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The tribes of the Zaire and the Rwandi have arrived at the borderlands of Egypt. in the Eastern Dunes. Attracted by the large convoy of camels, horses and the colourful kaftan fabrics that make up the hawe homes of the Bedoan people, the traders of the Egyptian border provinces have come out to greet them. With scouts reporting the arrival several days prior even heavyweight traders from the capitols have arrived in the hopes of finding some personal items of cheap deals from the travelling people.
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The tribes of the Zaire and the Rwandi have arrived at the borderlands of Egypt. in the Eastern Dunes. Attracted by the large convoy of camels, horses and the colourful kaftan fabrics that make up the hawe homes of the Bedoan people, the traders of the Egyptian border provinces have come out to greet them. With scouts reporting the arrival several days prior even heavyweight traders from the capitols have arrived in the hopes of finding some personal items of cheap deals from the travelling people.
Border Trade Provincial Story - Bedoa
The tribes of the Zaire and the Rwandi have arrived at the borderlands of Egypt. in the Eastern Dunes. Attracted by the large convoy of camels, horses and the colourful kaftan fabrics that make up the hawe homes of the Bedoan people, the traders of the Egyptian border provinces have come out to greet them. With scouts reporting the arrival several days prior even heavyweight traders from the capitols have arrived in the hopes of finding some personal items of cheap deals from the travelling people.
The day had felt longer than possibly any other in Neena's not so long (yet) life. In fact, she had been aboard her camel for so long she feared her rear end might have actually moulded and fused itself to the shape of the creature’s hump. With her legs crossed over the front of the creatures back, her bottom perching her on its zenith amongst a soft saddle of cloth and rolls of material, Neena had made a cushioned nest for herself on the back of the animal and yet still could feel saddle sores developing over her buttocks.
This was why she hated travelling by animal and much preferred the company and guidance of her own feet. But the journey the Zaire had needed to make had been too long to wait on the single steps of those on foot. Instead, the entire tribe had been shifted to either the back of animals or to the few caravans the tribe possessed. Such vehicles could hold perhaps a third of the Zaire people so those left on foot were forced to do so at high speed, breaking into jogging, loping strides whenever they could in order to keep up. Then the third within the vans would be transferred to the ground to give another group their respite.
As second wife to the Leier of the Zaire people, Neena had been able to ride across the sands on the back of her own animal. Whilst she had neither preference for horse or camel - either would have left her just as uncomfortable in the downstairs area - Neena wasn't about to offer shame or embarrassment upon either her husband or his first wife by denying her authoritative right to ride in style. Even if she had rather been running along with the plebeians.
Even after three years of marriage to Hasani, Neena had yet to get used to the concept that she was now a woman of rank. It felt as if she were wearing sandals that were too big or the wrong shape. It set her groove on a strange tilt that made her feel like a false idol. A liar and cheat of the system. She was no royalty; no woman of great merit or skill. She had simply fallen in love with a man who was a leader of people. And she had been lucky enough to have the feelings returned.
As if to display her personal feelings of contradiction, Neena's dress and garments seemed oddly representative. Garbed in the simple clothes of a commoner, Neena wore a headdress that was traditional among the Bedoan people. The garment settled over the head, twisted into a roped length that wound around the head and then fell back into a sweeping veil that cut across her face at the nose and fastened back into the rope that surrounded her temples. Only her large eyes with expressive lashes could be seen of her face. Her clothes were layers of kaftan - more clothing than she had ever been used to wearing whilst living as a slave - that fell upon her like multiple blankets, offering her protection from the sun as they journeyed. Beneath the outer coating, Neena wore a soft and light fabric in geometric patterns wrapped around her body and tied above and below her breasts, before winding around her hips. Reams of material tied to her knees and thighs covered her legs while keeping them unhindered for the cross-legged position she occupied on the back of the camel. Her outer layers folded forwards to keep her dignity.
Everything she wore - baring perhaps the additional layers of kaftan - was common place among the Bedoan tribes. But each piece was made of the finest quality, the brightest colours and the most complex patterning of any she had seen before. A combination of basic and expensive.
Which suited her social role just as well. For she was neither of royal blood like Hasani's other spouse, nor was she his first married partner. The wife to the Leier she was, the Leierin she was not. Tanishe occupied that position: a role that Neena had never wanted nor sought and believed the woman to handle with more grace and skill than she would ever be able to. Which meant that her raiment was fit for both her own personal feelings of unsettlement as well as her role beside her sister-wife.
Upon riding up towards another sand dune, their direction bearing strongly to the East in order to meet at the rendezvous of a trading point Hasani was leading them towards, Neena called up to her husband who rode just ahead of her, Tanishe occupying the space between them as they rode single file.
"Great Leier!" She called over Tanishe and up towards their shared husband. "Oh handsome Leier! Love of our lives! Please by all that is holy and blessed by the ancestors, tell me we're nearly there!" She called up to him. Her complaining was clearly originating from real discomfort but her tone was one of more mirth than it was real or annoying whines. "Much longer and I'm going to have a hump bigger than my camel!"
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May 19, 2019 19:02:37 GMT
Posted In Border Trade on May 19, 2019 19:02:37 GMT
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The day had felt longer than possibly any other in Neena's not so long (yet) life. In fact, she had been aboard her camel for so long she feared her rear end might have actually moulded and fused itself to the shape of the creature’s hump. With her legs crossed over the front of the creatures back, her bottom perching her on its zenith amongst a soft saddle of cloth and rolls of material, Neena had made a cushioned nest for herself on the back of the animal and yet still could feel saddle sores developing over her buttocks.
This was why she hated travelling by animal and much preferred the company and guidance of her own feet. But the journey the Zaire had needed to make had been too long to wait on the single steps of those on foot. Instead, the entire tribe had been shifted to either the back of animals or to the few caravans the tribe possessed. Such vehicles could hold perhaps a third of the Zaire people so those left on foot were forced to do so at high speed, breaking into jogging, loping strides whenever they could in order to keep up. Then the third within the vans would be transferred to the ground to give another group their respite.
As second wife to the Leier of the Zaire people, Neena had been able to ride across the sands on the back of her own animal. Whilst she had neither preference for horse or camel - either would have left her just as uncomfortable in the downstairs area - Neena wasn't about to offer shame or embarrassment upon either her husband or his first wife by denying her authoritative right to ride in style. Even if she had rather been running along with the plebeians.
Even after three years of marriage to Hasani, Neena had yet to get used to the concept that she was now a woman of rank. It felt as if she were wearing sandals that were too big or the wrong shape. It set her groove on a strange tilt that made her feel like a false idol. A liar and cheat of the system. She was no royalty; no woman of great merit or skill. She had simply fallen in love with a man who was a leader of people. And she had been lucky enough to have the feelings returned.
As if to display her personal feelings of contradiction, Neena's dress and garments seemed oddly representative. Garbed in the simple clothes of a commoner, Neena wore a headdress that was traditional among the Bedoan people. The garment settled over the head, twisted into a roped length that wound around the head and then fell back into a sweeping veil that cut across her face at the nose and fastened back into the rope that surrounded her temples. Only her large eyes with expressive lashes could be seen of her face. Her clothes were layers of kaftan - more clothing than she had ever been used to wearing whilst living as a slave - that fell upon her like multiple blankets, offering her protection from the sun as they journeyed. Beneath the outer coating, Neena wore a soft and light fabric in geometric patterns wrapped around her body and tied above and below her breasts, before winding around her hips. Reams of material tied to her knees and thighs covered her legs while keeping them unhindered for the cross-legged position she occupied on the back of the camel. Her outer layers folded forwards to keep her dignity.
Everything she wore - baring perhaps the additional layers of kaftan - was common place among the Bedoan tribes. But each piece was made of the finest quality, the brightest colours and the most complex patterning of any she had seen before. A combination of basic and expensive.
Which suited her social role just as well. For she was neither of royal blood like Hasani's other spouse, nor was she his first married partner. The wife to the Leier she was, the Leierin she was not. Tanishe occupied that position: a role that Neena had never wanted nor sought and believed the woman to handle with more grace and skill than she would ever be able to. Which meant that her raiment was fit for both her own personal feelings of unsettlement as well as her role beside her sister-wife.
Upon riding up towards another sand dune, their direction bearing strongly to the East in order to meet at the rendezvous of a trading point Hasani was leading them towards, Neena called up to her husband who rode just ahead of her, Tanishe occupying the space between them as they rode single file.
