Haste Makes Waste (Open)

[Siriala]

Timestamp: 77th Day of Summer, 510 AV

Siriala was by no means a woman who would help any troubled person who stumbled upon her path, but today was an exception. She had been wandering the bazaar, to pass the time eying wares yet not really planning to buy anything, when she came upon a scene at the baker's stall. A nervous woman was there, trying to explain to a rather tall and angry man that they were out of the bread he was looking for. Now normally Siri would have walked right by, like any of the everyday folks in the streets, and normally she would feel no guilt about it. But normally, she would not have been provoked by words caught above the noise of the crowd. "Women shouldn't run stalls. Next time stay at home, wench, where you belong." Siri's temper, which was as unpredictable as a tempest, flared up. You could say that she...persuaded the man to leave the frightened stall-keeper alone. In thanks, the woman had given her fresh bread on-the-house.

Now Siriala was strolling home, carrying the bag of bread in her arms. She paused for a moment, putting the bread down on the ground, and stretched her arms. Regardless of how light the load was, carrying it for a while was making her sore, and Siri wasn't that strong to begin with. She bent down to pick up the bag again and stiffened. It was gone. Her sharp, silver eyes flew to the others in the street, and she could see a figure weaving between people with the stolen object in his hands. Siri snarled, taking off after the thief. Her original gait was fast, her frame perfect for speed, but the woman was a sprinter, not a long distance runner, and soon her pace began to slow ever so slightly. She would not have that. Siri gritted her teeth, her long hair flowing behind her, and forced herself to move faster. The woman was stubborn, too stubborn, and she wasn't going to let one little thief get the better of her. This wasn't a matter of getting the bread back anymore, no, but rather of maintaining her pride.

Chimes passed, and Siri could feel her body begin to protest. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, and her head throbbed as if timpani drums were pounding inside her skull. As the woman could feel herself reaching her limit, she spotted the thief ahead of her, walking without a care in the world. She grinned triumphantly, soon catching up to them. In one fluid motion Siri grabbed the person's arm, turning them to her, and drew her sword, setting it inches from their chest. The woman narrowed her eyes at the person in front of her. Everything was blurry, the city starting to tip alarmingly in different directions, so she wasn't even to tell if they were even human, much less what their gender was. Yet one thing was for certain: this was not the thief. Her chest heaved, her lungs trying to get enough oxygen to sustain her fast heartbeat, and between breaths she managed to speak. "You're...not the... thief..." Siriala swayed dangerously, her knees trembling with the effort of holding her up. "Dung." She cursed, before finally collapsing as she lost consciousness.

[Samuel Blackwell]

Sam's small soft feet stepped through the market place as she wondered at all the many faces. 'It's really true what they say,' she thought, ' Syliras really is a melting pot.' Her youthful eyes took in all the visual splendor of the many faces, the vendors hawking their wares and just ahead of her the woman collapsing to the ground.

Sam stood their for a moment. She was young and naive. She expected someone to help the swooning woman to her feet. The bustling crowd didn't seem to notice her lying their at all. Samuel pursed her lips in concern, unsure if she should do something or if there was a reason everyone ignored her.

Finally benevolence won out and Sam's slight frame bent over. Her hood fell over her head covering all but her boyish face. Her throat was still dry and her muscles still ached from the long journey, but Sam wrapped her dusty hands around the woman's shoulders. She attempted to drag her through the crowd to a place she would be out the way of many feet.

[Siriala]

Even Siriala's subconscious was stubborn. Moments after she passed out, the woman could feel parts of herself returning to the world. Am I moving? Siri thought as she got the impression that she was being dragged across the ground. Yes...someone was dragging her through the street! Her eyes flew open, flashing like the steel of a blade catching the suns rays, and she twisted her body to get out of the person's grasp, instinctively reaching for the hilt of her sword. (OCC: Somehow she had managed to sheath it before fainting.) That was probably not a very good idea. The woman's stomach lurched, and she became temporarily nauseated as she attempted to glare at the person who was her supposed "attacker". Siri failed miserably, her illness making it's way into her expression. She sighed, upon noticing that perhaps this person was was not a threat, and sat back on the street, an arm wrapped around her belly. Her eyes stared at the cloaked figure, trying to judge the face beneath the hood of their cloak. For all she could tell the person seemed young--and male. Wariness flowed through her, and her voice had a hint of warning as it said, "Care to explain yourself, boy?"

[Samuel Blackwell]

Her muscles screaming in protest Sam tried to speak through teeth clenched tight in pain, "I'm - trying - to - get you - out of-" Finally they reached a wall and she felt they were well enough out of the way of the crowds. Collapsing down to the ground with a thud she began gasping for breath pathetically through a dry throat. With no energy for sitting up the hood hung lower over her face as she hunched. She felt as though she would never stand up again. Through gasps of breat she spoke but still not much clearer than through clenched teeth, "I was dragging - you out of - the street."

[Siriala]

"I was dragging-you out of-the street."

