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A royal wedding is at work! Whilst the families of the Mikaelidas and the Leventi culminate at first the Leventi manor then the Mikaelidas estate, stopping the verify the nuptials of Lord Achilleas and Lady Theodora at the Temple of the Gods along the way, the rest of the city has been given joyous occasion to celebrate also! As is tradition for royal events, the market place has been decked out in lanterns, flowers and free wine for the people of Vasiliadon. In the name of the new King Irakles, the people are encouraged to drink, laugh and make merry into the night. Lack of noble blood will not stop the people celebrating so prosperous a noble union and perhaps the guests of the wedding might show in the later hours of the evening, ready to off the latest gossip of the bride and groom...
JD
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JD
Staff Team
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A royal wedding is at work! Whilst the families of the Mikaelidas and the Leventi culminate at first the Leventi manor then the Mikaelidas estate, stopping the verify the nuptials of Lord Achilleas and Lady Theodora at the Temple of the Gods along the way, the rest of the city has been given joyous occasion to celebrate also! As is tradition for royal events, the market place has been decked out in lanterns, flowers and free wine for the people of Vasiliadon. In the name of the new King Irakles, the people are encouraged to drink, laugh and make merry into the night. Lack of noble blood will not stop the people celebrating so prosperous a noble union and perhaps the guests of the wedding might show in the later hours of the evening, ready to off the latest gossip of the bride and groom...
Painting The Town Red Event - Taengea
A royal wedding is at work! Whilst the families of the Mikaelidas and the Leventi culminate at first the Leventi manor then the Mikaelidas estate, stopping the verify the nuptials of Lord Achilleas and Lady Theodora at the Temple of the Gods along the way, the rest of the city has been given joyous occasion to celebrate also! As is tradition for royal events, the market place has been decked out in lanterns, flowers and free wine for the people of Vasiliadon. In the name of the new King Irakles, the people are encouraged to drink, laugh and make merry into the night. Lack of noble blood will not stop the people celebrating so prosperous a noble union and perhaps the guests of the wedding might show in the later hours of the evening, ready to off the latest gossip of the bride and groom...
Clearly something was going on.
It had only been a few days since Kreios had decided to land in Taengea (with a pirate patient in tow no less) and, by extension, allow Neena the privilege of witnessing Taengea in the full bloom of the late summer.
Perhaps she was in some ways blessed or gifted by Fate but it appeared to Neena as if every place she visited of late was having some kind of celebration upon her arrival. The parade and feast in Egypt... now this. Taengea was in full celebration mode which was... as far as Neena could see... excessive to say the least!
She had heard rumour in her travels that Taengeans were a gregarious people who liked the additional social lubrication that wine and fine foods could offer. If that was how they were on a usual and casual basis, she wasn't surprised that - with something to celebrate - the results were even more exuberant.
As Neena moved through the streets alone, she kept turning her head, pleased to be in a place that was less xenophobic of foreigners and therefore didn't look at her too strangely as she passed; any looks she received were more of curious interest than they were distrust. Her hair, free of its ties today, bounced and sung around her face as she tried to look at everything at once: the flowers, the banners, the insignias of horses and lions everywhere.
She wasn't sure what was going on, but everyone was sure as heck happy about it!
Neena's eyes widened as she witnessed women dancing bare chested, saw owners of taverns offering out free wine in large jugs. Children running and playing games between the legs of adults. It was utter chaos and yet pulsed with a life of its own, jovial and enthusiastic.
Neena felt a smile creeping across her face at so much life and laughter in one place and was happy to move between the crowds before watching a particular group dancing. She watched the steps carefully, hoping that with a little mental concentration, she might be able to join in...
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Check out their information page here.
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Clearly something was going on.
It had only been a few days since Kreios had decided to land in Taengea (with a pirate patient in tow no less) and, by extension, allow Neena the privilege of witnessing Taengea in the full bloom of the late summer.
Perhaps she was in some ways blessed or gifted by Fate but it appeared to Neena as if every place she visited of late was having some kind of celebration upon her arrival. The parade and feast in Egypt... now this. Taengea was in full celebration mode which was... as far as Neena could see... excessive to say the least!
She had heard rumour in her travels that Taengeans were a gregarious people who liked the additional social lubrication that wine and fine foods could offer. If that was how they were on a usual and casual basis, she wasn't surprised that - with something to celebrate - the results were even more exuberant.
As Neena moved through the streets alone, she kept turning her head, pleased to be in a place that was less xenophobic of foreigners and therefore didn't look at her too strangely as she passed; any looks she received were more of curious interest than they were distrust. Her hair, free of its ties today, bounced and sung around her face as she tried to look at everything at once: the flowers, the banners, the insignias of horses and lions everywhere.
She wasn't sure what was going on, but everyone was sure as heck happy about it!
Neena's eyes widened as she witnessed women dancing bare chested, saw owners of taverns offering out free wine in large jugs. Children running and playing games between the legs of adults. It was utter chaos and yet pulsed with a life of its own, jovial and enthusiastic.
Neena felt a smile creeping across her face at so much life and laughter in one place and was happy to move between the crowds before watching a particular group dancing. She watched the steps carefully, hoping that with a little mental concentration, she might be able to join in...
Clearly something was going on.
It had only been a few days since Kreios had decided to land in Taengea (with a pirate patient in tow no less) and, by extension, allow Neena the privilege of witnessing Taengea in the full bloom of the late summer.
Perhaps she was in some ways blessed or gifted by Fate but it appeared to Neena as if every place she visited of late was having some kind of celebration upon her arrival. The parade and feast in Egypt... now this. Taengea was in full celebration mode which was... as far as Neena could see... excessive to say the least!
She had heard rumour in her travels that Taengeans were a gregarious people who liked the additional social lubrication that wine and fine foods could offer. If that was how they were on a usual and casual basis, she wasn't surprised that - with something to celebrate - the results were even more exuberant.
As Neena moved through the streets alone, she kept turning her head, pleased to be in a place that was less xenophobic of foreigners and therefore didn't look at her too strangely as she passed; any looks she received were more of curious interest than they were distrust. Her hair, free of its ties today, bounced and sung around her face as she tried to look at everything at once: the flowers, the banners, the insignias of horses and lions everywhere.
She wasn't sure what was going on, but everyone was sure as heck happy about it!
Neena's eyes widened as she witnessed women dancing bare chested, saw owners of taverns offering out free wine in large jugs. Children running and playing games between the legs of adults. It was utter chaos and yet pulsed with a life of its own, jovial and enthusiastic.
Neena felt a smile creeping across her face at so much life and laughter in one place and was happy to move between the crowds before watching a particular group dancing. She watched the steps carefully, hoping that with a little mental concentration, she might be able to join in...
Isaiah’s very last wish on this day was to get caught in all this heathen madness. It was his fault, completely, and he felt a small twinge of guilt over it, but it wasn’t as though he could help it, in any case. Truthfully, the bulk of this issue could be blamed on the horse master in charge of the former King Stephanos’s horses, and the deceased Crown Prince Zacharias’s horses, and now the current king’s horses - not that he would ever call for them. He’d assumed with a regime change, that the horses would be disposed of or possibly find new owners, but that didn’t appear to be the case. Like everything else that had belonged to King Zennon and Prince Zacharias, ownership had simply transferred to King Stephanos. With the former king’s abrupt disappearance or death (there were conflicting rumors), now the steeds were owned by King Irakles, though Isaiah would lay money he didn’t have in a bet that the crown did not know or care about its mounts.
With the burning and subsequent rebuilding of the Circus, there were new horses purchased and trained, games to be put on, nobles and common charioteers alike to see to. Isaiah was shouldering his way through the writhing crowd with a jar cradled against his chest. Wine coated his neck and right shoulder. His clothing stuck to him like a second skin and crinkled from the sweet stickiness of the alcohol when he moved.
For every two steps he took forward, he was jostled three to the side, so that he was so disoriented by the middle of the city that he couldn’t immediately tell which direction he was even facing anymore. From this exact spot, the Circus was not visible and he could not see above the people dancing in his face and against his back in order to get a proper look around. He turned and was immediately confronted with a woman’s naked chest, barely an inch away from his face. The woman stood on one of the low stones surrounding the fountain in the square and Isaiah backed up, staring in disgust and fascination.
His plan was a bad one and he ended up smacking into Neena, nearly dropping the jar in his hands. He turned to apologize, for the act of bumping into her had nearly taken him off his own feet, and stared at her, open mouthed. “Bedoan!” he said in his native tongue, forgetting to speak what little Greek he knew entirely. Though, who knew if this girl spoke Judean? It was such a shock to see her, she whose beautiful dark skin was such a contrast to those around them. She wasn’t from his home, but she was nearer to it than any of these heathens that surrounded them and she conjured up images he forced himself not to think on most of the time.
A lump formed in his throat and he fought it back down, thinking how embarrassing and silly it was to cry from the shock of seeing a total stranger. He forced out a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Isaiah of Matthias,” he pressed his free hand to his chest, just in case she didn’t speak his language at all and needed to know that he was trying to tell her his name. Someone jostled him again and this time more wine spilled down his other, clean side, from someone’s errant cup. The cup itself fell at his feet and rolled, ownerless. Someone laughed from somewhere out of sight.
Isaiah’s eyes and smile never wavered from Neena. Her very existence brought with it promise. She was alive and his homeland still existed; not that he thought it had disappeared somehow. He felt that she was almost like the carrier of a memory he’d forgotten that was now thrust to the forefront of his mind.
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Isaiah’s very last wish on this day was to get caught in all this heathen madness. It was his fault, completely, and he felt a small twinge of guilt over it, but it wasn’t as though he could help it, in any case. Truthfully, the bulk of this issue could be blamed on the horse master in charge of the former King Stephanos’s horses, and the deceased Crown Prince Zacharias’s horses, and now the current king’s horses - not that he would ever call for them. He’d assumed with a regime change, that the horses would be disposed of or possibly find new owners, but that didn’t appear to be the case. Like everything else that had belonged to King Zennon and Prince Zacharias, ownership had simply transferred to King Stephanos. With the former king’s abrupt disappearance or death (there were conflicting rumors), now the steeds were owned by King Irakles, though Isaiah would lay money he didn’t have in a bet that the crown did not know or care about its mounts.
With the burning and subsequent rebuilding of the Circus, there were new horses purchased and trained, games to be put on, nobles and common charioteers alike to see to. Isaiah was shouldering his way through the writhing crowd with a jar cradled against his chest. Wine coated his neck and right shoulder. His clothing stuck to him like a second skin and crinkled from the sweet stickiness of the alcohol when he moved.
For every two steps he took forward, he was jostled three to the side, so that he was so disoriented by the middle of the city that he couldn’t immediately tell which direction he was even facing anymore. From this exact spot, the Circus was not visible and he could not see above the people dancing in his face and against his back in order to get a proper look around. He turned and was immediately confronted with a woman’s naked chest, barely an inch away from his face. The woman stood on one of the low stones surrounding the fountain in the square and Isaiah backed up, staring in disgust and fascination.
His plan was a bad one and he ended up smacking into Neena, nearly dropping the jar in his hands. He turned to apologize, for the act of bumping into her had nearly taken him off his own feet, and stared at her, open mouthed. “Bedoan!” he said in his native tongue, forgetting to speak what little Greek he knew entirely. Though, who knew if this girl spoke Judean? It was such a shock to see her, she whose beautiful dark skin was such a contrast to those around them. She wasn’t from his home, but she was nearer to it than any of these heathens that surrounded them and she conjured up images he forced himself not to think on most of the time.
A lump formed in his throat and he fought it back down, thinking how embarrassing and silly it was to cry from the shock of seeing a total stranger. He forced out a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Isaiah of Matthias,” he pressed his free hand to his chest, just in case she didn’t speak his language at all and needed to know that he was trying to tell her his name. Someone jostled him again and this time more wine spilled down his other, clean side, from someone’s errant cup. The cup itself fell at his feet and rolled, ownerless. Someone laughed from somewhere out of sight.
Isaiah’s eyes and smile never wavered from Neena. Her very existence brought with it promise. She was alive and his homeland still existed; not that he thought it had disappeared somehow. He felt that she was almost like the carrier of a memory he’d forgotten that was now thrust to the forefront of his mind.