"Great Leier!" She called over Tanishe and up towards their shared husband. "Oh handsome Leier! Love of our lives! Please by all that is holy and blessed by the ancestors, tell me we're nearly there!" She called up to him. Her complaining was clearly originating from real discomfort but her tone was one of more mirth than it was real or annoying whines. "Much longer and I'm going to have a hump bigger than my camel!"
The day had felt longer than possibly any other in Neena's not so long (yet) life. In fact, she had been aboard her camel for so long she feared her rear end might have actually moulded and fused itself to the shape of the creature’s hump. With her legs crossed over the front of the creatures back, her bottom perching her on its zenith amongst a soft saddle of cloth and rolls of material, Neena had made a cushioned nest for herself on the back of the animal and yet still could feel saddle sores developing over her buttocks.
This was why she hated travelling by animal and much preferred the company and guidance of her own feet. But the journey the Zaire had needed to make had been too long to wait on the single steps of those on foot. Instead, the entire tribe had been shifted to either the back of animals or to the few caravans the tribe possessed. Such vehicles could hold perhaps a third of the Zaire people so those left on foot were forced to do so at high speed, breaking into jogging, loping strides whenever they could in order to keep up. Then the third within the vans would be transferred to the ground to give another group their respite.
As second wife to the Leier of the Zaire people, Neena had been able to ride across the sands on the back of her own animal. Whilst she had neither preference for horse or camel - either would have left her just as uncomfortable in the downstairs area - Neena wasn't about to offer shame or embarrassment upon either her husband or his first wife by denying her authoritative right to ride in style. Even if she had rather been running along with the plebeians.
Even after three years of marriage to Hasani, Neena had yet to get used to the concept that she was now a woman of rank. It felt as if she were wearing sandals that were too big or the wrong shape. It set her groove on a strange tilt that made her feel like a false idol. A liar and cheat of the system. She was no royalty; no woman of great merit or skill. She had simply fallen in love with a man who was a leader of people. And she had been lucky enough to have the feelings returned.
As if to display her personal feelings of contradiction, Neena's dress and garments seemed oddly representative. Garbed in the simple clothes of a commoner, Neena wore a headdress that was traditional among the Bedoan people. The garment settled over the head, twisted into a roped length that wound around the head and then fell back into a sweeping veil that cut across her face at the nose and fastened back into the rope that surrounded her temples. Only her large eyes with expressive lashes could be seen of her face. Her clothes were layers of kaftan - more clothing than she had ever been used to wearing whilst living as a slave - that fell upon her like multiple blankets, offering her protection from the sun as they journeyed. Beneath the outer coating, Neena wore a soft and light fabric in geometric patterns wrapped around her body and tied above and below her breasts, before winding around her hips. Reams of material tied to her knees and thighs covered her legs while keeping them unhindered for the cross-legged position she occupied on the back of the camel. Her outer layers folded forwards to keep her dignity.
Everything she wore - baring perhaps the additional layers of kaftan - was common place among the Bedoan tribes. But each piece was made of the finest quality, the brightest colours and the most complex patterning of any she had seen before. A combination of basic and expensive.
Which suited her social role just as well. For she was neither of royal blood like Hasani's other spouse, nor was she his first married partner. The wife to the Leier she was, the Leierin she was not. Tanishe occupied that position: a role that Neena had never wanted nor sought and believed the woman to handle with more grace and skill than she would ever be able to. Which meant that her raiment was fit for both her own personal feelings of unsettlement as well as her role beside her sister-wife.
Upon riding up towards another sand dune, their direction bearing strongly to the East in order to meet at the rendezvous of a trading point Hasani was leading them towards, Neena called up to her husband who rode just ahead of her, Tanishe occupying the space between them as they rode single file.
"Great Leier!" She called over Tanishe and up towards their shared husband. "Oh handsome Leier! Love of our lives! Please by all that is holy and blessed by the ancestors, tell me we're nearly there!" She called up to him. Her complaining was clearly originating from real discomfort but her tone was one of more mirth than it was real or annoying whines. "Much longer and I'm going to have a hump bigger than my camel!"
Traveling around wasn't anything but boring to the Leierseunin. Truth, she had some idea that by trading she may receive more of the chunky jewelry she so adored, and truth, she knew her people did enjoy speaking with people of other places. Her father, especially, was a diplomatic man, and may enjoy speaking with the Egyptian people. Even her father's first wife may enjoy listening to, perhaps contributing to if she was allowed. But all that came to Jawahir's mind was that she might potentially become known as a good traveler, and see if that was something that she could be better known for than Bashira. Perhaps, even, her mother might meet with a Leier of another Gesin and offer Jawahir as a wife. She imagined being a Leier's first wife, like Durah, would be a heavily rewarding experience.
She was so used to living life well off. Jawahir took for granted the things that others may be willing to die to have, because she felt so much worse than her older half-sister. The soft bedding she slept on at night, in the tent she shared with her family, and would share with her family until she got married. She did feel as though she should have her own tent, if only because it would mean that she had gotten married.
Her bright clothes, marking her as someone with power, as someone with the ability to trade and barter for such things, or in the very least receive them, glinted in the sunlight. Her body was fully covered. She wanted no Egyptian to catch a glimpse of what should be for her future husband, when she did eventually get married. She prayed to the ancestors that she would have a pleasant experience, and that nothing would go terribly wrong. Jawahir had heard that the Egyptians traded in gold, the same kind she currently wore around her neck, but just in any shape, or the round coins she could imagine clinking together like the necklaces wrapped to form a permanent shape around her neck.
Jawahir decided she didn't like the coins. They didn't seem trustworthy, or useful in any way. And who was to say that the coins wouldn't just change meanings in the time before the Rwandi Gesin came back to trade with the Egyptian people and the Rwandi would gain nothing from their travels? Jawahir much preferred trading for the rare fruits and vegetables, especially since she knew they would be cooked to how she wanted them, if they did receive any.
The added perks made traveling easier, though Jawahir was never one to complain. In part because Bashira never seemed to, or because she wanted to respect the ancestors. She couldn't imagine her life without the fabrics she used to sleep in every night, or having war among the people. Their life must have been very difficult. She very much enjoyed the system they had now, and was thankful for the life she had, with the one exception always in the back of her mind.
Bashira. Even now, her older half-sister still nearby, she felt it in the way Bashira sat up straighter, and Jawahir was sure that her figure was nicer. That even before they thought of her, Bashira had made an impression. Jawahir felt like tumbling off the cliff of their high expectations, sometimes. Other times she felt like jumping off on purpose, growing wings and flying off towards the sun, the beautiful sun that Jawahir adored almost as much as she adored her ancestors. She imagined being praised throughout the land that she knew. She imagined a husband, imagined herself serving him the best she could, and imagined being desired for it. Not like her mother, Farashuu. Jawahir thought she was letting herself be pushed aside.
The camel shifted underneath her. She did not sit with her father, no, that honor belonged to Durah. She, at times, would share with a sister, but now, she shared with none other than her favorite belongings. Her curves felt awkward on the creatures at times, especially after sitting a while. The colorful cloth fabric she wore hid it, but she never felt completely secure on the creatures unless her mother was nearby, or perhaps her father. Morathi and Farashuu were in a way always there for Jawahir, when they could be, and she understood that. She just wished they were around her more. As her mother's only daughter, obviously Farashuu paid more attention to Jawahir. But Morathi, Jawahir thought, would have his mind on other things, on other daughters.
On Bashira. On Hanuni. On Jawahir sometimes, of course. But she wasn't a male, as she was supposed to be. She wasn't the reason her father had married her mother, and, Jawahir suspected, he would soon take another bride. The thoughts of a future younger brother were far off for Jawahir now, as she heard someone nearby call in a dialect she recognized, but could not place. Similar to her own in nature. Bedoan. Jawahir and her tribe were just descending from the camels, the front of the caravan having met the beginning of the Egyptian travelers. Though Jawahir herself did not speak much of the Egyptian language, she knew members of the Rwandi Gesin did, a skill she envied but did not take the time to correct.
"We are arrived, then?" she posed the question to her mother as she got off the camel, "What would you have me do? Perhaps attempt to speak with the other Gesin?"
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May 19, 2019 19:03:45 GMT
Posted In Border Trade on May 19, 2019 19:03:45 GMT
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Traveling around wasn't anything but boring to the Leierseunin. Truth, she had some idea that by trading she may receive more of the chunky jewelry she so adored, and truth, she knew her people did enjoy speaking with people of other places. Her father, especially, was a diplomatic man, and may enjoy speaking with the Egyptian people. Even her father's first wife may enjoy listening to, perhaps contributing to if she was allowed. But all that came to Jawahir's mind was that she might potentially become known as a good traveler, and see if that was something that she could be better known for than Bashira. Perhaps, even, her mother might meet with a Leier of another Gesin and offer Jawahir as a wife. She imagined being a Leier's first wife, like Durah, would be a heavily rewarding experience.
