1st Day of Spring, 513AV
Red Diamond Fashions
11th Bell
If Razkar thought he was mistrusted before his day in the Arena, he knew he was outright hated after it.
Everything had changed, and that's not hyperbole. His employer had cut him lose, deeming it an unacceptable risk to have such a well-known face on his (supposedly) covert payroll. Razkar had grudgingly accepted Provedan's logic, since it was the least of his problems.
He had to leave. Riverfall had gone from suspicious of him to outright hostile, and he knew it was only a matter of time before some hotblooded Akalak or three decided to take the law into their own hands.
Which would either result in his dead or back in that damn Arena.
"I told you, savage! No service, no sale, now get out!"
Razkar was forced backwards out the front door of the Arma'Drex Smithy by the twin forms of Haiduk and Loriim. The former was towering over him, blacksmith's hammer held in one hand, the other... quieter. More cerebral and even a tad regretful, but not countering at all his partner's bellowing.
With greatdifficulty, the Myrian put up his hands, trying to placate them. A crowd was fast gathering around the little scene, muttering Akalak's coming closer, especially when they saw the subject of consternation.
Him.
"I only want repair done." He said, looking at Loriim, who would be the better man for the alterations to his leather harness. "I not need to cause trouble, and-"
"I'm not asking you, savage." Not bellowing, now. Haiduk was snarling, pointing with his hammer and Razkar knew his was a breath away from snapping. "We're not helping you. Not for love or money, now get the hells away from this place!"
The Myrian took deep breaths and it was with a faint pang of sadness that he turned his back on them. Haiduk and Loriim were true craftsmen, and while Haiduk knew the bone Razkar had bought him had come from an Akalak, he still made it into a shaft for his ax. They had not been... friendly, Razkar guess, but they had tolerated him, and he had enjoyed watching them work.
Then came that day in the Arena. Revelations and truth and further humiliations, for all Akalaks, apparently. Razkar knew well that while insults against ones own flesh could be forgiven, insults against race or honor... they never healed.
Shaking his head, the Myrian had walked away, got back on his laden horse and found a similar story down every street he wandered. Stores were closed to him, or their owners had stood in the doorway with weapons openly drawn. Children were more fiercely shooed out of his way and some of the warrior race even spat on the ground before he walked on it.
Razkar did not rise to it. He would be leaving that night, and the next dawn would find him leagues from this city. But that meant he had things to do, and he was already burning daylight...
The Myrians cursed softly and absently fingered the double-bladed dagger at the small of his back. Well, more accurately it was jammed down his pants at the small of his back, and that's the reason he wanted Loriim's skills: to make a sheath for it before he left. He still had Mrrko to sell, his excess items and feed... so much to do. So few bells.
Then he glanced left and saw... something. A hope, perhaps, but a forlorn and frilly one, by his standards. The chill of winter was putting up a good fight but the warmth of spring was kicking the hells out it it, gradually, and the sun warmed his face nicely as it illuminated the sign over the storefront.
"Red... Diamond... Fashions..."
He sounded out the words carefully, frowning and noticing the woman behind the glass. She had... many arms. Six, in fact. The Myrian just gawped for a few moments. He knew the name for... oh, Goddess...
"Eypharian," he breathed, mind flashing with images of his Ayatah, now Goddess knew where. He could see the similarities in the female's face. The delicate cheekbones and pale skin, fine and beautiful. Even out here, he could... he sniffed, inhaled deeply... ah, yes, the faint traces of perfume and what Ayatah had told him were things called "fermones".
Natural perfume, apparently. Very exotic.
Razkar exhaled heavily and swallowed. Needs must, as his mother always said. No-one of the Akalaks would help him, so what did that leave him but a foreigner like himself? He squared his shoulders, tapped his money bag and stepped into the door.
He looked around at the bewildering array of clothes and knew he was being scrutinized himself as he stood, waiting for service.
The Myrian wore his sandals and leather pants, both made of dark tanned leather, simple and tough, much like himself. Above that was his shirt, a simple linen tunic of grey over which was the complex latticework of leather that was his weapons harness.
Which he wore without any attempt at concealment. Hand ax and gladius, both with bone shafts, hung at his waist. A wickedly-curved kukri was at his pectoral, pointing down. The only thing she couldn't see were his two lakan, claimed from a dead Akalak (OK, OK, slain Akalak, but we're not going over that again...), in sheathes at his back, under... ah, yes...
What would she make of his Cloak of Fallen, he wondered idly? A patchwork of scalps and flesh and hair sewn together that came down to his knees, some of the flesh... not that old. Facial tattoos and piercings marred his dark skin, too, and those obsidian eyes flitted around but when they stared, nothing shone in them but the reflection of their target. He wore a necklace of beads and claws around his neck and when he scratched under his chin, fresh inkwork on his arms were revealed...
Razkar shuffled uncomfortably, but he felt a little thrill of amusement as he waited.