Isaiah’s very last wish on this day was to get caught in all this heathen madness. It was his fault, completely, and he felt a small twinge of guilt over it, but it wasn’t as though he could help it, in any case. Truthfully, the bulk of this issue could be blamed on the horse master in charge of the former King Stephanos’s horses, and the deceased Crown Prince Zacharias’s horses, and now the current king’s horses - not that he would ever call for them. He’d assumed with a regime change, that the horses would be disposed of or possibly find new owners, but that didn’t appear to be the case. Like everything else that had belonged to King Zennon and Prince Zacharias, ownership had simply transferred to King Stephanos. With the former king’s abrupt disappearance or death (there were conflicting rumors), now the steeds were owned by King Irakles, though Isaiah would lay money he didn’t have in a bet that the crown did not know or care about its mounts.
With the burning and subsequent rebuilding of the Circus, there were new horses purchased and trained, games to be put on, nobles and common charioteers alike to see to. Isaiah was shouldering his way through the writhing crowd with a jar cradled against his chest. Wine coated his neck and right shoulder. His clothing stuck to him like a second skin and crinkled from the sweet stickiness of the alcohol when he moved.
For every two steps he took forward, he was jostled three to the side, so that he was so disoriented by the middle of the city that he couldn’t immediately tell which direction he was even facing anymore. From this exact spot, the Circus was not visible and he could not see above the people dancing in his face and against his back in order to get a proper look around. He turned and was immediately confronted with a woman’s naked chest, barely an inch away from his face. The woman stood on one of the low stones surrounding the fountain in the square and Isaiah backed up, staring in disgust and fascination.
His plan was a bad one and he ended up smacking into Neena, nearly dropping the jar in his hands. He turned to apologize, for the act of bumping into her had nearly taken him off his own feet, and stared at her, open mouthed. “Bedoan!” he said in his native tongue, forgetting to speak what little Greek he knew entirely. Though, who knew if this girl spoke Judean? It was such a shock to see her, she whose beautiful dark skin was such a contrast to those around them. She wasn’t from his home, but she was nearer to it than any of these heathens that surrounded them and she conjured up images he forced himself not to think on most of the time.
A lump formed in his throat and he fought it back down, thinking how embarrassing and silly it was to cry from the shock of seeing a total stranger. He forced out a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Isaiah of Matthias,” he pressed his free hand to his chest, just in case she didn’t speak his language at all and needed to know that he was trying to tell her his name. Someone jostled him again and this time more wine spilled down his other, clean side, from someone’s errant cup. The cup itself fell at his feet and rolled, ownerless. Someone laughed from somewhere out of sight.
Isaiah’s eyes and smile never wavered from Neena. Her very existence brought with it promise. She was alive and his homeland still existed; not that he thought it had disappeared somehow. He felt that she was almost like the carrier of a memory he’d forgotten that was now thrust to the forefront of his mind.
Well, the king was dead. Now that was something.
There wasn’t much that Hesiodos could do, except what he did best: put on a show to remember everyone that life was to be enjoyed, because you might die at any moment, much like the poor fools that stayed in the palati would soon discover. While the bard of Phossis knew that death was something natural, having seen – and caused – many deaths, he couldn’t help but think that killing the king on a royal wedding was a bit of a dick move on the god’s part.
Hesiodos danced, played and sang until his feet hurt, his fingers cramped and his throat was sore, and when that happened, he just drank more wine and continued playing, until he arrived to the town and invited everyone to continue the festivities, and they seemed to drunk and having so much fun than to argue with the musician that was standing behind a place that offered free wine, delicious food, dance and games.
He saw everyone disperse, gave some hugs and some kisses, and continued on his way. In the morning, he knew a hell would break loose, but that was the problem of tomorrow. Right now, everyone needed to enjoy themselves. Hesiodos decided that, damn it, he would do it too. He took the first cup of wine that was offered to him and drank it as if it was water, then whipped his mouth with his hand. Licking his lips, he tasted something metallic… and when he looked at his hand, he realized his fingers were bleeding.
He sighed and wiped his fingers on his chlamys. It was a good thing he preferred wine red clothes, to hide blood and wine stains. Deciding to ignore the sudden pain that plagued his fingers, he continued walking and enjoy the music, the lights and most importantly, the wine.
He remembered why he always returned to his home kingdom. It was a place that reflected himself – a place of people that enjoyed life and what it had to offer, and where they always had a reason or excuse to party. He got so distracted that he stumbled upon the naked tits of a dancer, who giggled upon seeing him. Hesiodos didn’t say anything, only pulled her for a kiss and left – the woman was so drunk that she continued giggling and dancing.
With his head swimming, he walked and enjoyed everything he could. Drank more wine, kissed more people, ate some delicious stuff that was being offered, and for a moment, he forgot the tragedy that happened not too long ago. The only thing in his mind is that everything would be better with a friend, and as if the gods answered, Hesiodos spotted a black face from a distance. A black face that he could recognize even in the depths of Hades.
His face turned into a smile as he walked, then jogged in a rhythmic manner, towards his best friend in the whole world, Neena. What was she doing in Greece, he didn’t know, and he was sure to ask her eventually. Hesiodos thanked the gods before he realized he was there, hugging his friend from the side and planting a kiss on the side of her face, partly spilling the wine he had in his hand on the ground next to him.
“Well, now this night turned out to be way better!”, he said with a tone that denoted unbridled happiness. He then turned and looked at the other foreign person, clearly a Jew with the same smile, “I see you’re covered in wine, so you must be coming from the right place!”, and without saying anything else, he hugged the complete strange as well, before separating himself. His smile was white as snow and he brought the cup to his lips, only for his face to suddenly turn into a frown, “Crap! Someone spilled my wine!”
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Well, the king was dead. Now that was something.
There wasn’t much that Hesiodos could do, except what he did best: put on a show to remember everyone that life was to be enjoyed, because you might die at any moment, much like the poor fools that stayed in the palati would soon discover. While the bard of Phossis knew that death was something natural, having seen – and caused – many deaths, he couldn’t help but think that killing the king on a royal wedding was a bit of a dick move on the god’s part.
Hesiodos danced, played and sang until his feet hurt, his fingers cramped and his throat was sore, and when that happened, he just drank more wine and continued playing, until he arrived to the town and invited everyone to continue the festivities, and they seemed to drunk and having so much fun than to argue with the musician that was standing behind a place that offered free wine, delicious food, dance and games.
He saw everyone disperse, gave some hugs and some kisses, and continued on his way. In the morning, he knew a hell would break loose, but that was the problem of tomorrow. Right now, everyone needed to enjoy themselves. Hesiodos decided that, damn it, he would do it too. He took the first cup of wine that was offered to him and drank it as if it was water, then whipped his mouth with his hand. Licking his lips, he tasted something metallic… and when he looked at his hand, he realized his fingers were bleeding.
He sighed and wiped his fingers on his chlamys. It was a good thing he preferred wine red clothes, to hide blood and wine stains. Deciding to ignore the sudden pain that plagued his fingers, he continued walking and enjoy the music, the lights and most importantly, the wine.
He remembered why he always returned to his home kingdom. It was a place that reflected himself – a place of people that enjoyed life and what it had to offer, and where they always had a reason or excuse to party. He got so distracted that he stumbled upon the naked tits of a dancer, who giggled upon seeing him. Hesiodos didn’t say anything, only pulled her for a kiss and left – the woman was so drunk that she continued giggling and dancing.
With his head swimming, he walked and enjoyed everything he could. Drank more wine, kissed more people, ate some delicious stuff that was being offered, and for a moment, he forgot the tragedy that happened not too long ago. The only thing in his mind is that everything would be better with a friend, and as if the gods answered, Hesiodos spotted a black face from a distance. A black face that he could recognize even in the depths of Hades.
His face turned into a smile as he walked, then jogged in a rhythmic manner, towards his best friend in the whole world, Neena. What was she doing in Greece, he didn’t know, and he was sure to ask her eventually. Hesiodos thanked the gods before he realized he was there, hugging his friend from the side and planting a kiss on the side of her face, partly spilling the wine he had in his hand on the ground next to him.
“Well, now this night turned out to be way better!”, he said with a tone that denoted unbridled happiness. He then turned and looked at the other foreign person, clearly a Jew with the same smile, “I see you’re covered in wine, so you must be coming from the right place!”, and without saying anything else, he hugged the complete strange as well, before separating himself. His smile was white as snow and he brought the cup to his lips, only for his face to suddenly turn into a frown, “Crap! Someone spilled my wine!”
Well, the king was dead. Now that was something.
There wasn’t much that Hesiodos could do, except what he did best: put on a show to remember everyone that life was to be enjoyed, because you might die at any moment, much like the poor fools that stayed in the palati would soon discover. While the bard of Phossis knew that death was something natural, having seen – and caused – many deaths, he couldn’t help but think that killing the king on a royal wedding was a bit of a dick move on the god’s part.
Hesiodos danced, played and sang until his feet hurt, his fingers cramped and his throat was sore, and when that happened, he just drank more wine and continued playing, until he arrived to the town and invited everyone to continue the festivities, and they seemed to drunk and having so much fun than to argue with the musician that was standing behind a place that offered free wine, delicious food, dance and games.
He saw everyone disperse, gave some hugs and some kisses, and continued on his way. In the morning, he knew a hell would break loose, but that was the problem of tomorrow. Right now, everyone needed to enjoy themselves. Hesiodos decided that, damn it, he would do it too. He took the first cup of wine that was offered to him and drank it as if it was water, then whipped his mouth with his hand. Licking his lips, he tasted something metallic… and when he looked at his hand, he realized his fingers were bleeding.
He sighed and wiped his fingers on his chlamys. It was a good thing he preferred wine red clothes, to hide blood and wine stains. Deciding to ignore the sudden pain that plagued his fingers, he continued walking and enjoy the music, the lights and most importantly, the wine.
He remembered why he always returned to his home kingdom. It was a place that reflected himself – a place of people that enjoyed life and what it had to offer, and where they always had a reason or excuse to party. He got so distracted that he stumbled upon the naked tits of a dancer, who giggled upon seeing him. Hesiodos didn’t say anything, only pulled her for a kiss and left – the woman was so drunk that she continued giggling and dancing.
With his head swimming, he walked and enjoyed everything he could. Drank more wine, kissed more people, ate some delicious stuff that was being offered, and for a moment, he forgot the tragedy that happened not too long ago. The only thing in his mind is that everything would be better with a friend, and as if the gods answered, Hesiodos spotted a black face from a distance. A black face that he could recognize even in the depths of Hades.
His face turned into a smile as he walked, then jogged in a rhythmic manner, towards his best friend in the whole world, Neena. What was she doing in Greece, he didn’t know, and he was sure to ask her eventually. Hesiodos thanked the gods before he realized he was there, hugging his friend from the side and planting a kiss on the side of her face, partly spilling the wine he had in his hand on the ground next to him.
“Well, now this night turned out to be way better!”, he said with a tone that denoted unbridled happiness. He then turned and looked at the other foreign person, clearly a Jew with the same smile, “I see you’re covered in wine, so you must be coming from the right place!”, and without saying anything else, he hugged the complete strange as well, before separating himself. His smile was white as snow and he brought the cup to his lips, only for his face to suddenly turn into a frown, “Crap! Someone spilled my wine!”
Neena had been blessedly enjoying the event around her but, as was common with one who enjoyed absorbing the wonders of any event, place or people, she was easily distracted - staring at one thing and then the other and not exactly giving the full of her attention to the full of her surroundings.
As such, when a young man came barrelling into her back and - were she not a natural born walker and possessor of strong legs - would have knocked her clean off of her feet, Neena was surprised.
Turning on her heel to witness the (surprisingly!) clearly Judean man in the middle of a Greek celebration, Neena was quick to reach out and help secure the jar he was about to lose in the jostle.
Identified by her race in a cry that was full of both surprise and what sounded like a moment of pleasure - odd for a Jew when she knew them to be usually so very xenophobic to those who looked so decidedly different to themselves - Neena put all cultural assumptions aside and smiled brightly as the young man spoke to offer a return identification. He spoke in Hebrew, which Neena knew well enough to communicate in and poorly enough to struggle on the more elaborate words.
"I'm Neena!" She said with a happy nod, shouting over the noise of the music and crowds. "Nice to meet you Isaiah!" Whilst not necessary, this last she spoke in order to show him that she did indeed know his native language. She opened her mouth to say more, but was immediately interrupted by an exposition of momentum that bowled her over from the side.