She was so used to living life well off. Jawahir took for granted the things that others may be willing to die to have, because she felt so much worse than her older half-sister. The soft bedding she slept on at night, in the tent she shared with her family, and would share with her family until she got married. She did feel as though she should have her own tent, if only because it would mean that she had gotten married.
Her bright clothes, marking her as someone with power, as someone with the ability to trade and barter for such things, or in the very least receive them, glinted in the sunlight. Her body was fully covered. She wanted no Egyptian to catch a glimpse of what should be for her future husband, when she did eventually get married. She prayed to the ancestors that she would have a pleasant experience, and that nothing would go terribly wrong. Jawahir had heard that the Egyptians traded in gold, the same kind she currently wore around her neck, but just in any shape, or the round coins she could imagine clinking together like the necklaces wrapped to form a permanent shape around her neck.
Jawahir decided she didn't like the coins. They didn't seem trustworthy, or useful in any way. And who was to say that the coins wouldn't just change meanings in the time before the Rwandi Gesin came back to trade with the Egyptian people and the Rwandi would gain nothing from their travels? Jawahir much preferred trading for the rare fruits and vegetables, especially since she knew they would be cooked to how she wanted them, if they did receive any.
The added perks made traveling easier, though Jawahir was never one to complain. In part because Bashira never seemed to, or because she wanted to respect the ancestors. She couldn't imagine her life without the fabrics she used to sleep in every night, or having war among the people. Their life must have been very difficult. She very much enjoyed the system they had now, and was thankful for the life she had, with the one exception always in the back of her mind.
Bashira. Even now, her older half-sister still nearby, she felt it in the way Bashira sat up straighter, and Jawahir was sure that her figure was nicer. That even before they thought of her, Bashira had made an impression. Jawahir felt like tumbling off the cliff of their high expectations, sometimes. Other times she felt like jumping off on purpose, growing wings and flying off towards the sun, the beautiful sun that Jawahir adored almost as much as she adored her ancestors. She imagined being praised throughout the land that she knew. She imagined a husband, imagined herself serving him the best she could, and imagined being desired for it. Not like her mother, Farashuu. Jawahir thought she was letting herself be pushed aside.
The camel shifted underneath her. She did not sit with her father, no, that honor belonged to Durah. She, at times, would share with a sister, but now, she shared with none other than her favorite belongings. Her curves felt awkward on the creatures at times, especially after sitting a while. The colorful cloth fabric she wore hid it, but she never felt completely secure on the creatures unless her mother was nearby, or perhaps her father. Morathi and Farashuu were in a way always there for Jawahir, when they could be, and she understood that. She just wished they were around her more. As her mother's only daughter, obviously Farashuu paid more attention to Jawahir. But Morathi, Jawahir thought, would have his mind on other things, on other daughters.
On Bashira. On Hanuni. On Jawahir sometimes, of course. But she wasn't a male, as she was supposed to be. She wasn't the reason her father had married her mother, and, Jawahir suspected, he would soon take another bride. The thoughts of a future younger brother were far off for Jawahir now, as she heard someone nearby call in a dialect she recognized, but could not place. Similar to her own in nature. Bedoan. Jawahir and her tribe were just descending from the camels, the front of the caravan having met the beginning of the Egyptian travelers. Though Jawahir herself did not speak much of the Egyptian language, she knew members of the Rwandi Gesin did, a skill she envied but did not take the time to correct.
"We are arrived, then?" she posed the question to her mother as she got off the camel, "What would you have me do? Perhaps attempt to speak with the other Gesin?"
Traveling around wasn't anything but boring to the Leierseunin. Truth, she had some idea that by trading she may receive more of the chunky jewelry she so adored, and truth, she knew her people did enjoy speaking with people of other places. Her father, especially, was a diplomatic man, and may enjoy speaking with the Egyptian people. Even her father's first wife may enjoy listening to, perhaps contributing to if she was allowed. But all that came to Jawahir's mind was that she might potentially become known as a good traveler, and see if that was something that she could be better known for than Bashira. Perhaps, even, her mother might meet with a Leier of another Gesin and offer Jawahir as a wife. She imagined being a Leier's first wife, like Durah, would be a heavily rewarding experience.
She was so used to living life well off. Jawahir took for granted the things that others may be willing to die to have, because she felt so much worse than her older half-sister. The soft bedding she slept on at night, in the tent she shared with her family, and would share with her family until she got married. She did feel as though she should have her own tent, if only because it would mean that she had gotten married.
Her bright clothes, marking her as someone with power, as someone with the ability to trade and barter for such things, or in the very least receive them, glinted in the sunlight. Her body was fully covered. She wanted no Egyptian to catch a glimpse of what should be for her future husband, when she did eventually get married. She prayed to the ancestors that she would have a pleasant experience, and that nothing would go terribly wrong. Jawahir had heard that the Egyptians traded in gold, the same kind she currently wore around her neck, but just in any shape, or the round coins she could imagine clinking together like the necklaces wrapped to form a permanent shape around her neck.
Jawahir decided she didn't like the coins. They didn't seem trustworthy, or useful in any way. And who was to say that the coins wouldn't just change meanings in the time before the Rwandi Gesin came back to trade with the Egyptian people and the Rwandi would gain nothing from their travels? Jawahir much preferred trading for the rare fruits and vegetables, especially since she knew they would be cooked to how she wanted them, if they did receive any.
The added perks made traveling easier, though Jawahir was never one to complain. In part because Bashira never seemed to, or because she wanted to respect the ancestors. She couldn't imagine her life without the fabrics she used to sleep in every night, or having war among the people. Their life must have been very difficult. She very much enjoyed the system they had now, and was thankful for the life she had, with the one exception always in the back of her mind.
Bashira. Even now, her older half-sister still nearby, she felt it in the way Bashira sat up straighter, and Jawahir was sure that her figure was nicer. That even before they thought of her, Bashira had made an impression. Jawahir felt like tumbling off the cliff of their high expectations, sometimes. Other times she felt like jumping off on purpose, growing wings and flying off towards the sun, the beautiful sun that Jawahir adored almost as much as she adored her ancestors. She imagined being praised throughout the land that she knew. She imagined a husband, imagined herself serving him the best she could, and imagined being desired for it. Not like her mother, Farashuu. Jawahir thought she was letting herself be pushed aside.
The camel shifted underneath her. She did not sit with her father, no, that honor belonged to Durah. She, at times, would share with a sister, but now, she shared with none other than her favorite belongings. Her curves felt awkward on the creatures at times, especially after sitting a while. The colorful cloth fabric she wore hid it, but she never felt completely secure on the creatures unless her mother was nearby, or perhaps her father. Morathi and Farashuu were in a way always there for Jawahir, when they could be, and she understood that. She just wished they were around her more. As her mother's only daughter, obviously Farashuu paid more attention to Jawahir. But Morathi, Jawahir thought, would have his mind on other things, on other daughters.
On Bashira. On Hanuni. On Jawahir sometimes, of course. But she wasn't a male, as she was supposed to be. She wasn't the reason her father had married her mother, and, Jawahir suspected, he would soon take another bride. The thoughts of a future younger brother were far off for Jawahir now, as she heard someone nearby call in a dialect she recognized, but could not place. Similar to her own in nature. Bedoan. Jawahir and her tribe were just descending from the camels, the front of the caravan having met the beginning of the Egyptian travelers. Though Jawahir herself did not speak much of the Egyptian language, she knew members of the Rwandi Gesin did, a skill she envied but did not take the time to correct.
"We are arrived, then?" she posed the question to her mother as she got off the camel, "What would you have me do? Perhaps attempt to speak with the other Gesin?"
Even Hasani had long come to prefer the gait of his own walk over that of a camel. Not only was riding uncomfortable after a long while, but Hasani had always been an active man. He would have much rather run alongside many of his tribesmen, if he were honest. The feeling of running with sand or hardened ground under food was much preferred to the bouncing, uneasy nature of riding a camel. Yet, such was a thing that leiers did.
To do anything else would be seen as odd. In a tribe with no nobility, the rank of leier was often held to higher standards. It had always been an odd notion to get used to. Being the highest ranking among a people with rank other ranks. Hasani had struggled with that new title when he initially became leier. It was not a title he ever expected to hold in this lifetime or the next.