But you ain't served me kind before...
Red Diamond Fashions
11th Bell
If Razkar thought he was mistrusted before his day in the Arena, he knew he was outright hated after it.
Everything had changed, and that's not hyperbole. His employer had cut him lose, deeming it an unacceptable risk to have such a well-known face on his (supposedly) covert payroll. Razkar had grudgingly accepted Provedan's logic, since it was the least of his problems.
He had to leave. Riverfall had gone from suspicious of him to outright hostile, and he knew it was only a matter of time before some hotblooded Akalak or three decided to take the law into their own hands.
Which would either result in his dead or back in that damn Arena.
"I told you, savage! No service, no sale, now get out!"
Razkar was forced backwards out the front door of the Arma'Drex Smithy by the twin forms of Haiduk and Loriim. The former was towering over him, blacksmith's hammer held in one hand, the other... quieter. More cerebral and even a tad regretful, but not countering at all his partner's bellowing.
With greatdifficulty, the Myrian put up his hands, trying to placate them. A crowd was fast gathering around the little scene, muttering Akalak's coming closer, especially when they saw the subject of consternation.
Him.
"I only want repair done." He said, looking at Loriim, who would be the better man for the alterations to his leather harness. "I not need to cause trouble, and-"
"I'm not asking you, savage." Not bellowing, now. Haiduk was snarling, pointing with his hammer and Razkar knew his was a breath away from snapping. "We're not helping you. Not for love or money, now get the hells away from this place!"
The Myrian took deep breaths and it was with a faint pang of sadness that he turned his back on them. Haiduk and Loriim were true craftsmen, and while Haiduk knew the bone Razkar had bought him had come from an Akalak, he still made it into a shaft for his ax. They had not been... friendly, Razkar guess, but they had tolerated him, and he had enjoyed watching them work.
Then came that day in the Arena. Revelations and truth and further humiliations, for all Akalaks, apparently. Razkar knew well that while insults against ones own flesh could be forgiven, insults against race or honor... they never healed.
Shaking his head, the Myrian had walked away, got back on his laden horse and found a similar story down every street he wandered. Stores were closed to him, or their owners had stood in the doorway with weapons openly drawn. Children were more fiercely shooed out of his way and some of the warrior race even spat on the ground before he walked on it.
Razkar did not rise to it. He would be leaving that night, and the next dawn would find him leagues from this city. But that meant he had things to do, and he was already burning daylight...
The Myrians cursed softly and absently fingered the double-bladed dagger at the small of his back. Well, more accurately it was jammed down his pants at the small of his back, and that's the reason he wanted Loriim's skills: to make a sheath for it before he left. He still had Mrrko to sell, his excess items and feed... so much to do. So few bells.
Then he glanced left and saw... something. A hope, perhaps, but a forlorn and frilly one, by his standards. The chill of winter was putting up a good fight but the warmth of spring was kicking the hells out it it, gradually, and the sun warmed his face nicely as it illuminated the sign over the storefront.
"Red... Diamond... Fashions..."
He sounded out the words carefully, frowning and noticing the woman behind the glass. She had... many arms. Six, in fact. The Myrian just gawped for a few moments. He knew the name for... oh, Goddess...
"Eypharian," he breathed, mind flashing with images of his Ayatah, now Goddess knew where. He could see the similarities in the female's face. The delicate cheekbones and pale skin, fine and beautiful. Even out here, he could... he sniffed, inhaled deeply... ah, yes, the faint traces of perfume and what Ayatah had told him were things called "fermones".
Natural perfume, apparently. Very exotic.
Razkar exhaled heavily and swallowed. Needs must, as his mother always said. No-one of the Akalaks would help him, so what did that leave him but a foreigner like himself? He squared his shoulders, tapped his money bag and stepped into the door.
He looked around at the bewildering array of clothes and knew he was being scrutinized himself as he stood, waiting for service.
The Myrian wore his sandals and leather pants, both made of dark tanned leather, simple and tough, much like himself. Above that was his shirt, a simple linen tunic of grey over which was the complex latticework of leather that was his weapons harness.
Which he wore without any attempt at concealment. Hand ax and gladius, both with bone shafts, hung at his waist. A wickedly-curved kukri was at his pectoral, pointing down. The only thing she couldn't see were his two lakan, claimed from a dead Akalak (OK, OK, slain Akalak, but we're not going over that again...), in sheathes at his back, under... ah, yes...
What would she make of his Cloak of Fallen, he wondered idly? A patchwork of scalps and flesh and hair sewn together that came down to his knees, some of the flesh... not that old. Facial tattoos and piercings marred his dark skin, too, and those obsidian eyes flitted around but when they stared, nothing shone in them but the reflection of their target. He wore a necklace of beads and claws around his neck and when he scratched under his chin, fresh inkwork on his arms were revealed...
Razkar shuffled uncomfortably, but he felt a little thrill of amusement as he waited.
But you ain't served me kind before...