Arms wrapped around her, lips pressed a big wet kiss to her cheek, and if the man had been any slighter then she suspected he might have wrapped his legs around her waist too and just held on. Luckily for her, he kept his feet mostly on the ground. And luckily for him (else he risked a good tongue-lashing), Hesiodos still held the same familiar scent and, despite all randomness of meeting him through total coincidence of travel, Neena was quick to recognise her closest friend.
With a laugh at his welcome and then the raising of her brows when the Greek launched a similar embracing attack upon the poor Judean, Neena was quick to get over the shock of crossing paths with Hesi once more.
Her carefree attitude accepted his presence without fear or confusion and instead, got her brain and mouth on track as if it were another day in their friendship without break or pause since they had last seen one another some seven months ago.
"Hesi, the man doesn't want to be pawed!" She told him in a mockingly stern tone of voice that had a sense of severity about it when she had to yell over the noise around them. She reached out and grabbed a handful of her friend’s tunic to pull him back, only to have him discover that his wine cup was empty and that someone had deprived him of more drink.
"Probably a good idea!" She insisted with a laugh. "You need a sit down, my friend!"
Having spoken in Greek to Hesiodos and having no idea if the Judean spoke it, Neena offered Isaiah a look of compassion, understanding and - she hoped - friendliness.
Whilst Hesiodos held zero bad intention and was always happy to make new friends, he did occasionally fail in reading the subtler signs of human interaction - body language, turns of phrases or tones of voices... Neena was far more talented in the subtleties of human beings and was able to immediately pick up on the fact that Isaiah was severely uncomfortable.
Not to mention the fact that she knew Judeans to be a fairly reserved species of being.
"Let's find somewhere we can talk!" Neena called to Hesi, and then repeated her intention to Isaiah in Hebrew - "Let's get out of this crowd!"
Without giving the stunned Judean time to react to the chaos that had descended upon him, Neena was reaching out and snagging the jar Isaiah was still struggling to balance and maintain in his hold in amongst so many dancers and awkward breaks in his personal space. Taking hold of one of the two ear-like handles and pulling on the jar, she encouraged Isaiah to walk just a step behind her, the jar swinging low between them where it was safe from wild drunks between their bodies.
With an encouraging smile to Isaiah and grabbing a handful of the front of Hesi's shirt and pulling him along in the same manner she was the jar, Neena had the kind of exuberant personality and loud voice that cut through the Grecian celebrators like Moses did the Red Sea and drew them towards a tavern that, while still noisy, offered outside seating just a little apart from the crowds where she and Hesi could catch up and Isaiah could get his bearings...
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Neena had been blessedly enjoying the event around her but, as was common with one who enjoyed absorbing the wonders of any event, place or people, she was easily distracted - staring at one thing and then the other and not exactly giving the full of her attention to the full of her surroundings.
As such, when a young man came barrelling into her back and - were she not a natural born walker and possessor of strong legs - would have knocked her clean off of her feet, Neena was surprised.
Turning on her heel to witness the (surprisingly!) clearly Judean man in the middle of a Greek celebration, Neena was quick to reach out and help secure the jar he was about to lose in the jostle.
Identified by her race in a cry that was full of both surprise and what sounded like a moment of pleasure - odd for a Jew when she knew them to be usually so very xenophobic to those who looked so decidedly different to themselves - Neena put all cultural assumptions aside and smiled brightly as the young man spoke to offer a return identification. He spoke in Hebrew, which Neena knew well enough to communicate in and poorly enough to struggle on the more elaborate words.
"I'm Neena!" She said with a happy nod, shouting over the noise of the music and crowds. "Nice to meet you Isaiah!" Whilst not necessary, this last she spoke in order to show him that she did indeed know his native language. She opened her mouth to say more, but was immediately interrupted by an exposition of momentum that bowled her over from the side.
Arms wrapped around her, lips pressed a big wet kiss to her cheek, and if the man had been any slighter then she suspected he might have wrapped his legs around her waist too and just held on. Luckily for her, he kept his feet mostly on the ground. And luckily for him (else he risked a good tongue-lashing), Hesiodos still held the same familiar scent and, despite all randomness of meeting him through total coincidence of travel, Neena was quick to recognise her closest friend.
With a laugh at his welcome and then the raising of her brows when the Greek launched a similar embracing attack upon the poor Judean, Neena was quick to get over the shock of crossing paths with Hesi once more.
Her carefree attitude accepted his presence without fear or confusion and instead, got her brain and mouth on track as if it were another day in their friendship without break or pause since they had last seen one another some seven months ago.
"Hesi, the man doesn't want to be pawed!" She told him in a mockingly stern tone of voice that had a sense of severity about it when she had to yell over the noise around them. She reached out and grabbed a handful of her friend’s tunic to pull him back, only to have him discover that his wine cup was empty and that someone had deprived him of more drink.
"Probably a good idea!" She insisted with a laugh. "You need a sit down, my friend!"
Having spoken in Greek to Hesiodos and having no idea if the Judean spoke it, Neena offered Isaiah a look of compassion, understanding and - she hoped - friendliness.
Whilst Hesiodos held zero bad intention and was always happy to make new friends, he did occasionally fail in reading the subtler signs of human interaction - body language, turns of phrases or tones of voices... Neena was far more talented in the subtleties of human beings and was able to immediately pick up on the fact that Isaiah was severely uncomfortable.
Not to mention the fact that she knew Judeans to be a fairly reserved species of being.
"Let's find somewhere we can talk!" Neena called to Hesi, and then repeated her intention to Isaiah in Hebrew - "Let's get out of this crowd!"
Without giving the stunned Judean time to react to the chaos that had descended upon him, Neena was reaching out and snagging the jar Isaiah was still struggling to balance and maintain in his hold in amongst so many dancers and awkward breaks in his personal space. Taking hold of one of the two ear-like handles and pulling on the jar, she encouraged Isaiah to walk just a step behind her, the jar swinging low between them where it was safe from wild drunks between their bodies.
With an encouraging smile to Isaiah and grabbing a handful of the front of Hesi's shirt and pulling him along in the same manner she was the jar, Neena had the kind of exuberant personality and loud voice that cut through the Grecian celebrators like Moses did the Red Sea and drew them towards a tavern that, while still noisy, offered outside seating just a little apart from the crowds where she and Hesi could catch up and Isaiah could get his bearings...
Neena had been blessedly enjoying the event around her but, as was common with one who enjoyed absorbing the wonders of any event, place or people, she was easily distracted - staring at one thing and then the other and not exactly giving the full of her attention to the full of her surroundings.
As such, when a young man came barrelling into her back and - were she not a natural born walker and possessor of strong legs - would have knocked her clean off of her feet, Neena was surprised.
Turning on her heel to witness the (surprisingly!) clearly Judean man in the middle of a Greek celebration, Neena was quick to reach out and help secure the jar he was about to lose in the jostle.
Identified by her race in a cry that was full of both surprise and what sounded like a moment of pleasure - odd for a Jew when she knew them to be usually so very xenophobic to those who looked so decidedly different to themselves - Neena put all cultural assumptions aside and smiled brightly as the young man spoke to offer a return identification. He spoke in Hebrew, which Neena knew well enough to communicate in and poorly enough to struggle on the more elaborate words.
"I'm Neena!" She said with a happy nod, shouting over the noise of the music and crowds. "Nice to meet you Isaiah!" Whilst not necessary, this last she spoke in order to show him that she did indeed know his native language. She opened her mouth to say more, but was immediately interrupted by an exposition of momentum that bowled her over from the side.
Arms wrapped around her, lips pressed a big wet kiss to her cheek, and if the man had been any slighter then she suspected he might have wrapped his legs around her waist too and just held on. Luckily for her, he kept his feet mostly on the ground. And luckily for him (else he risked a good tongue-lashing), Hesiodos still held the same familiar scent and, despite all randomness of meeting him through total coincidence of travel, Neena was quick to recognise her closest friend.
With a laugh at his welcome and then the raising of her brows when the Greek launched a similar embracing attack upon the poor Judean, Neena was quick to get over the shock of crossing paths with Hesi once more.
Her carefree attitude accepted his presence without fear or confusion and instead, got her brain and mouth on track as if it were another day in their friendship without break or pause since they had last seen one another some seven months ago.
"Hesi, the man doesn't want to be pawed!" She told him in a mockingly stern tone of voice that had a sense of severity about it when she had to yell over the noise around them. She reached out and grabbed a handful of her friend’s tunic to pull him back, only to have him discover that his wine cup was empty and that someone had deprived him of more drink.
"Probably a good idea!" She insisted with a laugh. "You need a sit down, my friend!"
Having spoken in Greek to Hesiodos and having no idea if the Judean spoke it, Neena offered Isaiah a look of compassion, understanding and - she hoped - friendliness.
Whilst Hesiodos held zero bad intention and was always happy to make new friends, he did occasionally fail in reading the subtler signs of human interaction - body language, turns of phrases or tones of voices... Neena was far more talented in the subtleties of human beings and was able to immediately pick up on the fact that Isaiah was severely uncomfortable.
Not to mention the fact that she knew Judeans to be a fairly reserved species of being.
"Let's find somewhere we can talk!" Neena called to Hesi, and then repeated her intention to Isaiah in Hebrew - "Let's get out of this crowd!"
Without giving the stunned Judean time to react to the chaos that had descended upon him, Neena was reaching out and snagging the jar Isaiah was still struggling to balance and maintain in his hold in amongst so many dancers and awkward breaks in his personal space. Taking hold of one of the two ear-like handles and pulling on the jar, she encouraged Isaiah to walk just a step behind her, the jar swinging low between them where it was safe from wild drunks between their bodies.
With an encouraging smile to Isaiah and grabbing a handful of the front of Hesi's shirt and pulling him along in the same manner she was the jar, Neena had the kind of exuberant personality and loud voice that cut through the Grecian celebrators like Moses did the Red Sea and drew them towards a tavern that, while still noisy, offered outside seating just a little apart from the crowds where she and Hesi could catch up and Isaiah could get his bearings...
If he was still in Israel, with his wife and child, he wouldn’t have looked twice at Neena. Well, probably twice. It wasn’t usual to see a Bedoan in Judea at all, since their homelands were quite far removed from one another. But he certainly wouldn’t have crossed the street to speak to her and definitely wouldn’t have dragged his wife over to do so. The usual xenophobia had been partially purged from Isaiah, through natural mingling with those not of his own race for an extended period of time, and also because he’d branched out enough to fall in love with a Greek girl. His sudden need to be close to Neena had more to do with her origins, rather than Neena herself. In her face and skin and ability to speak his native tongue, she held as much promise of news as anything else in the world - though he knew it was a slim chance anyway. Hope was a strange thing. It clung on even in the face of extraordinary odds against it.
“A pleasure to meet you, Neena,” he smiled, staring at her as she helped him adjust the jar. His lips were quirked to form the first of what he’d been about to ask her, but the sentence was lost forever as a blur separated them, forcing him back a step. Staring at the offending man, he saw that Neena was being enveloped by an inebriated Greek man and for a single moment, Isaiah frowned. He’d not taken Neena for a woman of the night, but, considering their present location, she might well be. That thought made him pause, not intruding on their conversation.
How desperate was he for news, he wondered? Desperate enough to taint himself with a woman like this? Or a Greek like that? That xenophobia he’d so proudly thought he was rid of was edging back in, though it didn’t have time to take any sort of root. Before he’d quite grasped what was happening, he found himself swept up into a hug. He’d opened his mouth to protest while his whole body went rigid but all he got for his trouble was Hesiodos’s hair sucked into his mouth. Turning to spit out said hair, he ended up licking Hesiodos’s wine streaked cheek by mistake and then stopped, staring in horror, his tongue still out, as he was finally released.
Jerking up his own sleeve, he wiped his tongue off there, now tasting wine from that, and wondering how on earth he kept getting into such weird situations. “Forgive me,” he said to Hesiodos, in hideously thick accented Greek. He’d been learning the language but he only knew mostly servant’s speak and definitely understood more than he could communicate. The wine tasted gross and he was back to regretting being in the middle of this crowd.
His decision not to further speak to either Neena or Hesi (he thought it a strange name, but then, weren’t all names that weren’t Judean?) was half formed before Neena issued him an invitation, in his native tongue, to get out of the crowd. This was both in line with his wants, and a siren call to hear more of his own language that he could not resist. Nor could he resist because Neena grabbed onto the side of his jar and his eyes widened. Was she trying to take it? No, he decided, trailing after her and Hesiodos. She was helping him, it looked like, which was fair enough, though he’d rather have it against his chest. It wasn’t overly heavy. Just awkward and thankfully there was no liquid to slosh, just a huge amount of salve to soothe wounds a couple of the chariot horses had sustained. With this, there was faster healing and less danger of their fur not growing back in that area, as often happened to delicate horse flesh. Yaweh forbid that the horses weren’t beautiful as well as useful.