The reason for the day's travel by camel was to make it to the border of Egypt in time to trade for a worthwhile amount of time. Had they been further from the Eastern Dunes and the border of Egypt, they may not have attended on the trades with the Egyptians and other merchants. They would have taken a different opportunity at a different time in the hope of bartering for the extra comforts and more vital goods that the tribe depended on for their long treks.
It helped that most traders and merchants were often seeking the handmade goods of the Bedoan people. As colorful as intricate as their clothing, they were akin to culinary delicacies of other nations. Except the delicacies were art, jewelry, and other wearable goods that were often seen as unique and favorable gifts. What those traders did their goods, whether they sold them for profit or not, was none of his concern. The tribe got what they needed from bartering, and that was that. There was no need for greed or push for more than they could viably carry or utilize. To ask for more was wasteful and selfish.
That, however, would not stop Hasani from bartering for jewelry that suited both of his gorgeous wives, regardless of whether they would actually wear it.
Riding easily beside Tanishe, his gaze cast slightly backward toward Neena, Hasani found himself smirking. A shake of his head and he was turning more in his saddle to lift a visible eyebrow at his fireheart of a second wife. "We are nearly there, my most impatient wife," Hasani joked rather lovingly, giving her a look that challenged her to play with him just a little more. The comment about Neena having a hump bigger than the camel she rode made him snort and he turned back around to cast his gaze forward.
They were nearly there. In fact, they were in view of the border and another tribe that had arrived before them. Tossing the words over his shoulder, Hasani couldn't hide the smile in his voice, "I'll be sure not to add you to the stock of our cattle, then, Neena," the leier gave a shrug, choosing to play a little coy with her.
A glance to Tanishe and he was giving her an equally playful smile. "How did we end up with such a pleasantly wild wife, my leieren?" Hasani chuckled, facing forward for the remainder of the ride.
When it came time to halt and dismount from their camels, the tribe all halted in one large mass. One could hear the sigh of relief as they were finally able to take a moment to rest. Excitement suddenly fluttered through the tribe and Hasani couldn't help but feel a certain measure of both pride and joy over his people. Throwing one leg over to the other side of the camel, Hasani slid down onto solid ground and handed the reins off to one of the slaves that rushed up to help.
Then he moved to Tanishe's camel, helping lift her off and back onto her own two feet. Giving her a meaningful look and a slight glance up and then back down, his fingers grazed her back briefly as his lips grazed her temple. Hasani was not shy about showing affection toward his wives. He was leier and he saw no need to act above the women that were every bit his equals and who each held a third of his heart in their hands.
Leaving Tanishe there, Hasani then approached Neena, helping her, too, off of her camel and onto solid ground. Brushing his hand slower around her back, he seemed to be testing her body. "I feel no hump. You're safe, I suppose. At least this time," he teased, glancing down into her face as he let her go and set his sights on the neighboring Gesin. He didn't have to give the tribe permission to move in to do their bartering. They were already starting to mill about and explore the area.
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May 19, 2019 19:04:08 GMT
Posted In Border Trade on May 19, 2019 19:04:08 GMT
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Even Hasani had long come to prefer the gait of his own walk over that of a camel. Not only was riding uncomfortable after a long while, but Hasani had always been an active man. He would have much rather run alongside many of his tribesmen, if he were honest. The feeling of running with sand or hardened ground under food was much preferred to the bouncing, uneasy nature of riding a camel. Yet, such was a thing that leiers did.
To do anything else would be seen as odd. In a tribe with no nobility, the rank of leier was often held to higher standards. It had always been an odd notion to get used to. Being the highest ranking among a people with rank other ranks. Hasani had struggled with that new title when he initially became leier. It was not a title he ever expected to hold in this lifetime or the next.
The reason for the day's travel by camel was to make it to the border of Egypt in time to trade for a worthwhile amount of time. Had they been further from the Eastern Dunes and the border of Egypt, they may not have attended on the trades with the Egyptians and other merchants. They would have taken a different opportunity at a different time in the hope of bartering for the extra comforts and more vital goods that the tribe depended on for their long treks.
It helped that most traders and merchants were often seeking the handmade goods of the Bedoan people. As colorful as intricate as their clothing, they were akin to culinary delicacies of other nations. Except the delicacies were art, jewelry, and other wearable goods that were often seen as unique and favorable gifts. What those traders did their goods, whether they sold them for profit or not, was none of his concern. The tribe got what they needed from bartering, and that was that. There was no need for greed or push for more than they could viably carry or utilize. To ask for more was wasteful and selfish.
That, however, would not stop Hasani from bartering for jewelry that suited both of his gorgeous wives, regardless of whether they would actually wear it.
Riding easily beside Tanishe, his gaze cast slightly backward toward Neena, Hasani found himself smirking. A shake of his head and he was turning more in his saddle to lift a visible eyebrow at his fireheart of a second wife. "We are nearly there, my most impatient wife," Hasani joked rather lovingly, giving her a look that challenged her to play with him just a little more. The comment about Neena having a hump bigger than the camel she rode made him snort and he turned back around to cast his gaze forward.
They were nearly there. In fact, they were in view of the border and another tribe that had arrived before them. Tossing the words over his shoulder, Hasani couldn't hide the smile in his voice, "I'll be sure not to add you to the stock of our cattle, then, Neena," the leier gave a shrug, choosing to play a little coy with her.
A glance to Tanishe and he was giving her an equally playful smile. "How did we end up with such a pleasantly wild wife, my leieren?" Hasani chuckled, facing forward for the remainder of the ride.
When it came time to halt and dismount from their camels, the tribe all halted in one large mass. One could hear the sigh of relief as they were finally able to take a moment to rest. Excitement suddenly fluttered through the tribe and Hasani couldn't help but feel a certain measure of both pride and joy over his people. Throwing one leg over to the other side of the camel, Hasani slid down onto solid ground and handed the reins off to one of the slaves that rushed up to help.
Then he moved to Tanishe's camel, helping lift her off and back onto her own two feet. Giving her a meaningful look and a slight glance up and then back down, his fingers grazed her back briefly as his lips grazed her temple. Hasani was not shy about showing affection toward his wives. He was leier and he saw no need to act above the women that were every bit his equals and who each held a third of his heart in their hands.
Leaving Tanishe there, Hasani then approached Neena, helping her, too, off of her camel and onto solid ground. Brushing his hand slower around her back, he seemed to be testing her body. "I feel no hump. You're safe, I suppose. At least this time," he teased, glancing down into her face as he let her go and set his sights on the neighboring Gesin. He didn't have to give the tribe permission to move in to do their bartering. They were already starting to mill about and explore the area.
Even Hasani had long come to prefer the gait of his own walk over that of a camel. Not only was riding uncomfortable after a long while, but Hasani had always been an active man. He would have much rather run alongside many of his tribesmen, if he were honest. The feeling of running with sand or hardened ground under food was much preferred to the bouncing, uneasy nature of riding a camel. Yet, such was a thing that leiers did.
To do anything else would be seen as odd. In a tribe with no nobility, the rank of leier was often held to higher standards. It had always been an odd notion to get used to. Being the highest ranking among a people with rank other ranks. Hasani had struggled with that new title when he initially became leier. It was not a title he ever expected to hold in this lifetime or the next.
The reason for the day's travel by camel was to make it to the border of Egypt in time to trade for a worthwhile amount of time. Had they been further from the Eastern Dunes and the border of Egypt, they may not have attended on the trades with the Egyptians and other merchants. They would have taken a different opportunity at a different time in the hope of bartering for the extra comforts and more vital goods that the tribe depended on for their long treks.
It helped that most traders and merchants were often seeking the handmade goods of the Bedoan people. As colorful as intricate as their clothing, they were akin to culinary delicacies of other nations. Except the delicacies were art, jewelry, and other wearable goods that were often seen as unique and favorable gifts. What those traders did their goods, whether they sold them for profit or not, was none of his concern. The tribe got what they needed from bartering, and that was that. There was no need for greed or push for more than they could viably carry or utilize. To ask for more was wasteful and selfish.
That, however, would not stop Hasani from bartering for jewelry that suited both of his gorgeous wives, regardless of whether they would actually wear it.
Riding easily beside Tanishe, his gaze cast slightly backward toward Neena, Hasani found himself smirking. A shake of his head and he was turning more in his saddle to lift a visible eyebrow at his fireheart of a second wife. "We are nearly there, my most impatient wife," Hasani joked rather lovingly, giving her a look that challenged her to play with him just a little more. The comment about Neena having a hump bigger than the camel she rode made him snort and he turned back around to cast his gaze forward.
