wren had lost his desire to perforate her flesh.



He let that fading desire escape from his mouth in a long sigh, tempting the wind itself with the force of his breath. In that moment, he found her aura, concentrating on it. To an aurist, the aura of a living being an unmitigated flood of information. To look at it in totality was to invite ruin and so instead he focused on her emotions, calm, her muscl es, still, reading the djed he could not see but had the power to perceive. Warding it away before it left him with a headache, he stepped towards her. Close as they could be, two faces held apart only by vision and a shadow of moonlight that cast between them. He was close enough to bit her if he wanted.



Instead, he leaned in with a darting half-speed, more a bird than any romantic, and left the imprint of his lips on hers, withdrawing defensively with a thin smile.



“Are all your kind like you?”

[Ayatah]

The passing moments were odd and a little awkward, if Ayatah were to describe them. She was waiting for the man in front of her to do something - although she was not sure why exactly she was hanging about. It would be just as easy for her to walk past him and get on with her night.

She watched his face carefully, dark eyes narrowed and suspicious. She was not used to watching peoples’ expressions - their body language, yes. But the emotions of others were not something she typically concerned herself with, unless it would save herself from danger. And seeing as the attempted mugging had seemed to have somewhat slipped his mind, what little threat she had felt when that dagger was near her face had dissolved to nothingness.

City men are all talk…

The thought was interrupted by the stranger suddenly coming very close to her. She took a sharp breath of the cool air, wary of the heat emitting from his body and just how close he suddenly was. Where were his hands - and more importantly, those daggers? Her gaze cast downwards, searching for the weapons that he so happily had pressed against her just bells ago. Why was he so close? Something similar to fear woke within the half-Myrian. She was used to weapons, but not this move. Her hands came up defensively, brushing against his torso.

Of course, the next thing that he did surprised her even more. She stood, almost mechanically, abolsutely still as his face came closer to hers - though this was down to the jerking speed with which he closed the remaining distance between them. As his lips brushed against hers, silent memories flashed through Ayatah’s mind; Two bodies grinding against each other, slick with sweat. A tiger. A certain smile. A name.

A man.

When she opened her eyes, it was not an expression of confusion or anger that Ayatah of the Scattered Bones wore. It was one of sadness and disappointment; as if she had hoped that the man in front of her would turn into someone else, and was saddened when he evidently had not.

For a single chime, that sense of longing and heartbreak was utterly evident on her face. Even a half-Myrian had feelings, it appeared.


“Are all your kind like you?”

The voice dragged her back to the present moment, to Zeltiva. She blinked, once, twice, thrice, to clear her mind. Afterwards, that coolness and hostility returned to her - intensified now. She was annoyed, but at herself for falling into warm memories and once again mourning the distance between herself and… someone. And even more infuriatingly, she had done so in front of a complete stranger.

”You still have your G'iib-tah” she said venomously, the Myrian word rolling off her tongue so naturally, as one’s own home language does. ”So no, I am not. Every other Myrian woman would have castrated you by now.”

And once again, her words were pretty much the truth.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Wrenmae]

There was a moment of solemn silence between them before Wren drew away, leaving the unmistakable residue of sorrow on her lips, on her eyes and cheeks. Immediately that wonder he had cultivated in the simple act of a kiss clouded, and familiar shadow replaced it. Ayatah was not idle long, and her face twisted in the motions of fury. Something had been taken from her, something that she obviously missed…but not from him.

And other pieces fell into place as well…the pausing and careful pronunciation of common, her confusion, her unshaken resolve. Much of her didn’t understand him, or at least didn’t pick up on the nuance of his phrasing. She looked down on him and why shouldn’t she? He was a brigand, a thief in the street, and she was likely some trained savage…born through blood and raised in it. It was any mystery she didn’t try to strike him down now.

His face twitched, sneered, and he drew back the unguarded awe he’d regarded her with before…and suspicious and snide derision replaced it, taking his features like a rolling storm.

“Is that so?” he asked her softly, “So you are weaker than your people? Cowardly? Unable to strike out?” His words were layered with a thread of hypnotism, simple anger, a pulsing quiet fury, and like all emotions of such volatile make, it would grow or dissipate as was her will. He pushed that crimson, thumping thread, the sound and color of heartbeats, into her aura, threading it into the weave of complex emotions that made up her Djed. “I am not the one you hoped would taste your lips…and yet you let it happen.”

He paused, weighing his words before he spoke. “Is your lover dead?”

[Ayatah]

“So you are weaker than your people? Cowardly? Unable to strike out?”

The words carried some truth, and so Ayatah could not shake her head nor argue against them. She was not entirely Myrian. And part of that, she had learnt, was to be more forgiving than her maternal people. She was not as cruel, nor ferocious, as her pureblooded counterparts. The Eypharian blood that coursed within her veins dampened that savage instinct the Jungle dwellers were renown for.

So yes, she was… different to the people of her maternal heritage. But Ayatah refused to accept that she was more cowardly than them, or that killing came any less natural to her. With daggers in her hands, she was as confident and

”I am not pureblooded Myrian.” The words were delivered bluntly, and her brow furrowed. The softness of his voice had clearly irked her, though for reasons she could not explain. There was a condescending note to what he had said, though that would not have usually aroused such irritation. Now she watched him through narrowed eyes, casting a darkened look as she struggled with the blazing frustration inside her. She had heard such things before - but only from pureblooded Myrians. Who was he to decide she was any less a Daughter of Myri?

And then came his next question.

Ayatah’s jaw clenched, though once again her fury dissolved into nothingness for the second time that night. She would not answer his query, partly because she could not do so honestly. Several seasons separated herself and her lover, during which Myri only know what could happen.

”Are you used to women melting in the palm of your hand after a simple kiss?” The anger in her expression was replaced by something else now: a strange humor. Perhaps it was a little forced, but if Ayatah was to be held up in the middle of a street at night, she was going to entertain herself.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Wrenmae]

So...she was not a true Myrian. Personally, hailing from no particular culture, Wrenmae didn't understand the concept of pure-blood. Human was human and no Vantha, Svefra, Drykas, or Myrian could tell him otherwise. Perhaps it was that there was some measure of strength or reservoir of power in owing ones parentage to two of the same sub-class...but Wrenmae could see no vantage on it.

The myrian were as known to him as the complexities of the Isur....altogether his perceptions were built on the prevailing notion he'd been told.

What Mok and Cade had taught him.

Shrugging, relaxing back from her to more even footing, the hypnotist honestly couldn't answer the question without a chuckle or two. "I'm not accustomed to kissing women at all, much less using it as a means of manipulation." It was an honest answer, honest in the face of a bushel of earlier lies.

"You caught my attention, I repaid that attention in kind with affection, there was nothing more complicated than a simple social transaction that occurred here."

He sighed, the breath leaving him, looking out to each place the street joined the road they were on, tributaries of silent nothingness.

They were alone.

"Tell me of your people then, of your home. If you've nothing to lose, I will at least take some knowledge."