When Neena had said that she’d lead them out of the crowd, Isaiah had imagined that they would go to a part of the city that did not have revelers. A quiet well, an out of the way courtyard, the shoreline, even. Not a tavern. The interior of this building was only a little less loud than outdoors, but the benefit was that people were less likely to collide into them here. They took a seat at a square table and Isaiah gently tugged the jar out of Neena’s grip and stationed it between his thighs, hugging it like it was a beloved stuffed toy, rather than medicine for horses.
“How do you come to be here?” he asked Neena, once their group was quiet for a few moments. And then he motioned between her and Hesiodos. “Is this your husband?” He didn’t think the Greek man was, but he’d seen stranger things than this sort of pairing before and was prepared to believe anything.
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If he was still in Israel, with his wife and child, he wouldn’t have looked twice at Neena. Well, probably twice. It wasn’t usual to see a Bedoan in Judea at all, since their homelands were quite far removed from one another. But he certainly wouldn’t have crossed the street to speak to her and definitely wouldn’t have dragged his wife over to do so. The usual xenophobia had been partially purged from Isaiah, through natural mingling with those not of his own race for an extended period of time, and also because he’d branched out enough to fall in love with a Greek girl. His sudden need to be close to Neena had more to do with her origins, rather than Neena herself. In her face and skin and ability to speak his native tongue, she held as much promise of news as anything else in the world - though he knew it was a slim chance anyway. Hope was a strange thing. It clung on even in the face of extraordinary odds against it.
“A pleasure to meet you, Neena,” he smiled, staring at her as she helped him adjust the jar. His lips were quirked to form the first of what he’d been about to ask her, but the sentence was lost forever as a blur separated them, forcing him back a step. Staring at the offending man, he saw that Neena was being enveloped by an inebriated Greek man and for a single moment, Isaiah frowned. He’d not taken Neena for a woman of the night, but, considering their present location, she might well be. That thought made him pause, not intruding on their conversation.
How desperate was he for news, he wondered? Desperate enough to taint himself with a woman like this? Or a Greek like that? That xenophobia he’d so proudly thought he was rid of was edging back in, though it didn’t have time to take any sort of root. Before he’d quite grasped what was happening, he found himself swept up into a hug. He’d opened his mouth to protest while his whole body went rigid but all he got for his trouble was Hesiodos’s hair sucked into his mouth. Turning to spit out said hair, he ended up licking Hesiodos’s wine streaked cheek by mistake and then stopped, staring in horror, his tongue still out, as he was finally released.
Jerking up his own sleeve, he wiped his tongue off there, now tasting wine from that, and wondering how on earth he kept getting into such weird situations. “Forgive me,” he said to Hesiodos, in hideously thick accented Greek. He’d been learning the language but he only knew mostly servant’s speak and definitely understood more than he could communicate. The wine tasted gross and he was back to regretting being in the middle of this crowd.
His decision not to further speak to either Neena or Hesi (he thought it a strange name, but then, weren’t all names that weren’t Judean?) was half formed before Neena issued him an invitation, in his native tongue, to get out of the crowd. This was both in line with his wants, and a siren call to hear more of his own language that he could not resist. Nor could he resist because Neena grabbed onto the side of his jar and his eyes widened. Was she trying to take it? No, he decided, trailing after her and Hesiodos. She was helping him, it looked like, which was fair enough, though he’d rather have it against his chest. It wasn’t overly heavy. Just awkward and thankfully there was no liquid to slosh, just a huge amount of salve to soothe wounds a couple of the chariot horses had sustained. With this, there was faster healing and less danger of their fur not growing back in that area, as often happened to delicate horse flesh. Yaweh forbid that the horses weren’t beautiful as well as useful.
When Neena had said that she’d lead them out of the crowd, Isaiah had imagined that they would go to a part of the city that did not have revelers. A quiet well, an out of the way courtyard, the shoreline, even. Not a tavern. The interior of this building was only a little less loud than outdoors, but the benefit was that people were less likely to collide into them here. They took a seat at a square table and Isaiah gently tugged the jar out of Neena’s grip and stationed it between his thighs, hugging it like it was a beloved stuffed toy, rather than medicine for horses.
“How do you come to be here?” he asked Neena, once their group was quiet for a few moments. And then he motioned between her and Hesiodos. “Is this your husband?” He didn’t think the Greek man was, but he’d seen stranger things than this sort of pairing before and was prepared to believe anything.
If he was still in Israel, with his wife and child, he wouldn’t have looked twice at Neena. Well, probably twice. It wasn’t usual to see a Bedoan in Judea at all, since their homelands were quite far removed from one another. But he certainly wouldn’t have crossed the street to speak to her and definitely wouldn’t have dragged his wife over to do so. The usual xenophobia had been partially purged from Isaiah, through natural mingling with those not of his own race for an extended period of time, and also because he’d branched out enough to fall in love with a Greek girl. His sudden need to be close to Neena had more to do with her origins, rather than Neena herself. In her face and skin and ability to speak his native tongue, she held as much promise of news as anything else in the world - though he knew it was a slim chance anyway. Hope was a strange thing. It clung on even in the face of extraordinary odds against it.
“A pleasure to meet you, Neena,” he smiled, staring at her as she helped him adjust the jar. His lips were quirked to form the first of what he’d been about to ask her, but the sentence was lost forever as a blur separated them, forcing him back a step. Staring at the offending man, he saw that Neena was being enveloped by an inebriated Greek man and for a single moment, Isaiah frowned. He’d not taken Neena for a woman of the night, but, considering their present location, she might well be. That thought made him pause, not intruding on their conversation.
How desperate was he for news, he wondered? Desperate enough to taint himself with a woman like this? Or a Greek like that? That xenophobia he’d so proudly thought he was rid of was edging back in, though it didn’t have time to take any sort of root. Before he’d quite grasped what was happening, he found himself swept up into a hug. He’d opened his mouth to protest while his whole body went rigid but all he got for his trouble was Hesiodos’s hair sucked into his mouth. Turning to spit out said hair, he ended up licking Hesiodos’s wine streaked cheek by mistake and then stopped, staring in horror, his tongue still out, as he was finally released.
Jerking up his own sleeve, he wiped his tongue off there, now tasting wine from that, and wondering how on earth he kept getting into such weird situations. “Forgive me,” he said to Hesiodos, in hideously thick accented Greek. He’d been learning the language but he only knew mostly servant’s speak and definitely understood more than he could communicate. The wine tasted gross and he was back to regretting being in the middle of this crowd.
His decision not to further speak to either Neena or Hesi (he thought it a strange name, but then, weren’t all names that weren’t Judean?) was half formed before Neena issued him an invitation, in his native tongue, to get out of the crowd. This was both in line with his wants, and a siren call to hear more of his own language that he could not resist. Nor could he resist because Neena grabbed onto the side of his jar and his eyes widened. Was she trying to take it? No, he decided, trailing after her and Hesiodos. She was helping him, it looked like, which was fair enough, though he’d rather have it against his chest. It wasn’t overly heavy. Just awkward and thankfully there was no liquid to slosh, just a huge amount of salve to soothe wounds a couple of the chariot horses had sustained. With this, there was faster healing and less danger of their fur not growing back in that area, as often happened to delicate horse flesh. Yaweh forbid that the horses weren’t beautiful as well as useful.
When Neena had said that she’d lead them out of the crowd, Isaiah had imagined that they would go to a part of the city that did not have revelers. A quiet well, an out of the way courtyard, the shoreline, even. Not a tavern. The interior of this building was only a little less loud than outdoors, but the benefit was that people were less likely to collide into them here. They took a seat at a square table and Isaiah gently tugged the jar out of Neena’s grip and stationed it between his thighs, hugging it like it was a beloved stuffed toy, rather than medicine for horses.
“How do you come to be here?” he asked Neena, once their group was quiet for a few moments. And then he motioned between her and Hesiodos. “Is this your husband?” He didn’t think the Greek man was, but he’d seen stranger things than this sort of pairing before and was prepared to believe anything.
Neena felt for the man. Not Hesiodos - he could take care of himself, the native weirdo to every land that he was - but the Judean man who appeared to be entirely lost in the world he had found himself. The Greek he spoke was awful, the look on his face practically fearful and his actions and behaviour awkward and gangly.
Clearly, he was not a fan of Greece.
Which served to reason given his colouring. He was obviously not native to the Grecian kingdoms and his name identified him as obviously as his skin, as a Judean. Which meant, if he wasn't here because he wanted to be, how on earth had he wound up in a land that was not his own, suffering for his lack of nativity and apparently unable to return home...?
She found her natural compassion and curiosity spike.
Dragging the two men to the outside table by the tavern - where they could see the crowd but were not forced to be a part of it, Neena allowed the two chairs to be taken by her fellows and found a little box for herself to nip up onto and sit down upon cross-legged.
When the man who had called himself Isaiah asked if the two of them were married, Neena grinned, her teeth a bright white slant across her dark face.
"He wishes." She laughed with a nudge of her elbow at Hesiodos' side. She then settled her forearms upon the surface of the table and leaned towards their new friend. "My husband isn't in Greece."
She wouldn't deny that she was married still, but at the same time, she didn't need to be giving unnecessary details that could lead to trouble - regardless of how unlikely it was for Bedoan officials to be tracking down a runaway wife all over the known world.
"What about you Isaiah?" She asked him, politely returning the inquiry. She looked out to the crowds of people. She pointed at the boisterous and clustering of human bodies that had turned into a colossal myriad of noise and sweat. "We didn't just leave her to be trampled out there, did we?"
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Neena felt for the man. Not Hesiodos - he could take care of himself, the native weirdo to every land that he was - but the Judean man who appeared to be entirely lost in the world he had found himself. The Greek he spoke was awful, the look on his face practically fearful and his actions and behaviour awkward and gangly.
Clearly, he was not a fan of Greece.
Which served to reason given his colouring. He was obviously not native to the Grecian kingdoms and his name identified him as obviously as his skin, as a Judean. Which meant, if he wasn't here because he wanted to be, how on earth had he wound up in a land that was not his own, suffering for his lack of nativity and apparently unable to return home...?
She found her natural compassion and curiosity spike.
Dragging the two men to the outside table by the tavern - where they could see the crowd but were not forced to be a part of it, Neena allowed the two chairs to be taken by her fellows and found a little box for herself to nip up onto and sit down upon cross-legged.
When the man who had called himself Isaiah asked if the two of them were married, Neena grinned, her teeth a bright white slant across her dark face.
"He wishes." She laughed with a nudge of her elbow at Hesiodos' side. She then settled her forearms upon the surface of the table and leaned towards their new friend. "My husband isn't in Greece."
She wouldn't deny that she was married still, but at the same time, she didn't need to be giving unnecessary details that could lead to trouble - regardless of how unlikely it was for Bedoan officials to be tracking down a runaway wife all over the known world.
"What about you Isaiah?" She asked him, politely returning the inquiry. She looked out to the crowds of people. She pointed at the boisterous and clustering of human bodies that had turned into a colossal myriad of noise and sweat. "We didn't just leave her to be trampled out there, did we?"
Neena felt for the man. Not Hesiodos - he could take care of himself, the native weirdo to every land that he was - but the Judean man who appeared to be entirely lost in the world he had found himself. The Greek he spoke was awful, the look on his face practically fearful and his actions and behaviour awkward and gangly.
Clearly, he was not a fan of Greece.
Which served to reason given his colouring. He was obviously not native to the Grecian kingdoms and his name identified him as obviously as his skin, as a Judean. Which meant, if he wasn't here because he wanted to be, how on earth had he wound up in a land that was not his own, suffering for his lack of nativity and apparently unable to return home...?
She found her natural compassion and curiosity spike.
Dragging the two men to the outside table by the tavern - where they could see the crowd but were not forced to be a part of it, Neena allowed the two chairs to be taken by her fellows and found a little box for herself to nip up onto and sit down upon cross-legged.
When the man who had called himself Isaiah asked if the two of them were married, Neena grinned, her teeth a bright white slant across her dark face.