They were nearly there. In fact, they were in view of the border and another tribe that had arrived before them. Tossing the words over his shoulder, Hasani couldn't hide the smile in his voice, "I'll be sure not to add you to the stock of our cattle, then, Neena," the leier gave a shrug, choosing to play a little coy with her.
A glance to Tanishe and he was giving her an equally playful smile. "How did we end up with such a pleasantly wild wife, my leieren?" Hasani chuckled, facing forward for the remainder of the ride.
When it came time to halt and dismount from their camels, the tribe all halted in one large mass. One could hear the sigh of relief as they were finally able to take a moment to rest. Excitement suddenly fluttered through the tribe and Hasani couldn't help but feel a certain measure of both pride and joy over his people. Throwing one leg over to the other side of the camel, Hasani slid down onto solid ground and handed the reins off to one of the slaves that rushed up to help.
Then he moved to Tanishe's camel, helping lift her off and back onto her own two feet. Giving her a meaningful look and a slight glance up and then back down, his fingers grazed her back briefly as his lips grazed her temple. Hasani was not shy about showing affection toward his wives. He was leier and he saw no need to act above the women that were every bit his equals and who each held a third of his heart in their hands.
Leaving Tanishe there, Hasani then approached Neena, helping her, too, off of her camel and onto solid ground. Brushing his hand slower around her back, he seemed to be testing her body. "I feel no hump. You're safe, I suppose. At least this time," he teased, glancing down into her face as he let her go and set his sights on the neighboring Gesin. He didn't have to give the tribe permission to move in to do their bartering. They were already starting to mill about and explore the area.
With her headdress in place, Neena could offer Hasani no returned expression bar that of her eyes, which she narrowed accusingly in his direction. She leaned forwards as she did it to make it a whole body glare, exaggerated for humorous effect. She didn't respond with words to Hasani's assurances until she heard her husband turn to his other wife and comment on how they had come to acquire Neena in the first place. At that Neena was willing to pull down the length of her headdress so that she could speak loudly and clearly across the space between them -
"You bought me, you ruffian!" She called back to him teasingly. They were lucky that the three of them were so far ahead of the others in the tribe and that the wind was coming from Neena's back. She wouldn't have dared spoken so forcefully and with an insult (even an affectionate, comedic one) of any of the tribe were within real earshot.
By the time the Zaire tribe had reached the Egyptian border and could see the clear settlement that had been made by the Egyptian traders and another tribe that had beaten them there, Neena was in a foul mood and her rear end hurt. Then again, she was a woman of fairly pleasant disposition and the sight of their destination cheered her up immensely. Especially when Hasani led the rest of their people to an appropriate area and tribe came to a slow and easy stop.
The camel beneath Neena rocked heaving forward and then back as the creature bent its long legs and lowered itself to the ground, folding up its feet beneath it. Still several foot from the ground and short at only 5 foot and 3 inches, Neena normally had to jump from the back of the animal - be it a camel or a horse. But this time - as was his custom, her husband came around to catch her as she fell, settling her onto her feet.
As Neena turned to pull on her kaftan, where the fabric had looped over the back of the blanket perch she had been seated in, she felt her husband's hands on her back, as if testing the skin around her shoulder blades.
When he confirmed that she had no hump - like a camel - Neena leaned herself back into the man in a false display of affection and then jabbed her elbow backwards into his midriff. The slight was gentle but quick enough to have him make a small noise and bend at the middle - more in shock than pain - and Neena stuck out her tongue before masking her face once more and hastening away from the man.
Turning to walk backwards and look back at him for a moment, light in her eyes, Neena spun again to continue forwards, entirely eager to wander and explore the Egyptian stalls and meet the folk of the opposing tribe, not at all considering the fact that she was wife of the Leier and should probably have some form of guard or security measures in place. Before any such thing could be arranged, she was already wandering around the encampment watching as the Egyptian traders and people of the other Bedoan tribe started to build stalls and tents - not yet ready to trade, but eager to make some form of connection with those who might exchange with them a few coins.
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May 19, 2019 19:04:33 GMT
Posted In Border Trade on May 19, 2019 19:04:33 GMT
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With her headdress in place, Neena could offer Hasani no returned expression bar that of her eyes, which she narrowed accusingly in his direction. She leaned forwards as she did it to make it a whole body glare, exaggerated for humorous effect. She didn't respond with words to Hasani's assurances until she heard her husband turn to his other wife and comment on how they had come to acquire Neena in the first place. At that Neena was willing to pull down the length of her headdress so that she could speak loudly and clearly across the space between them -
"You bought me, you ruffian!" She called back to him teasingly. They were lucky that the three of them were so far ahead of the others in the tribe and that the wind was coming from Neena's back. She wouldn't have dared spoken so forcefully and with an insult (even an affectionate, comedic one) of any of the tribe were within real earshot.
By the time the Zaire tribe had reached the Egyptian border and could see the clear settlement that had been made by the Egyptian traders and another tribe that had beaten them there, Neena was in a foul mood and her rear end hurt. Then again, she was a woman of fairly pleasant disposition and the sight of their destination cheered her up immensely. Especially when Hasani led the rest of their people to an appropriate area and tribe came to a slow and easy stop.
The camel beneath Neena rocked heaving forward and then back as the creature bent its long legs and lowered itself to the ground, folding up its feet beneath it. Still several foot from the ground and short at only 5 foot and 3 inches, Neena normally had to jump from the back of the animal - be it a camel or a horse. But this time - as was his custom, her husband came around to catch her as she fell, settling her onto her feet.
As Neena turned to pull on her kaftan, where the fabric had looped over the back of the blanket perch she had been seated in, she felt her husband's hands on her back, as if testing the skin around her shoulder blades.
When he confirmed that she had no hump - like a camel - Neena leaned herself back into the man in a false display of affection and then jabbed her elbow backwards into his midriff. The slight was gentle but quick enough to have him make a small noise and bend at the middle - more in shock than pain - and Neena stuck out her tongue before masking her face once more and hastening away from the man.
Turning to walk backwards and look back at him for a moment, light in her eyes, Neena spun again to continue forwards, entirely eager to wander and explore the Egyptian stalls and meet the folk of the opposing tribe, not at all considering the fact that she was wife of the Leier and should probably have some form of guard or security measures in place. Before any such thing could be arranged, she was already wandering around the encampment watching as the Egyptian traders and people of the other Bedoan tribe started to build stalls and tents - not yet ready to trade, but eager to make some form of connection with those who might exchange with them a few coins.
With her headdress in place, Neena could offer Hasani no returned expression bar that of her eyes, which she narrowed accusingly in his direction. She leaned forwards as she did it to make it a whole body glare, exaggerated for humorous effect. She didn't respond with words to Hasani's assurances until she heard her husband turn to his other wife and comment on how they had come to acquire Neena in the first place. At that Neena was willing to pull down the length of her headdress so that she could speak loudly and clearly across the space between them -
"You bought me, you ruffian!" She called back to him teasingly. They were lucky that the three of them were so far ahead of the others in the tribe and that the wind was coming from Neena's back. She wouldn't have dared spoken so forcefully and with an insult (even an affectionate, comedic one) of any of the tribe were within real earshot.
By the time the Zaire tribe had reached the Egyptian border and could see the clear settlement that had been made by the Egyptian traders and another tribe that had beaten them there, Neena was in a foul mood and her rear end hurt. Then again, she was a woman of fairly pleasant disposition and the sight of their destination cheered her up immensely. Especially when Hasani led the rest of their people to an appropriate area and tribe came to a slow and easy stop.
The camel beneath Neena rocked heaving forward and then back as the creature bent its long legs and lowered itself to the ground, folding up its feet beneath it. Still several foot from the ground and short at only 5 foot and 3 inches, Neena normally had to jump from the back of the animal - be it a camel or a horse. But this time - as was his custom, her husband came around to catch her as she fell, settling her onto her feet.
As Neena turned to pull on her kaftan, where the fabric had looped over the back of the blanket perch she had been seated in, she felt her husband's hands on her back, as if testing the skin around her shoulder blades.
When he confirmed that she had no hump - like a camel - Neena leaned herself back into the man in a false display of affection and then jabbed her elbow backwards into his midriff. The slight was gentle but quick enough to have him make a small noise and bend at the middle - more in shock than pain - and Neena stuck out her tongue before masking her face once more and hastening away from the man.