Siriala's eyes widened--that voice was definitely far too feminine to be male. The woman could feel her body relaxing, but kept her gaze hard. There was no way she would let herself be caught off guard by some stranger in a cloak, even if they had the decency to pull her out of the street. ...Wait a minute...what was she doing in the street in the first place? And why was her head pounding so much? Siri felt as if she had just run a marathon, which was closer to the truth than she thought, and she couldn't really remember what she was doing before she regained consciousness. Suspicion flooded through her once again. She stood, forcing her legs not to tremble, and managed to appear like she was towering over the stranger at her measly height of 5'2". This time, instead of just resting her hand on the hilt, she drew her sword, pointing it threateningly at the person sitting in front of her. It glittered wickedly in the sunlight, the blood groove tracing its way down the center, yet there was something eerily elegant about it. The sword bore no name, for Siri could think of none that would fit it's simplistic, yet deadly, beauty. The woman admired it for a moment, looking at it affectionately, as the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly in something resembling a smile. She turned her attention back to the hooded figure in front of her.

"I would like to apologize in advance for this, stranger who removed me from the street. Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. You're going to remove that hood of yours, tell me your name--your real one please, and explain why I was collapsed in the street in the first place. Or...I can let my blade here get a taste of you. Which will it be?" Siriala's voice was stern as she stared down at the stranger with her silver eyes. Of course, the woman wasn't actually planning on hurting anyone, but they didn't need to know that. Besides, it was better to get the answers out sooner than later, and Siri wasn't exactly the type who enjoyed beating around the bush. A trait which had gotten her in trouble before. She might even be in trouble now. The woman had, after all, drawn a sword in public, completely forgetting about the Syliran Knights that patrolled the city...

[Samuel Blackwell]

Samuel's stomach did a backflip at the sickly sound of the sword being drawn. She was beginning to regret coming to this city. 'I wonder if this is why no one wanted to help her up a moment ago,' she thought to herself now wishing she hadn't either. This was the second time she had had a weapon pointed at her today and that was two times too many.

Slowly, so as not to startle the woman who was obviously already very rattled, Sam reached up and lowered her hood. She couldn't help but scowl indignantly with young hazel eyes back at the woman as her fine auburn hair fell out of the hood to her shoulders. "Easy now ma'am. There ain't any need for threats of violence," Sam unconsciously touched a large book shaped package strapped to her back. She swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat. "My name's Samuel Balckwell. And as for your passing out in the street that's your own affair." Sam's voice went hoarse from her dry mouth and throat, "I jus' wanted ta make sure ya didn't get trampled by the crowd." Her eye flicked from the woman's eyes to the sword pointed at her and back again nervously.

[Elhaym]

The artist was perched on a stack of wooden crates, holding a thin piece of wood as a backing board to a sheet of vellum paper. Her hand moved in quick, broad strokes, creating shapes out of what seemed to have been smudges only seconds ago with nothing more than a blunt stick of charcoal. The crowd had been particularly volatile today, as she had noted the exchange between what looked to be a small boy and an even smaller woman. She drew their outlines first, blocky, shapeless masses that she smudged and manipulated with a finer touch into distinctive shapes.

The artist sighed momentarily, as the crowd became thick between herself and her "models", and took the opportunity to reach to a loaf of suspiciously hot bread aside her, and tear free a large chunk before jamming it into her mouth.

She continued drawing the exchange as the crowd thinned, mercilessly chewing.

[Siriala]

Ahhh...I was right. So she was a woman after all. Siriala thought as she observed Samuel with lingering distrust. She closed her eyes, sheathing the sword, and her expression returned to normal. "Forgive me Miss Blackwell, I assure you that I honestly meant no harm. It's just that I awoke in a very unusual manner, without any recollection of what had happened previously. So naturally, I'd be a bit suspicious." Incredibly, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Just be lucky you are a woman. You see I don't have a very high tolerance for men, and I most likely would not have been as...agreeable." She chuckled to herself, knowing that "agreeable" wasn't exactly the best word to describe her. The petite woman extended her hand to Sam, to help her off the ground, and waited with eyebrows slightly raised to see if she would take it.

It occurred to Siriala that this might be a good opportunity to get to know some of the people around here. Not to mention that she felt like she could relax around women. If she was talking to a female, Siri often revealed herself to be a much more pleasant person, although there were exceptions.

Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

[Samuel Blackwell]

Samuel's scowl vanished, quickly replaced with a face of confusion and vague distrust. She did her best to put on a cordial smile. Reaching up she grasped the extended hand. "S' alright. No harm done." Standing up she brushed the dirt from her cloak and her hands. Tugging at her hood and pulling it back up on her head she said, "You don't need to bother with that Miss Blackwell stuff, you can call me Sam." Samuel touched the package strapped to her back again as if checking it was still there. A more natural smile slowly eased over her face, one with hint of puckish charm. "And what may I call you?"

[Elhaym]

"If they'd stop moving around so much... sheesh." the artist thought in exasperation.

She had completed the woman for the most part, only needing to fill in some shading details. She didn't need to worry about that, seeing as how she had noted the directions of the main sources of lighting when she first began the drawing. When sketching people who may be gone in a few seconds, you became accustomed to doing this.

The artist pushed her black hair back with a bandaged and charcoal strained hand, now focusing on the cloaked fellow. She'd have to note the folds and creases, which was always an annoyance. Finishing off the last of her small loaf of bread, the artist reached for her waterskin while simultaneously observing her subjects.