"He wishes." She laughed with a nudge of her elbow at Hesiodos' side. She then settled her forearms upon the surface of the table and leaned towards their new friend. "My husband isn't in Greece."
She wouldn't deny that she was married still, but at the same time, she didn't need to be giving unnecessary details that could lead to trouble - regardless of how unlikely it was for Bedoan officials to be tracking down a runaway wife all over the known world.
"What about you Isaiah?" She asked him, politely returning the inquiry. She looked out to the crowds of people. She pointed at the boisterous and clustering of human bodies that had turned into a colossal myriad of noise and sweat. "We didn't just leave her to be trampled out there, did we?"
The first thing Heiodos felt with the sudden hug with the foreign man was a tongue on his check. He closed one of his eyes and smiled widely, not being stranger to a tongue on his body after a lot of drunken stupor. He suddenly felt being dragged away by his friend, though he anchored himself by grabbing the man’s shoulders with his calloused, bleeding fingers. He recognized his accent, and talked to him in a heavily accented, broken Hebrew, “No need to apologize”, and with the statement of his friend, he turned and looked at her with a half smirk, “He’s covered in wine, he’s free game for pawing.”
He was truly glad to have meet Neena. Even though he hadn’t seen her in seven months, it felt like just yesterday; so when she told him he needed a place to sit down, he nodded, and didn’t resist when he pulled his shirt to drag him somewhere. He only jokily protested saying, “Heeeeelp, I’m being taken against my will”, with a laughing face that made the world know he was joking, if it wasn’t too obvious by his joyful laughter.
They sat at the outside of the bar on a square table. A party was behind held inside, and while Hesiodos was really keen on joining, he was glad to join his old friend and the man named Isaiah. Deciding than an introduction was in order, he said, “My name Is Hesiodos, I’m a bard”, he said in his broken Hebrew, taken from the little time he had in Judea.
When he asked if he has his husband, he busted into a joyful laughter, and thankfully she took him from there. While Hesiodos loved Neena with all his life, he wouldn’t take her as a wife, only by the fact that they were both free spirit. Still, he wrapped his arm around her and smiled, “It’s not for the lack of trying!”, he said in a joking tone, but his face turned into a grimace, which made him look at his hand.
He turned into his seat and saw that the fingers of his right hand had the marks of intense playing. He put it in the table for everyone to see, “Well, isn’t this nice? The king is dead and my fingers are bleeding. I don’t know what is more serious”, he said with an amused tone, putting his fingers into his mouth to wipe away the blood, “Ehh, nothing than some of Dionysus’ nectar can’t solve, right?”
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The first thing Heiodos felt with the sudden hug with the foreign man was a tongue on his check. He closed one of his eyes and smiled widely, not being stranger to a tongue on his body after a lot of drunken stupor. He suddenly felt being dragged away by his friend, though he anchored himself by grabbing the man’s shoulders with his calloused, bleeding fingers. He recognized his accent, and talked to him in a heavily accented, broken Hebrew, “No need to apologize”, and with the statement of his friend, he turned and looked at her with a half smirk, “He’s covered in wine, he’s free game for pawing.”
He was truly glad to have meet Neena. Even though he hadn’t seen her in seven months, it felt like just yesterday; so when she told him he needed a place to sit down, he nodded, and didn’t resist when he pulled his shirt to drag him somewhere. He only jokily protested saying, “Heeeeelp, I’m being taken against my will”, with a laughing face that made the world know he was joking, if it wasn’t too obvious by his joyful laughter.
They sat at the outside of the bar on a square table. A party was behind held inside, and while Hesiodos was really keen on joining, he was glad to join his old friend and the man named Isaiah. Deciding than an introduction was in order, he said, “My name Is Hesiodos, I’m a bard”, he said in his broken Hebrew, taken from the little time he had in Judea.
When he asked if he has his husband, he busted into a joyful laughter, and thankfully she took him from there. While Hesiodos loved Neena with all his life, he wouldn’t take her as a wife, only by the fact that they were both free spirit. Still, he wrapped his arm around her and smiled, “It’s not for the lack of trying!”, he said in a joking tone, but his face turned into a grimace, which made him look at his hand.
He turned into his seat and saw that the fingers of his right hand had the marks of intense playing. He put it in the table for everyone to see, “Well, isn’t this nice? The king is dead and my fingers are bleeding. I don’t know what is more serious”, he said with an amused tone, putting his fingers into his mouth to wipe away the blood, “Ehh, nothing than some of Dionysus’ nectar can’t solve, right?”
The first thing Heiodos felt with the sudden hug with the foreign man was a tongue on his check. He closed one of his eyes and smiled widely, not being stranger to a tongue on his body after a lot of drunken stupor. He suddenly felt being dragged away by his friend, though he anchored himself by grabbing the man’s shoulders with his calloused, bleeding fingers. He recognized his accent, and talked to him in a heavily accented, broken Hebrew, “No need to apologize”, and with the statement of his friend, he turned and looked at her with a half smirk, “He’s covered in wine, he’s free game for pawing.”
He was truly glad to have meet Neena. Even though he hadn’t seen her in seven months, it felt like just yesterday; so when she told him he needed a place to sit down, he nodded, and didn’t resist when he pulled his shirt to drag him somewhere. He only jokily protested saying, “Heeeeelp, I’m being taken against my will”, with a laughing face that made the world know he was joking, if it wasn’t too obvious by his joyful laughter.
They sat at the outside of the bar on a square table. A party was behind held inside, and while Hesiodos was really keen on joining, he was glad to join his old friend and the man named Isaiah. Deciding than an introduction was in order, he said, “My name Is Hesiodos, I’m a bard”, he said in his broken Hebrew, taken from the little time he had in Judea.
When he asked if he has his husband, he busted into a joyful laughter, and thankfully she took him from there. While Hesiodos loved Neena with all his life, he wouldn’t take her as a wife, only by the fact that they were both free spirit. Still, he wrapped his arm around her and smiled, “It’s not for the lack of trying!”, he said in a joking tone, but his face turned into a grimace, which made him look at his hand.
He turned into his seat and saw that the fingers of his right hand had the marks of intense playing. He put it in the table for everyone to see, “Well, isn’t this nice? The king is dead and my fingers are bleeding. I don’t know what is more serious”, he said with an amused tone, putting his fingers into his mouth to wipe away the blood, “Ehh, nothing than some of Dionysus’ nectar can’t solve, right?”
He didn’t think that he was too terribly awkward, but then, we never have a proper view of ourselves, nor can we know how others truly view us. The attempt he made to piece together the relationship between these two was not meant to evoke the hilarity that they mutually found in it. Looking from one to the other, he didn’t smile right at first, not as amused by the mistake as they were, but it was not in his nature to be ill tempered and so he allowed a small smile, but he did not laugh. It still wasn’t exactly funny.
Neena then said her husband wasn’t in Greece and that brought up a whole host of questions, but also filled Isaiah with a little more compassion. He felt the loss of his spouse on a deep level, but then, when Neena was edging Hesiodos in the ribs, his sympathy expired. She should not be so familiar with another man if she was married. Or even not married. His Judean sensibilities were still very much intact and he did not love the loose atmosphere that Greece had.
Neena then asked about him and before he could say much more than, “Well-”, Hesiodos, who was clearly inebriated, began to count on his fingers which Isaiah just realized were bleeding. He glanced at his shoulder and then sighed. Yes. There was blood there. This whole trip into the city was going so well, it would seem. His attention was drawn back to the bard as the man casually laid out the information that the new king was dead.
“He’s what?” Isaiah asked in Hebrew, forgetting to attempt Greek. “When? How?”
He had no love for the new king and couldn’t even reliably describe him, but it was still a shock to know that someone so newly appointed to the post was dead. Of all the things that he’d have assumed would pop out of the bard’s mouth, that was certainly among the last of it. “He was just crowned,” he said, as though that would have offered the new king some protection from death. With those people in cloaks stalking the rich, and the recent upheaval Isaiah had seen, witnessed, and been a part of, he was beginning to think that Yahweh must be terribly angry with the Greeks to curse them this way.
“You all should pray,” he advised in a true form of caution, not meant to be preachy, but definitely meant to save them. “Yahweh is punishing your people.” There was no other explanation. For his own situation, he assumed he was being punished as well and was trying to be as good a servant as possible to atone for whatever sins he’d committed. Once he had proved himself, he’d find the way back to his wife much easier.
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He didn’t think that he was too terribly awkward, but then, we never have a proper view of ourselves, nor can we know how others truly view us. The attempt he made to piece together the relationship between these two was not meant to evoke the hilarity that they mutually found in it. Looking from one to the other, he didn’t smile right at first, not as amused by the mistake as they were, but it was not in his nature to be ill tempered and so he allowed a small smile, but he did not laugh. It still wasn’t exactly funny.
Neena then said her husband wasn’t in Greece and that brought up a whole host of questions, but also filled Isaiah with a little more compassion. He felt the loss of his spouse on a deep level, but then, when Neena was edging Hesiodos in the ribs, his sympathy expired. She should not be so familiar with another man if she was married. Or even not married. His Judean sensibilities were still very much intact and he did not love the loose atmosphere that Greece had.
Neena then asked about him and before he could say much more than, “Well-”, Hesiodos, who was clearly inebriated, began to count on his fingers which Isaiah just realized were bleeding. He glanced at his shoulder and then sighed. Yes. There was blood there. This whole trip into the city was going so well, it would seem. His attention was drawn back to the bard as the man casually laid out the information that the new king was dead.
“He’s what?” Isaiah asked in Hebrew, forgetting to attempt Greek. “When? How?”
He had no love for the new king and couldn’t even reliably describe him, but it was still a shock to know that someone so newly appointed to the post was dead. Of all the things that he’d have assumed would pop out of the bard’s mouth, that was certainly among the last of it. “He was just crowned,” he said, as though that would have offered the new king some protection from death. With those people in cloaks stalking the rich, and the recent upheaval Isaiah had seen, witnessed, and been a part of, he was beginning to think that Yahweh must be terribly angry with the Greeks to curse them this way.
“You all should pray,” he advised in a true form of caution, not meant to be preachy, but definitely meant to save them. “Yahweh is punishing your people.” There was no other explanation. For his own situation, he assumed he was being punished as well and was trying to be as good a servant as possible to atone for whatever sins he’d committed. Once he had proved himself, he’d find the way back to his wife much easier.
He didn’t think that he was too terribly awkward, but then, we never have a proper view of ourselves, nor can we know how others truly view us. The attempt he made to piece together the relationship between these two was not meant to evoke the hilarity that they mutually found in it. Looking from one to the other, he didn’t smile right at first, not as amused by the mistake as they were, but it was not in his nature to be ill tempered and so he allowed a small smile, but he did not laugh. It still wasn’t exactly funny.
Neena then said her husband wasn’t in Greece and that brought up a whole host of questions, but also filled Isaiah with a little more compassion. He felt the loss of his spouse on a deep level, but then, when Neena was edging Hesiodos in the ribs, his sympathy expired. She should not be so familiar with another man if she was married. Or even not married. His Judean sensibilities were still very much intact and he did not love the loose atmosphere that Greece had.
Neena then asked about him and before he could say much more than, “Well-”, Hesiodos, who was clearly inebriated, began to count on his fingers which Isaiah just realized were bleeding. He glanced at his shoulder and then sighed. Yes. There was blood there. This whole trip into the city was going so well, it would seem. His attention was drawn back to the bard as the man casually laid out the information that the new king was dead.
“He’s what?” Isaiah asked in Hebrew, forgetting to attempt Greek. “When? How?”
He had no love for the new king and couldn’t even reliably describe him, but it was still a shock to know that someone so newly appointed to the post was dead. Of all the things that he’d have assumed would pop out of the bard’s mouth, that was certainly among the last of it. “He was just crowned,” he said, as though that would have offered the new king some protection from death. With those people in cloaks stalking the rich, and the recent upheaval Isaiah had seen, witnessed, and been a part of, he was beginning to think that Yahweh must be terribly angry with the Greeks to curse them this way.
“You all should pray,” he advised in a true form of caution, not meant to be preachy, but definitely meant to save them. “Yahweh is punishing your people.” There was no other explanation. For his own situation, he assumed he was being punished as well and was trying to be as good a servant as possible to atone for whatever sins he’d committed. Once he had proved himself, he’d find the way back to his wife much easier.