Turning to walk backwards and look back at him for a moment, light in her eyes, Neena spun again to continue forwards, entirely eager to wander and explore the Egyptian stalls and meet the folk of the opposing tribe, not at all considering the fact that she was wife of the Leier and should probably have some form of guard or security measures in place. Before any such thing could be arranged, she was already wandering around the encampment watching as the Egyptian traders and people of the other Bedoan tribe started to build stalls and tents - not yet ready to trade, but eager to make some form of connection with those who might exchange with them a few coins.
The Bedoan trader sat solemnly on his horse, braided hair dangling past his shoulders. His black beard had grown wild and curly. He had a forbidding cast to his eyes this morning, and he appeared not like the man who would sit calmly with his family in the evening, telling stories and singing songs. He had dropped the demeanor he carried in private times and donned the face of a man about to do business and make his fortune.
The arrow pierced his neck in the center. It went deep, stopping just before the fletching. The tip of the arrow dripped droplets of blood in the crisp morning air. A moment or two passed, and the trader slumped to the side. He moved so slowly it seemed as though he were hesitating, but finally he crumpled to the ground, a dead and motionless thing.
Qen lowered his bow. He had satisfied his part of the contract. He looked down at his son, Mahu, who was by his side, looking up at him expectedly. He made a glance with his eyes, and the boy went off. Like a cat, he pounced from dune to dune, slowly approaching the corpse. He then moved in, making sure that he was truly dead.
The body was left to rot in the sands. The head, however, was placed in a sack to be taken to the rendezvous. It took time to sever it, but less than if Mahu had not helped by holding it still. Once it was done, the trader’s horse was allowed to run free. There was no reason to kill it. It could come to another owner or it could spend the rest of its enjoying liberty, here on the border between two lands, where no man truly ruled.
They came upon the gathering of the traders by accident. They were building a large market, with a small town to support that market. Qen and Mahu said nothing, but they knew to act natural, and that meant inspecting the goods. He was no expert on these matters, but he had seen enough crafts, foreign and domestic, in his travels as a roadwarden to have some taste for the good, the bad, and the ugly. So he took his time, asking questions of the first items to go on sale, although many of the merchants were cold to him. After all, in their rags, Qen and Mahu looked like the commoners they were.
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The Bedoan trader sat solemnly on his horse, braided hair dangling past his shoulders. His black beard had grown wild and curly. He had a forbidding cast to his eyes this morning, and he appeared not like the man who would sit calmly with his family in the evening, telling stories and singing songs. He had dropped the demeanor he carried in private times and donned the face of a man about to do business and make his fortune.
The arrow pierced his neck in the center. It went deep, stopping just before the fletching. The tip of the arrow dripped droplets of blood in the crisp morning air. A moment or two passed, and the trader slumped to the side. He moved so slowly it seemed as though he were hesitating, but finally he crumpled to the ground, a dead and motionless thing.
Qen lowered his bow. He had satisfied his part of the contract. He looked down at his son, Mahu, who was by his side, looking up at him expectedly. He made a glance with his eyes, and the boy went off. Like a cat, he pounced from dune to dune, slowly approaching the corpse. He then moved in, making sure that he was truly dead.
The body was left to rot in the sands. The head, however, was placed in a sack to be taken to the rendezvous. It took time to sever it, but less than if Mahu had not helped by holding it still. Once it was done, the trader’s horse was allowed to run free. There was no reason to kill it. It could come to another owner or it could spend the rest of its enjoying liberty, here on the border between two lands, where no man truly ruled.
They came upon the gathering of the traders by accident. They were building a large market, with a small town to support that market. Qen and Mahu said nothing, but they knew to act natural, and that meant inspecting the goods. He was no expert on these matters, but he had seen enough crafts, foreign and domestic, in his travels as a roadwarden to have some taste for the good, the bad, and the ugly. So he took his time, asking questions of the first items to go on sale, although many of the merchants were cold to him. After all, in their rags, Qen and Mahu looked like the commoners they were.
The Bedoan trader sat solemnly on his horse, braided hair dangling past his shoulders. His black beard had grown wild and curly. He had a forbidding cast to his eyes this morning, and he appeared not like the man who would sit calmly with his family in the evening, telling stories and singing songs. He had dropped the demeanor he carried in private times and donned the face of a man about to do business and make his fortune.
The arrow pierced his neck in the center. It went deep, stopping just before the fletching. The tip of the arrow dripped droplets of blood in the crisp morning air. A moment or two passed, and the trader slumped to the side. He moved so slowly it seemed as though he were hesitating, but finally he crumpled to the ground, a dead and motionless thing.
Qen lowered his bow. He had satisfied his part of the contract. He looked down at his son, Mahu, who was by his side, looking up at him expectedly. He made a glance with his eyes, and the boy went off. Like a cat, he pounced from dune to dune, slowly approaching the corpse. He then moved in, making sure that he was truly dead.
The body was left to rot in the sands. The head, however, was placed in a sack to be taken to the rendezvous. It took time to sever it, but less than if Mahu had not helped by holding it still. Once it was done, the trader’s horse was allowed to run free. There was no reason to kill it. It could come to another owner or it could spend the rest of its enjoying liberty, here on the border between two lands, where no man truly ruled.
They came upon the gathering of the traders by accident. They were building a large market, with a small town to support that market. Qen and Mahu said nothing, but they knew to act natural, and that meant inspecting the goods. He was no expert on these matters, but he had seen enough crafts, foreign and domestic, in his travels as a roadwarden to have some taste for the good, the bad, and the ugly. So he took his time, asking questions of the first items to go on sale, although many of the merchants were cold to him. After all, in their rags, Qen and Mahu looked like the commoners they were.
Jawahir had an eye for other people of high standing, as well as people who would have interesting things to say to her. Jawahir was nothing if not an excellent conversationalist with a joy for her people. The woman with the large eyes and curly hair was already wandering around. Jawahir noticed that she had been with the large and tall man, who Jawahir quite clearly saw had to be in charge of something. She couldn't quite determine the relationship between the two, because while she at first suspected marriage, or even a courtship of some type, the woman hit the man with some type of defensive maneuver, but it didn't seem she was hitting him very hard. This intrigued Jawahir, especially when the curly-haired woman made a face at the man right after. Perhaps they were siblings. Jawahir had never had a male sibling, which was the cause of most of her problems.
She felt like she would have liked to have a younger brother, but instead got just the one younger sister, if you could call Hanuni that. They felt closer than Bashira did, but truly Jawahir was jealous of Hanuni. Just not as much as she felt the weight of Bashira's wisdom, of Bashira's beauty, of Bashira, weighing her down like a boulder, and her own insecurities were the hill she had to climb. If Jawahir was knowledgeable about the story, she might have compared it to Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill, though Jawahir had done no such crimes as that man had in order to get that punishment. Jawahir hoped her mother would bear her father a son soon. Jawahir didn't like the suspense of knowing if they would stay as the Leier's family or if, once Morathi died, they wouldn't be notable. Jawahir frowned at the thought of Morathi marrying another woman, and having another daughter that he favored.
Jawahir got her mother's permission to speak and discuss with those of other tribes and origins, along with the encouragement to seek out a man worthy of her, should she be persuaded to do so. From her father, she received similar words, though Morathi spoke not of finding a fair husband for his middle daughter, but instead of making good conversation, and connections that may last in trade, that they might be blessed with fresh fruits and vegetables that they so rarely received. Jawahir supposed this was so Bashira could be the focus of any matchmaking done during their stay. As the firstborn, Jawahir suspected, Bashira would be more eligible for any plans of marriage their father or Bashira's mother had. Fortunately for Jawahir, she had her mother looking out for her.
The only daughter of Morathi's second wife instead chose to speak with the curly-haired woman with the large eyes. Jawahir briefly felt envy over them, and then shame. One of the ancestors' most important lessons involved jealousy, and yet Jawahir felt the emotion almost constantly. She greeted her politely, bowing her head in respect for someone not much older than her. "A fair salutation to you," Jawahir said, smiling the smile she'd practiced nearly from birth, and perfected in her adolescent years. "I am Jawahir of the Rwandi Gesin, we are set up over there." she gestured over to where her father was speaking with another man. "If I may ask, where are you from?"