The contrast between the two men was enough to evoke serious amusement. Where Hesiodos was calm over the devastation that the royal line had obviously recently suffered, Isaiah was shocked and took warning in the results. Where the bard laughed joyfully in mirth at the Judean's expense, the other could only offer a friendly smile. When Hesiodos turned to look at his hands as if the bleeding of them were a greater crime than regicide, Isaiah was too distracted by the news of the dead king to pay the minstrel's wounds of trade much heed.
Always the two of them with the more confident head and, if not a better understanding of different cultures, then at least a better sense of when to care about said differences, Neena was quick to gesture in a shooshing motion towards Hesiodos' drunken state before stopping a serving girl on her way passed the table. With a quick request, the girl agreed to bring over a cup of water, a bronze coin from Neena's money pouch strapped to her thigh the means to expedite the trade.
It was as they waited for the girl's return that Isaiah's faith broke into the conversation. Neena listened with a soft ear and an open expression but, when he was done, raised a querying eyebrow.
"Ever think that the punishment was wrought by whomever killed him?" She asked, not knowing the context of the man's death but assuming him to have been killed in a game of power and politics - for that was how most King's died if it was so immediately after taking the throne. "I don't know the king here." She added just to be clear. "But perhaps he was deserving of it."
Neena gave a casual shrug of her shoulders at the suggestion, heedless of the fact that she had just spoken treasonous and possibly condemning words.
As the young girl with an apron at her waist and dimples in her cheeks returned to their table with a wooden giblet of water, Neena was quick to thank her before leading back on her little stool. Behind her, just within reach if she stretched out her hand was a long gossamer streamer in deepest purple. It was one of the four colours so predominant in street decorations - red, gold, purple and white. All in celebration of something or other. With a sharp yank, she tore it from its moorings on the balcony roof of the seating area and then bunched it within her hand, to turn back to the provided water.
"Wine won't knit flesh together, Hesi." She told him firmly, reaching to take ahold of his wrist and then dripping the end of the silk into the goblet. Upon its removal, Neena squeezed free the excess water and then set about straightening Hesiodos's fingers and dabbing at the torn and bleeding skin. If she could clean the wound and remove any hanging bits of flesh, the fingers would heal best, with less risk of scars.
"So, what brings you to Taengea, Isaiah?" Neena asked, giving him a way out of any awkward, religious conversations. "Where about in Judea are you from?"
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The contrast between the two men was enough to evoke serious amusement. Where Hesiodos was calm over the devastation that the royal line had obviously recently suffered, Isaiah was shocked and took warning in the results. Where the bard laughed joyfully in mirth at the Judean's expense, the other could only offer a friendly smile. When Hesiodos turned to look at his hands as if the bleeding of them were a greater crime than regicide, Isaiah was too distracted by the news of the dead king to pay the minstrel's wounds of trade much heed.
Always the two of them with the more confident head and, if not a better understanding of different cultures, then at least a better sense of when to care about said differences, Neena was quick to gesture in a shooshing motion towards Hesiodos' drunken state before stopping a serving girl on her way passed the table. With a quick request, the girl agreed to bring over a cup of water, a bronze coin from Neena's money pouch strapped to her thigh the means to expedite the trade.
It was as they waited for the girl's return that Isaiah's faith broke into the conversation. Neena listened with a soft ear and an open expression but, when he was done, raised a querying eyebrow.
"Ever think that the punishment was wrought by whomever killed him?" She asked, not knowing the context of the man's death but assuming him to have been killed in a game of power and politics - for that was how most King's died if it was so immediately after taking the throne. "I don't know the king here." She added just to be clear. "But perhaps he was deserving of it."
Neena gave a casual shrug of her shoulders at the suggestion, heedless of the fact that she had just spoken treasonous and possibly condemning words.
As the young girl with an apron at her waist and dimples in her cheeks returned to their table with a wooden giblet of water, Neena was quick to thank her before leading back on her little stool. Behind her, just within reach if she stretched out her hand was a long gossamer streamer in deepest purple. It was one of the four colours so predominant in street decorations - red, gold, purple and white. All in celebration of something or other. With a sharp yank, she tore it from its moorings on the balcony roof of the seating area and then bunched it within her hand, to turn back to the provided water.
"Wine won't knit flesh together, Hesi." She told him firmly, reaching to take ahold of his wrist and then dripping the end of the silk into the goblet. Upon its removal, Neena squeezed free the excess water and then set about straightening Hesiodos's fingers and dabbing at the torn and bleeding skin. If she could clean the wound and remove any hanging bits of flesh, the fingers would heal best, with less risk of scars.
"So, what brings you to Taengea, Isaiah?" Neena asked, giving him a way out of any awkward, religious conversations. "Where about in Judea are you from?"
The contrast between the two men was enough to evoke serious amusement. Where Hesiodos was calm over the devastation that the royal line had obviously recently suffered, Isaiah was shocked and took warning in the results. Where the bard laughed joyfully in mirth at the Judean's expense, the other could only offer a friendly smile. When Hesiodos turned to look at his hands as if the bleeding of them were a greater crime than regicide, Isaiah was too distracted by the news of the dead king to pay the minstrel's wounds of trade much heed.
Always the two of them with the more confident head and, if not a better understanding of different cultures, then at least a better sense of when to care about said differences, Neena was quick to gesture in a shooshing motion towards Hesiodos' drunken state before stopping a serving girl on her way passed the table. With a quick request, the girl agreed to bring over a cup of water, a bronze coin from Neena's money pouch strapped to her thigh the means to expedite the trade.
It was as they waited for the girl's return that Isaiah's faith broke into the conversation. Neena listened with a soft ear and an open expression but, when he was done, raised a querying eyebrow.
"Ever think that the punishment was wrought by whomever killed him?" She asked, not knowing the context of the man's death but assuming him to have been killed in a game of power and politics - for that was how most King's died if it was so immediately after taking the throne. "I don't know the king here." She added just to be clear. "But perhaps he was deserving of it."
Neena gave a casual shrug of her shoulders at the suggestion, heedless of the fact that she had just spoken treasonous and possibly condemning words.
As the young girl with an apron at her waist and dimples in her cheeks returned to their table with a wooden giblet of water, Neena was quick to thank her before leading back on her little stool. Behind her, just within reach if she stretched out her hand was a long gossamer streamer in deepest purple. It was one of the four colours so predominant in street decorations - red, gold, purple and white. All in celebration of something or other. With a sharp yank, she tore it from its moorings on the balcony roof of the seating area and then bunched it within her hand, to turn back to the provided water.
"Wine won't knit flesh together, Hesi." She told him firmly, reaching to take ahold of his wrist and then dripping the end of the silk into the goblet. Upon its removal, Neena squeezed free the excess water and then set about straightening Hesiodos's fingers and dabbing at the torn and bleeding skin. If she could clean the wound and remove any hanging bits of flesh, the fingers would heal best, with less risk of scars.
"So, what brings you to Taengea, Isaiah?" Neena asked, giving him a way out of any awkward, religious conversations. "Where about in Judea are you from?"
Even though Hesiodos was a really emotional person, as he showed with his happiness as he was with Neena, he seemed oddly calm at that small detail of the king dying; he was quite drunk, after all, and his bigger concern were the bleeding fingers on his right hand, produced by playing hard and long for the people at the party to be distracted of the demise of their ruler.
He managed to reply to Isaiah with his little knowledge of Hebrew, “He’s dead”, he said simply, “A couple of hours ago… and I don’t know. He just… fell”, just as he suspected, it was as if Apollo just decided to get rid of him, and shot at arrow at him. He raised a brow at Isaiah’s statement, “Indeed, kind of a fuck up now, isn’t it?”
At his preaching, he just shrugged. He didn’t know what his one and only God could do in Greece; as far as he knew, his own gods had the dominion in this place, “It is like that sometimes. I’m not someone to say if Apollo is wrong, though…”, mostly because he seemed to be arrow-happy, and wouldn’t want to get an arrow with his name on him.
But then he turned at Neena, shrugging, “He did hire me to play for a wedding… so he mustn’t have been that bad”, but then, sudden realization hit him, “Shit! I didn’t charge yet! Who is going to pay me now?”, this now seemed more concerning that his sliced digits. Thankfully, she seemed to care for him, and ripping some of her clothing, she got them in water to bandage his fingers. He winced but didn’t oppose, and once she was done, he looked at his hand, opening and closing it, and smiled at her, “Thank you, Neena, you’re truly a savior for me… of boredom, mostly”, he said chuckling. He wouldn’t be playing with that hand for a while, but thankfully he was ambidextrous. As long as he could hold both of his swords, everything was perfect.
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Even though Hesiodos was a really emotional person, as he showed with his happiness as he was with Neena, he seemed oddly calm at that small detail of the king dying; he was quite drunk, after all, and his bigger concern were the bleeding fingers on his right hand, produced by playing hard and long for the people at the party to be distracted of the demise of their ruler.
He managed to reply to Isaiah with his little knowledge of Hebrew, “He’s dead”, he said simply, “A couple of hours ago… and I don’t know. He just… fell”, just as he suspected, it was as if Apollo just decided to get rid of him, and shot at arrow at him. He raised a brow at Isaiah’s statement, “Indeed, kind of a fuck up now, isn’t it?”
At his preaching, he just shrugged. He didn’t know what his one and only God could do in Greece; as far as he knew, his own gods had the dominion in this place, “It is like that sometimes. I’m not someone to say if Apollo is wrong, though…”, mostly because he seemed to be arrow-happy, and wouldn’t want to get an arrow with his name on him.
But then he turned at Neena, shrugging, “He did hire me to play for a wedding… so he mustn’t have been that bad”, but then, sudden realization hit him, “Shit! I didn’t charge yet! Who is going to pay me now?”, this now seemed more concerning that his sliced digits. Thankfully, she seemed to care for him, and ripping some of her clothing, she got them in water to bandage his fingers. He winced but didn’t oppose, and once she was done, he looked at his hand, opening and closing it, and smiled at her, “Thank you, Neena, you’re truly a savior for me… of boredom, mostly”, he said chuckling. He wouldn’t be playing with that hand for a while, but thankfully he was ambidextrous. As long as he could hold both of his swords, everything was perfect.
Even though Hesiodos was a really emotional person, as he showed with his happiness as he was with Neena, he seemed oddly calm at that small detail of the king dying; he was quite drunk, after all, and his bigger concern were the bleeding fingers on his right hand, produced by playing hard and long for the people at the party to be distracted of the demise of their ruler.
He managed to reply to Isaiah with his little knowledge of Hebrew, “He’s dead”, he said simply, “A couple of hours ago… and I don’t know. He just… fell”, just as he suspected, it was as if Apollo just decided to get rid of him, and shot at arrow at him. He raised a brow at Isaiah’s statement, “Indeed, kind of a fuck up now, isn’t it?”
At his preaching, he just shrugged. He didn’t know what his one and only God could do in Greece; as far as he knew, his own gods had the dominion in this place, “It is like that sometimes. I’m not someone to say if Apollo is wrong, though…”, mostly because he seemed to be arrow-happy, and wouldn’t want to get an arrow with his name on him.
But then he turned at Neena, shrugging, “He did hire me to play for a wedding… so he mustn’t have been that bad”, but then, sudden realization hit him, “Shit! I didn’t charge yet! Who is going to pay me now?”, this now seemed more concerning that his sliced digits. Thankfully, she seemed to care for him, and ripping some of her clothing, she got them in water to bandage his fingers. He winced but didn’t oppose, and once she was done, he looked at his hand, opening and closing it, and smiled at her, “Thank you, Neena, you’re truly a savior for me… of boredom, mostly”, he said chuckling. He wouldn’t be playing with that hand for a while, but thankfully he was ambidextrous. As long as he could hold both of his swords, everything was perfect.
As he’d hoped, neither Neena nor Hesiodos took offense at his words. Conversely, neither took him seriously, either, but that was expected. He looked down at his jar, gently lifting the lid to see how the contents faired. Pungent odors wafted up, curling inside his nose and he put his finger up right underneath his nostrils to prevent himself from sneezing. The lid clinked back into place and he glanced at Neena, his eyes watering, while she posited her theory. "Ever think that the punishment was wrought by whomever killed him?"
“You think he was murdered?” Isaiah asked, taking away his hand and finding his sinuses unexpectedly clear. So clear that every breath he drew in through his nose hurt, and so he parted his lips to breathe that way.
"I don't know the king here. But perhaps he was deserving of it,” she answered and Isaiah frowned. While he hadn’t met the king either, he didn’t know what the man could have done in so short a reign as to need to be murdered. He hadn’t had time to prove if he was a good king or a bad king, had he? Rather than continue that sort of talk, which would surely lead to a disagreement, and that was something he wanted to avoid at all costs, he merely made a non-committal “hmm” and looked to Hesiodos as the man examined his bleeding fingers and spoke up too.
“He’s dead,” the bard declared. Isaiah leaned back just a little bit, able to smell the wine coming off the man’s breath, like his blood was comprised of it. “A couple of hours ago… and I don’t know. He just… fell.”
Isaiah took that as proof that the man wasn’t murdered, though he still maintained that Greece was being judged. Laying his palm flat on the table, he smiled in a way he hoped was comforting to Neena and to Hesiodos, and said, “Ah, see? That’s better than being murdered. Perhaps he was ill. I have heard rumors among the servants that he has had a cough for a long time.” There. That solved everything and fit extremely nicely into his cosmic judgement theory.
He ignored Hesiodos’s language and watched Neena as she reminded the bard that wine wouldn’t solve the wound issue for the man’s poor fingers. Isaiah watched silently as the girl dabbed blood away with water and then he set his jar on the table. It wasn’t technically his to offer, but the horse wasn’t going to tell anyone that a little was missing and the amount was so negligible…
“Here,” he took the lid off of the jar fully this time and the truly thick scent of the herbs drifted up, mingling with the wine and the vague scent of body that hung in the air. “This is for the horses, but it’ll help you too. Careful,” he warned as he slathered it across Heisodos’s fingers. “It’s greasy. It’s what we use at the circus to heal the wounds on the horses.”
He’d heard Neena’s question about what brought him to Greece but chose to pretend he hadn’t. Instead, he kept his focus on the bard and avoided looking in her direction entirely. “There,” he said, sitting back down, only to get right back up again. “I shall return. Watch my jar, please.” His Greek was formal, thickly accented, and slow. His stride away from the table was not and he felt his heart pounding in his chest as he weaved through the people on his way to find the bartender. For some reason, Neena’s question made his heart ache and the distant pulsing between his eyes had the distinct rhythm of drumbeats. Maybe he would have some of that wine. Just a little.
Eventually, he found not the tavern owner, but one of the servants and managed to get two cloths, one for himself, and one for Neena and Hesiodos to wipe their hands on to get rid of the grease. “Here,” he said as he came back to the table. “I need to leave soon. I am expected back.”
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As he’d hoped, neither Neena nor Hesiodos took offense at his words. Conversely, neither took him seriously, either, but that was expected. He looked down at his jar, gently lifting the lid to see how the contents faired. Pungent odors wafted up, curling inside his nose and he put his finger up right underneath his nostrils to prevent himself from sneezing. The lid clinked back into place and he glanced at Neena, his eyes watering, while she posited her theory. "Ever think that the punishment was wrought by whomever killed him?"
“You think he was murdered?” Isaiah asked, taking away his hand and finding his sinuses unexpectedly clear. So clear that every breath he drew in through his nose hurt, and so he parted his lips to breathe that way.
"I don't know the king here. But perhaps he was deserving of it,” she answered and Isaiah frowned. While he hadn’t met the king either, he didn’t know what the man could have done in so short a reign as to need to be murdered. He hadn’t had time to prove if he was a good king or a bad king, had he? Rather than continue that sort of talk, which would surely lead to a disagreement, and that was something he wanted to avoid at all costs, he merely made a non-committal “hmm” and looked to Hesiodos as the man examined his bleeding fingers and spoke up too.
“He’s dead,” the bard declared. Isaiah leaned back just a little bit, able to smell the wine coming off the man’s breath, like his blood was comprised of it. “A couple of hours ago… and I don’t know. He just… fell.”
Isaiah took that as proof that the man wasn’t murdered, though he still maintained that Greece was being judged. Laying his palm flat on the table, he smiled in a way he hoped was comforting to Neena and to Hesiodos, and said, “Ah, see? That’s better than being murdered. Perhaps he was ill. I have heard rumors among the servants that he has had a cough for a long time.” There. That solved everything and fit extremely nicely into his cosmic judgement theory.
He ignored Hesiodos’s language and watched Neena as she reminded the bard that wine wouldn’t solve the wound issue for the man’s poor fingers. Isaiah watched silently as the girl dabbed blood away with water and then he set his jar on the table. It wasn’t technically his to offer, but the horse wasn’t going to tell anyone that a little was missing and the amount was so negligible…
“Here,” he took the lid off of the jar fully this time and the truly thick scent of the herbs drifted up, mingling with the wine and the vague scent of body that hung in the air. “This is for the horses, but it’ll help you too. Careful,” he warned as he slathered it across Heisodos’s fingers. “It’s greasy. It’s what we use at the circus to heal the wounds on the horses.”
He’d heard Neena’s question about what brought him to Greece but chose to pretend he hadn’t. Instead, he kept his focus on the bard and avoided looking in her direction entirely. “There,” he said, sitting back down, only to get right back up again. “I shall return. Watch my jar, please.” His Greek was formal, thickly accented, and slow. His stride away from the table was not and he felt his heart pounding in his chest as he weaved through the people on his way to find the bartender. For some reason, Neena’s question made his heart ache and the distant pulsing between his eyes had the distinct rhythm of drumbeats. Maybe he would have some of that wine. Just a little.
Eventually, he found not the tavern owner, but one of the servants and managed to get two cloths, one for himself, and one for Neena and Hesiodos to wipe their hands on to get rid of the grease. “Here,” he said as he came back to the table. “I need to leave soon. I am expected back.”
As he’d hoped, neither Neena nor Hesiodos took offense at his words. Conversely, neither took him seriously, either, but that was expected. He looked down at his jar, gently lifting the lid to see how the contents faired. Pungent odors wafted up, curling inside his nose and he put his finger up right underneath his nostrils to prevent himself from sneezing. The lid clinked back into place and he glanced at Neena, his eyes watering, while she posited her theory. "Ever think that the punishment was wrought by whomever killed him?"
“You think he was murdered?” Isaiah asked, taking away his hand and finding his sinuses unexpectedly clear. So clear that every breath he drew in through his nose hurt, and so he parted his lips to breathe that way.
"I don't know the king here. But perhaps he was deserving of it,” she answered and Isaiah frowned. While he hadn’t met the king either, he didn’t know what the man could have done in so short a reign as to need to be murdered. He hadn’t had time to prove if he was a good king or a bad king, had he? Rather than continue that sort of talk, which would surely lead to a disagreement, and that was something he wanted to avoid at all costs, he merely made a non-committal “hmm” and looked to Hesiodos as the man examined his bleeding fingers and spoke up too.
“He’s dead,” the bard declared. Isaiah leaned back just a little bit, able to smell the wine coming off the man’s breath, like his blood was comprised of it. “A couple of hours ago… and I don’t know. He just… fell.”
Isaiah took that as proof that the man wasn’t murdered, though he still maintained that Greece was being judged. Laying his palm flat on the table, he smiled in a way he hoped was comforting to Neena and to Hesiodos, and said, “Ah, see? That’s better than being murdered. Perhaps he was ill. I have heard rumors among the servants that he has had a cough for a long time.” There. That solved everything and fit extremely nicely into his cosmic judgement theory.
He ignored Hesiodos’s language and watched Neena as she reminded the bard that wine wouldn’t solve the wound issue for the man’s poor fingers. Isaiah watched silently as the girl dabbed blood away with water and then he set his jar on the table. It wasn’t technically his to offer, but the horse wasn’t going to tell anyone that a little was missing and the amount was so negligible…
“Here,” he took the lid off of the jar fully this time and the truly thick scent of the herbs drifted up, mingling with the wine and the vague scent of body that hung in the air. “This is for the horses, but it’ll help you too. Careful,” he warned as he slathered it across Heisodos’s fingers. “It’s greasy. It’s what we use at the circus to heal the wounds on the horses.”
He’d heard Neena’s question about what brought him to Greece but chose to pretend he hadn’t. Instead, he kept his focus on the bard and avoided looking in her direction entirely. “There,” he said, sitting back down, only to get right back up again. “I shall return. Watch my jar, please.” His Greek was formal, thickly accented, and slow. His stride away from the table was not and he felt his heart pounding in his chest as he weaved through the people on his way to find the bartender. For some reason, Neena’s question made his heart ache and the distant pulsing between his eyes had the distinct rhythm of drumbeats. Maybe he would have some of that wine. Just a little.
Eventually, he found not the tavern owner, but one of the servants and managed to get two cloths, one for himself, and one for Neena and Hesiodos to wipe their hands on to get rid of the grease. “Here,” he said as he came back to the table. “I need to leave soon. I am expected back.”
Neena's eyes were focused on Hesiodos' hands, else she might have noticed the way in which Isaiah avoided the questions she had thrown at him. Considering they had been only vague and general curiosities, used to open the conversation up to other subjects, there was little personal investment in the answers and so, she missed the fact that none were forthcoming.
Instead, the Judean did the one thing that could have caught Neena's attentions so assuredly: he produced some form of healing poultice that he offered to be applied to Hesiodos' hands. When he lifted the lid of the jar he carried, the smell was intense and made Neena's nose wrinkle and the inside of her nostrils feel oddly cold and sensitive. The soft curve of her broad nose wiggled and snatched back and forth in an effort to relieve the desire to sneeze. Whatever in the heck was inside that jar, Neena had no idea.
As the young man reached into the container to procure some of its contents, however, Neena instantly grew in like for the man. Anyone who was willing to offer something for nothing and without specific request was an empathetic and compassionate man that she could befriend and like. Even when their differences in temperament were clearly so wide.
Letting go of Hesiodos' hands when Isaiah reached out to slather them in the lotion that was so potent in smell, Neena's eyes narrowed, but with curiosity over distrust. She leant in close and taking hold of the backs of Hesi's hands moved her nose close to sniff at the tonic, causing the wrinkling in her features to deepen.
When Isaiah explained that he would be back in a moment, Neena nodded without looking up, her gaze analytical of the consistency and oily, greasy texture of the tonic. Helping to smooth it into Hesiodos' hands, she glanced at him as she worked it over his damaged skin, her expression both caring and curious.
"Does that hurt?" She asked him, watching as the mixture seeped into the skin the more that she circled it over his palms and fingers.
Curious as to its herbal ingredients, Neena lifted one of her hands that was coated in the poultice and touched her fingers to the tip of her tongue, tasting the remedy with a thoughtful look on her face. It was as she was licking at her fingers thusly that Isaiah returned to the table...
“What’s in this?” She asked him, eager for knowledge.
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Neena's eyes were focused on Hesiodos' hands, else she might have noticed the way in which Isaiah avoided the questions she had thrown at him. Considering they had been only vague and general curiosities, used to open the conversation up to other subjects, there was little personal investment in the answers and so, she missed the fact that none were forthcoming.
Instead, the Judean did the one thing that could have caught Neena's attentions so assuredly: he produced some form of healing poultice that he offered to be applied to Hesiodos' hands. When he lifted the lid of the jar he carried, the smell was intense and made Neena's nose wrinkle and the inside of her nostrils feel oddly cold and sensitive. The soft curve of her broad nose wiggled and snatched back and forth in an effort to relieve the desire to sneeze. Whatever in the heck was inside that jar, Neena had no idea.
As the young man reached into the container to procure some of its contents, however, Neena instantly grew in like for the man. Anyone who was willing to offer something for nothing and without specific request was an empathetic and compassionate man that she could befriend and like. Even when their differences in temperament were clearly so wide.
Letting go of Hesiodos' hands when Isaiah reached out to slather them in the lotion that was so potent in smell, Neena's eyes narrowed, but with curiosity over distrust. She leant in close and taking hold of the backs of Hesi's hands moved her nose close to sniff at the tonic, causing the wrinkling in her features to deepen.
When Isaiah explained that he would be back in a moment, Neena nodded without looking up, her gaze analytical of the consistency and oily, greasy texture of the tonic. Helping to smooth it into Hesiodos' hands, she glanced at him as she worked it over his damaged skin, her expression both caring and curious.
"Does that hurt?" She asked him, watching as the mixture seeped into the skin the more that she circled it over his palms and fingers.
Curious as to its herbal ingredients, Neena lifted one of her hands that was coated in the poultice and touched her fingers to the tip of her tongue, tasting the remedy with a thoughtful look on her face. It was as she was licking at her fingers thusly that Isaiah returned to the table...
“What’s in this?” She asked him, eager for knowledge.