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Jawahir had an eye for other people of high standing, as well as people who would have interesting things to say to her. Jawahir was nothing if not an excellent conversationalist with a joy for her people. The woman with the large eyes and curly hair was already wandering around. Jawahir noticed that she had been with the large and tall man, who Jawahir quite clearly saw had to be in charge of something. She couldn't quite determine the relationship between the two, because while she at first suspected marriage, or even a courtship of some type, the woman hit the man with some type of defensive maneuver, but it didn't seem she was hitting him very hard. This intrigued Jawahir, especially when the curly-haired woman made a face at the man right after. Perhaps they were siblings. Jawahir had never had a male sibling, which was the cause of most of her problems.
She felt like she would have liked to have a younger brother, but instead got just the one younger sister, if you could call Hanuni that. They felt closer than Bashira did, but truly Jawahir was jealous of Hanuni. Just not as much as she felt the weight of Bashira's wisdom, of Bashira's beauty, of Bashira, weighing her down like a boulder, and her own insecurities were the hill she had to climb. If Jawahir was knowledgeable about the story, she might have compared it to Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill, though Jawahir had done no such crimes as that man had in order to get that punishment. Jawahir hoped her mother would bear her father a son soon. Jawahir didn't like the suspense of knowing if they would stay as the Leier's family or if, once Morathi died, they wouldn't be notable. Jawahir frowned at the thought of Morathi marrying another woman, and having another daughter that he favored.
Jawahir got her mother's permission to speak and discuss with those of other tribes and origins, along with the encouragement to seek out a man worthy of her, should she be persuaded to do so. From her father, she received similar words, though Morathi spoke not of finding a fair husband for his middle daughter, but instead of making good conversation, and connections that may last in trade, that they might be blessed with fresh fruits and vegetables that they so rarely received. Jawahir supposed this was so Bashira could be the focus of any matchmaking done during their stay. As the firstborn, Jawahir suspected, Bashira would be more eligible for any plans of marriage their father or Bashira's mother had. Fortunately for Jawahir, she had her mother looking out for her.
The only daughter of Morathi's second wife instead chose to speak with the curly-haired woman with the large eyes. Jawahir briefly felt envy over them, and then shame. One of the ancestors' most important lessons involved jealousy, and yet Jawahir felt the emotion almost constantly. She greeted her politely, bowing her head in respect for someone not much older than her. "A fair salutation to you," Jawahir said, smiling the smile she'd practiced nearly from birth, and perfected in her adolescent years. "I am Jawahir of the Rwandi Gesin, we are set up over there." she gestured over to where her father was speaking with another man. "If I may ask, where are you from?"
Jawahir had an eye for other people of high standing, as well as people who would have interesting things to say to her. Jawahir was nothing if not an excellent conversationalist with a joy for her people. The woman with the large eyes and curly hair was already wandering around. Jawahir noticed that she had been with the large and tall man, who Jawahir quite clearly saw had to be in charge of something. She couldn't quite determine the relationship between the two, because while she at first suspected marriage, or even a courtship of some type, the woman hit the man with some type of defensive maneuver, but it didn't seem she was hitting him very hard. This intrigued Jawahir, especially when the curly-haired woman made a face at the man right after. Perhaps they were siblings. Jawahir had never had a male sibling, which was the cause of most of her problems.
She felt like she would have liked to have a younger brother, but instead got just the one younger sister, if you could call Hanuni that. They felt closer than Bashira did, but truly Jawahir was jealous of Hanuni. Just not as much as she felt the weight of Bashira's wisdom, of Bashira's beauty, of Bashira, weighing her down like a boulder, and her own insecurities were the hill she had to climb. If Jawahir was knowledgeable about the story, she might have compared it to Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill, though Jawahir had done no such crimes as that man had in order to get that punishment. Jawahir hoped her mother would bear her father a son soon. Jawahir didn't like the suspense of knowing if they would stay as the Leier's family or if, once Morathi died, they wouldn't be notable. Jawahir frowned at the thought of Morathi marrying another woman, and having another daughter that he favored.
Jawahir got her mother's permission to speak and discuss with those of other tribes and origins, along with the encouragement to seek out a man worthy of her, should she be persuaded to do so. From her father, she received similar words, though Morathi spoke not of finding a fair husband for his middle daughter, but instead of making good conversation, and connections that may last in trade, that they might be blessed with fresh fruits and vegetables that they so rarely received. Jawahir supposed this was so Bashira could be the focus of any matchmaking done during their stay. As the firstborn, Jawahir suspected, Bashira would be more eligible for any plans of marriage their father or Bashira's mother had. Fortunately for Jawahir, she had her mother looking out for her.
The only daughter of Morathi's second wife instead chose to speak with the curly-haired woman with the large eyes. Jawahir briefly felt envy over them, and then shame. One of the ancestors' most important lessons involved jealousy, and yet Jawahir felt the emotion almost constantly. She greeted her politely, bowing her head in respect for someone not much older than her. "A fair salutation to you," Jawahir said, smiling the smile she'd practiced nearly from birth, and perfected in her adolescent years. "I am Jawahir of the Rwandi Gesin, we are set up over there." she gestured over to where her father was speaking with another man. "If I may ask, where are you from?"
Hasani had doubled over out of surprise, unable to hide the near joyful laugh that escaped his lips when Neena nudged him in the abdomen. He almost followed close behind, grabbing her and hauling her back as would have been somewhat appropriate for such a slight toward him. But the leier was further soothed by the fact that his second wife was wild and exotic and he would not try to change her.
In fact, he loved her spirit the most. The excitable, unwieldy nature of Neena was what had initially drawn him to her. She was fascinating, held interesting conversations, and challenged him at every turn. But Hasani was more than happy to be at the mercy of Tanishe and Neena. Whatever they asked, he would do. Lovesick, maybe, but all the happier for it.
Grinning at his love's back, Hasani finally veered off from her, keeping her in his sights, however, and nodding at a few of the Zaire guards to remain close by just in case there was trouble. This was a place of friendliness and trade, but they could just as easily find trouble they would rather avoid. It was, after all, Hasani's job to ensure that the Zaire remained safe, happy, and fed. Thus, with Neena's and Tanishe's safety taken into consideration, he slunk further into the market, letting his gaze wander slowly along the wares that both the Egyptians and the Bedoan tribes were showcasing.
Nodding casually at a few of the merchants he passed, the man found himself stuffing his hands under either arm. Pausing at a particularly interesting stall, he stood with his feet spread somewhat apart to give him a sturdy appearance. A man of his size was likely intimidating, but the jovial expression on his face made him anything but. Because Hasani liked people. The leier enjoyed the company of nearly everyone he had the pleasure of coming across and was no less friendly to strangers than he was to his tribemates.
Now, Hasani was not clumsy, but he also wasn't remaining entirely aware of his surroundings, either. So when he turned and ran sharply into what appeared to be a boy, he quickly reached forward to steady the boy. "Woah," he said carefully, giving a friendly smile to the boy's father. Or the man who appeared to be his father. "Greetings to you," he murmured in a friendly tone, motioning to the Bedoan stall that the Egyptian was looking over. "You have a good eye."
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Hasani had doubled over out of surprise, unable to hide the near joyful laugh that escaped his lips when Neena nudged him in the abdomen. He almost followed close behind, grabbing her and hauling her back as would have been somewhat appropriate for such a slight toward him. But the leier was further soothed by the fact that his second wife was wild and exotic and he would not try to change her.
In fact, he loved her spirit the most. The excitable, unwieldy nature of Neena was what had initially drawn him to her. She was fascinating, held interesting conversations, and challenged him at every turn. But Hasani was more than happy to be at the mercy of Tanishe and Neena. Whatever they asked, he would do. Lovesick, maybe, but all the happier for it.
Grinning at his love's back, Hasani finally veered off from her, keeping her in his sights, however, and nodding at a few of the Zaire guards to remain close by just in case there was trouble. This was a place of friendliness and trade, but they could just as easily find trouble they would rather avoid. It was, after all, Hasani's job to ensure that the Zaire remained safe, happy, and fed. Thus, with Neena's and Tanishe's safety taken into consideration, he slunk further into the market, letting his gaze wander slowly along the wares that both the Egyptians and the Bedoan tribes were showcasing.
Nodding casually at a few of the merchants he passed, the man found himself stuffing his hands under either arm. Pausing at a particularly interesting stall, he stood with his feet spread somewhat apart to give him a sturdy appearance. A man of his size was likely intimidating, but the jovial expression on his face made him anything but. Because Hasani liked people. The leier enjoyed the company of nearly everyone he had the pleasure of coming across and was no less friendly to strangers than he was to his tribemates.