Neena's eyes were focused on Hesiodos' hands, else she might have noticed the way in which Isaiah avoided the questions she had thrown at him. Considering they had been only vague and general curiosities, used to open the conversation up to other subjects, there was little personal investment in the answers and so, she missed the fact that none were forthcoming.
Instead, the Judean did the one thing that could have caught Neena's attentions so assuredly: he produced some form of healing poultice that he offered to be applied to Hesiodos' hands. When he lifted the lid of the jar he carried, the smell was intense and made Neena's nose wrinkle and the inside of her nostrils feel oddly cold and sensitive. The soft curve of her broad nose wiggled and snatched back and forth in an effort to relieve the desire to sneeze. Whatever in the heck was inside that jar, Neena had no idea.
As the young man reached into the container to procure some of its contents, however, Neena instantly grew in like for the man. Anyone who was willing to offer something for nothing and without specific request was an empathetic and compassionate man that she could befriend and like. Even when their differences in temperament were clearly so wide.
Letting go of Hesiodos' hands when Isaiah reached out to slather them in the lotion that was so potent in smell, Neena's eyes narrowed, but with curiosity over distrust. She leant in close and taking hold of the backs of Hesi's hands moved her nose close to sniff at the tonic, causing the wrinkling in her features to deepen.
When Isaiah explained that he would be back in a moment, Neena nodded without looking up, her gaze analytical of the consistency and oily, greasy texture of the tonic. Helping to smooth it into Hesiodos' hands, she glanced at him as she worked it over his damaged skin, her expression both caring and curious.
"Does that hurt?" She asked him, watching as the mixture seeped into the skin the more that she circled it over his palms and fingers.
Curious as to its herbal ingredients, Neena lifted one of her hands that was coated in the poultice and touched her fingers to the tip of her tongue, tasting the remedy with a thoughtful look on her face. It was as she was licking at her fingers thusly that Isaiah returned to the table...
“What’s in this?” She asked him, eager for knowledge.
Hesiodos raised an eyebrow at Isaiah; perhaps that was better than being murdered, yes, but it was still death. Be it from a turtle falling on your head, a knife on your belly or Apollo shooting at arrow at you, death was death, “Indeed”, he said, “I know how I want to die, though: on my bed, at age 80, with a belly full of wine and a whore’s mouth around my cock. That’s better than being murdered”, he jested, unable to contain a fit of drunken laughter.
He didn’t expect Isaiah to give him some of whatever it was on the jar and put it on his hand. The smell reached his nose, even through the other smells and made him make a grimace. It was greasy, and it sting a bit on his thorn fingertips. But before he could ask, the Judean revealed what it was, and Hesiodos’ expression was one of surprise, “Thank you, my friend. It is greatly appreciated”, he said in his not-so-fluent Hebrew. The thing smelled like something he wouldn’t want to eat, but if it was medicine, he knew that it would help his wounds not get any worse.
That moment, Hesiodos took a liking for Isaiah. He usually wasn’t too fond for people that were too reserved and seemed to hate fun… but he couldn’t turn his nose to the generosity this man gave him. They meet barely a few minutes ago, and yet, he offered his medicine to him. He made a note to not to forget that.
When Neena spread the grease over his fingers and palm – he realized his palm was also sore, but thankfully not thorn – the bard made a grimace. It stung quite a lot, and he needed all his strength to not to yelp, which the wine he drank provided. “Less than a heartbreak, truly”, he jested to his friend, though his expression made it clear that he was reconsidering that statement.
With his hand with medicine and bandaged, Hesiodos looked at it. It was good handiwork, he thought, and as long as he was careful the wounds would heal well… he would just have to avoid using that hand, but it was no problem. Looking at Neena, he chuckled, “Don’t lick that! You’ll get sick”, and when Isaiah returned with the rags, he greeted him with a smile, “Welcome back, my friend. I truly missed you”, he said with a chuckle, carefully putting his hand on the table once again, “I say, this deserves a round of drinks, don’t you think?”
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Hesiodos raised an eyebrow at Isaiah; perhaps that was better than being murdered, yes, but it was still death. Be it from a turtle falling on your head, a knife on your belly or Apollo shooting at arrow at you, death was death, “Indeed”, he said, “I know how I want to die, though: on my bed, at age 80, with a belly full of wine and a whore’s mouth around my cock. That’s better than being murdered”, he jested, unable to contain a fit of drunken laughter.
He didn’t expect Isaiah to give him some of whatever it was on the jar and put it on his hand. The smell reached his nose, even through the other smells and made him make a grimace. It was greasy, and it sting a bit on his thorn fingertips. But before he could ask, the Judean revealed what it was, and Hesiodos’ expression was one of surprise, “Thank you, my friend. It is greatly appreciated”, he said in his not-so-fluent Hebrew. The thing smelled like something he wouldn’t want to eat, but if it was medicine, he knew that it would help his wounds not get any worse.
That moment, Hesiodos took a liking for Isaiah. He usually wasn’t too fond for people that were too reserved and seemed to hate fun… but he couldn’t turn his nose to the generosity this man gave him. They meet barely a few minutes ago, and yet, he offered his medicine to him. He made a note to not to forget that.
When Neena spread the grease over his fingers and palm – he realized his palm was also sore, but thankfully not thorn – the bard made a grimace. It stung quite a lot, and he needed all his strength to not to yelp, which the wine he drank provided. “Less than a heartbreak, truly”, he jested to his friend, though his expression made it clear that he was reconsidering that statement.
With his hand with medicine and bandaged, Hesiodos looked at it. It was good handiwork, he thought, and as long as he was careful the wounds would heal well… he would just have to avoid using that hand, but it was no problem. Looking at Neena, he chuckled, “Don’t lick that! You’ll get sick”, and when Isaiah returned with the rags, he greeted him with a smile, “Welcome back, my friend. I truly missed you”, he said with a chuckle, carefully putting his hand on the table once again, “I say, this deserves a round of drinks, don’t you think?”
Hesiodos raised an eyebrow at Isaiah; perhaps that was better than being murdered, yes, but it was still death. Be it from a turtle falling on your head, a knife on your belly or Apollo shooting at arrow at you, death was death, “Indeed”, he said, “I know how I want to die, though: on my bed, at age 80, with a belly full of wine and a whore’s mouth around my cock. That’s better than being murdered”, he jested, unable to contain a fit of drunken laughter.
He didn’t expect Isaiah to give him some of whatever it was on the jar and put it on his hand. The smell reached his nose, even through the other smells and made him make a grimace. It was greasy, and it sting a bit on his thorn fingertips. But before he could ask, the Judean revealed what it was, and Hesiodos’ expression was one of surprise, “Thank you, my friend. It is greatly appreciated”, he said in his not-so-fluent Hebrew. The thing smelled like something he wouldn’t want to eat, but if it was medicine, he knew that it would help his wounds not get any worse.
That moment, Hesiodos took a liking for Isaiah. He usually wasn’t too fond for people that were too reserved and seemed to hate fun… but he couldn’t turn his nose to the generosity this man gave him. They meet barely a few minutes ago, and yet, he offered his medicine to him. He made a note to not to forget that.
When Neena spread the grease over his fingers and palm – he realized his palm was also sore, but thankfully not thorn – the bard made a grimace. It stung quite a lot, and he needed all his strength to not to yelp, which the wine he drank provided. “Less than a heartbreak, truly”, he jested to his friend, though his expression made it clear that he was reconsidering that statement.
With his hand with medicine and bandaged, Hesiodos looked at it. It was good handiwork, he thought, and as long as he was careful the wounds would heal well… he would just have to avoid using that hand, but it was no problem. Looking at Neena, he chuckled, “Don’t lick that! You’ll get sick”, and when Isaiah returned with the rags, he greeted him with a smile, “Welcome back, my friend. I truly missed you”, he said with a chuckle, carefully putting his hand on the table once again, “I say, this deserves a round of drinks, don’t you think?”
“Crumble fennel, licorice, mandrake root, marshmallow with grape must, peony, olive oil, lard,” Isaiah’s eyes drifted upward as he thought. “Donkey dung…” there was more but he couldn’t remember. Perhaps honey but by the time that he’d wrested this away from the apothecary who was attempting to explain all of it to him, so that he could tell his master, he’d lost track of all the ingredients. He was positive there was lard in it somewhere but what sort, he didn’t know.
He’d watched her taste the poultice with a wrinkled nose and his lips turned downward. Why anyone would taste something that already smelled so…”Oh and mint. For smell, I am thinking.” His words were slow, accent terribly thick, and some of the things he’d said had definitely been in Hebrew, so that he spoke some bastardized version of Greek.
Hesiodos’s assertion that he wanted to be drunk and fornicating when he died did not appeal to Isaiah in the least. In fact, that sounded like the worst thing that could happen to him. How far and low would he have sunk to have such a sad fate befall him? He knew the bard would not share that opinion and so he kept it to himself, saying nothing about that.
At the bard’s call for a round of drinks, Isaiah shook his head. “I do not drink to drunk,” he said, not knowing he’d missed the grammar on that sentence. Then he lifted the jar. “I must go.” While he did like these two, he felt that if he stayed with them longer, he was going to somehow be involved in something distinctly heathen. Not, of course, that he would say this to them. His assertion that the king was being judged by Yahweh had not gone over quite like he’d hoped it would. Rising from the table where he’d briefly sat back down, he hugged his jar to him and glanced out at the still raucous crowd.
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“Crumble fennel, licorice, mandrake root, marshmallow with grape must, peony, olive oil, lard,” Isaiah’s eyes drifted upward as he thought. “Donkey dung…” there was more but he couldn’t remember. Perhaps honey but by the time that he’d wrested this away from the apothecary who was attempting to explain all of it to him, so that he could tell his master, he’d lost track of all the ingredients. He was positive there was lard in it somewhere but what sort, he didn’t know.
He’d watched her taste the poultice with a wrinkled nose and his lips turned downward. Why anyone would taste something that already smelled so…”Oh and mint. For smell, I am thinking.” His words were slow, accent terribly thick, and some of the things he’d said had definitely been in Hebrew, so that he spoke some bastardized version of Greek.
Hesiodos’s assertion that he wanted to be drunk and fornicating when he died did not appeal to Isaiah in the least. In fact, that sounded like the worst thing that could happen to him. How far and low would he have sunk to have such a sad fate befall him? He knew the bard would not share that opinion and so he kept it to himself, saying nothing about that.
At the bard’s call for a round of drinks, Isaiah shook his head. “I do not drink to drunk,” he said, not knowing he’d missed the grammar on that sentence. Then he lifted the jar. “I must go.” While he did like these two, he felt that if he stayed with them longer, he was going to somehow be involved in something distinctly heathen. Not, of course, that he would say this to them. His assertion that the king was being judged by Yahweh had not gone over quite like he’d hoped it would. Rising from the table where he’d briefly sat back down, he hugged his jar to him and glanced out at the still raucous crowd.
“Crumble fennel, licorice, mandrake root, marshmallow with grape must, peony, olive oil, lard,” Isaiah’s eyes drifted upward as he thought. “Donkey dung…” there was more but he couldn’t remember. Perhaps honey but by the time that he’d wrested this away from the apothecary who was attempting to explain all of it to him, so that he could tell his master, he’d lost track of all the ingredients. He was positive there was lard in it somewhere but what sort, he didn’t know.
He’d watched her taste the poultice with a wrinkled nose and his lips turned downward. Why anyone would taste something that already smelled so…”Oh and mint. For smell, I am thinking.” His words were slow, accent terribly thick, and some of the things he’d said had definitely been in Hebrew, so that he spoke some bastardized version of Greek.
Hesiodos’s assertion that he wanted to be drunk and fornicating when he died did not appeal to Isaiah in the least. In fact, that sounded like the worst thing that could happen to him. How far and low would he have sunk to have such a sad fate befall him? He knew the bard would not share that opinion and so he kept it to himself, saying nothing about that.
At the bard’s call for a round of drinks, Isaiah shook his head. “I do not drink to drunk,” he said, not knowing he’d missed the grammar on that sentence. Then he lifted the jar. “I must go.” While he did like these two, he felt that if he stayed with them longer, he was going to somehow be involved in something distinctly heathen. Not, of course, that he would say this to them. His assertion that the king was being judged by Yahweh had not gone over quite like he’d hoped it would. Rising from the table where he’d briefly sat back down, he hugged his jar to him and glanced out at the still raucous crowd.