Now, Hasani was not clumsy, but he also wasn't remaining entirely aware of his surroundings, either. So when he turned and ran sharply into what appeared to be a boy, he quickly reached forward to steady the boy. "Woah," he said carefully, giving a friendly smile to the boy's father. Or the man who appeared to be his father. "Greetings to you," he murmured in a friendly tone, motioning to the Bedoan stall that the Egyptian was looking over. "You have a good eye."
Hasani had doubled over out of surprise, unable to hide the near joyful laugh that escaped his lips when Neena nudged him in the abdomen. He almost followed close behind, grabbing her and hauling her back as would have been somewhat appropriate for such a slight toward him. But the leier was further soothed by the fact that his second wife was wild and exotic and he would not try to change her.
In fact, he loved her spirit the most. The excitable, unwieldy nature of Neena was what had initially drawn him to her. She was fascinating, held interesting conversations, and challenged him at every turn. But Hasani was more than happy to be at the mercy of Tanishe and Neena. Whatever they asked, he would do. Lovesick, maybe, but all the happier for it.
Grinning at his love's back, Hasani finally veered off from her, keeping her in his sights, however, and nodding at a few of the Zaire guards to remain close by just in case there was trouble. This was a place of friendliness and trade, but they could just as easily find trouble they would rather avoid. It was, after all, Hasani's job to ensure that the Zaire remained safe, happy, and fed. Thus, with Neena's and Tanishe's safety taken into consideration, he slunk further into the market, letting his gaze wander slowly along the wares that both the Egyptians and the Bedoan tribes were showcasing.
Nodding casually at a few of the merchants he passed, the man found himself stuffing his hands under either arm. Pausing at a particularly interesting stall, he stood with his feet spread somewhat apart to give him a sturdy appearance. A man of his size was likely intimidating, but the jovial expression on his face made him anything but. Because Hasani liked people. The leier enjoyed the company of nearly everyone he had the pleasure of coming across and was no less friendly to strangers than he was to his tribemates.
Now, Hasani was not clumsy, but he also wasn't remaining entirely aware of his surroundings, either. So when he turned and ran sharply into what appeared to be a boy, he quickly reached forward to steady the boy. "Woah," he said carefully, giving a friendly smile to the boy's father. Or the man who appeared to be his father. "Greetings to you," he murmured in a friendly tone, motioning to the Bedoan stall that the Egyptian was looking over. "You have a good eye."
Neena was an open, honest and positive person through every moment of her life. Which meant that she had limited survival instincts when it came to doubt and suspicion. If she were faced with a trying situation, a fight or something that required her to push through for her own safety, she was fine. She was strong, determined and scrappy. What she wasn't good at, was recognising potential threat before it became obvious of apparent. That sort of sixth sense that some people had, when they could tell if someone was sneaking up on them, or watching them. The kind of defensive aura of senses that she had known warriors and fighters to possess. Neena had none of it. And instead of being able to notice when someone was approaching her, nine times out of ten, she would either react in no way whatsoever or she would jump out of her skin. This time, it was a letter.
As a female voice spoke a greeting from over her shoulder, Neena jumped a little, shocked by the noise, lost her hold on the small silver cup she had been holding and almost dropped it. What followed was a scattered and manic little juggling act to keep the item from falling to the sandy ground, before Neena had it back under control and in hand.
Turning without annoyance or anger at the sudden surprise - just open friendliness - Neena offered a wide and beaming grin back at the woman who showed her one in return.
"Salutations to you also." She greeted with a quick and sweet bob of her head.
The woman was an astonishing beauty. Her hair and skin immaculately cared for, for a member of a Bedoan tribe. There was no doubt in Neena's mind at all that this young lady would be part of one of the first families of a tribe - the Rwandi, in fact, as the girl introduced herself. No low class Bedoan Neena had ever seen looked as this girl did.
Immediately, she was therefore a little nervous. For Neena was not a politician, nor a diplomat. She offered translation skills to just such people, but she was never the one who spoke the words herself. She also knew that her perpetual optimism was liked by most but annoying to a few. And the last thing she wanted was for her attitude and manner to discover that this girl was one of those few and cause damage in the relations between tribes. Because that would be harmful to her husband and Leier. Glancing over the girl's shoulder, to see said husband speaking a little way off with a young boy, Neena decided that the best course of action, without him here to guide her, was to simply be as genuine and nice as she could.
When the woman asked her where she was from, Neena's grin broke wider and her eyes sparked with mischievous mystery.
"Well, that really is the question, is it not?" She answered with her own before setting the silver cup down on the trader's table, smiled at the merchant and started to walk down the natural row of stalls that had been propped up in the sand, her gaze holding that of Jawahir and encouraging her to walk with her. "I guess I'm a little from all over." She said, slipping into the Rwandi accent as she talked, her own skills in languages and tribal idiosyncrasies coming through in her tone. "It the moment I am with the Zaire. I have heard of the Rwandi. You are a wise people, I am told." She said, offering a compliment that was in no way untrue, in the hope of smoothing conversation towards something that would flow into kinship.
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Neena was an open, honest and positive person through every moment of her life. Which meant that she had limited survival instincts when it came to doubt and suspicion. If she were faced with a trying situation, a fight or something that required her to push through for her own safety, she was fine. She was strong, determined and scrappy. What she wasn't good at, was recognising potential threat before it became obvious of apparent. That sort of sixth sense that some people had, when they could tell if someone was sneaking up on them, or watching them. The kind of defensive aura of senses that she had known warriors and fighters to possess. Neena had none of it. And instead of being able to notice when someone was approaching her, nine times out of ten, she would either react in no way whatsoever or she would jump out of her skin. This time, it was a letter.
As a female voice spoke a greeting from over her shoulder, Neena jumped a little, shocked by the noise, lost her hold on the small silver cup she had been holding and almost dropped it. What followed was a scattered and manic little juggling act to keep the item from falling to the sandy ground, before Neena had it back under control and in hand.
Turning without annoyance or anger at the sudden surprise - just open friendliness - Neena offered a wide and beaming grin back at the woman who showed her one in return.
"Salutations to you also." She greeted with a quick and sweet bob of her head.
The woman was an astonishing beauty. Her hair and skin immaculately cared for, for a member of a Bedoan tribe. There was no doubt in Neena's mind at all that this young lady would be part of one of the first families of a tribe - the Rwandi, in fact, as the girl introduced herself. No low class Bedoan Neena had ever seen looked as this girl did.
Immediately, she was therefore a little nervous. For Neena was not a politician, nor a diplomat. She offered translation skills to just such people, but she was never the one who spoke the words herself. She also knew that her perpetual optimism was liked by most but annoying to a few. And the last thing she wanted was for her attitude and manner to discover that this girl was one of those few and cause damage in the relations between tribes. Because that would be harmful to her husband and Leier. Glancing over the girl's shoulder, to see said husband speaking a little way off with a young boy, Neena decided that the best course of action, without him here to guide her, was to simply be as genuine and nice as she could.
When the woman asked her where she was from, Neena's grin broke wider and her eyes sparked with mischievous mystery.
"Well, that really is the question, is it not?" She answered with her own before setting the silver cup down on the trader's table, smiled at the merchant and started to walk down the natural row of stalls that had been propped up in the sand, her gaze holding that of Jawahir and encouraging her to walk with her. "I guess I'm a little from all over." She said, slipping into the Rwandi accent as she talked, her own skills in languages and tribal idiosyncrasies coming through in her tone. "It the moment I am with the Zaire. I have heard of the Rwandi. You are a wise people, I am told." She said, offering a compliment that was in no way untrue, in the hope of smoothing conversation towards something that would flow into kinship.
Neena was an open, honest and positive person through every moment of her life. Which meant that she had limited survival instincts when it came to doubt and suspicion. If she were faced with a trying situation, a fight or something that required her to push through for her own safety, she was fine. She was strong, determined and scrappy. What she wasn't good at, was recognising potential threat before it became obvious of apparent. That sort of sixth sense that some people had, when they could tell if someone was sneaking up on them, or watching them. The kind of defensive aura of senses that she had known warriors and fighters to possess. Neena had none of it. And instead of being able to notice when someone was approaching her, nine times out of ten, she would either react in no way whatsoever or she would jump out of her skin. This time, it was a letter.
As a female voice spoke a greeting from over her shoulder, Neena jumped a little, shocked by the noise, lost her hold on the small silver cup she had been holding and almost dropped it. What followed was a scattered and manic little juggling act to keep the item from falling to the sandy ground, before Neena had it back under control and in hand.
Turning without annoyance or anger at the sudden surprise - just open friendliness - Neena offered a wide and beaming grin back at the woman who showed her one in return.
"Salutations to you also." She greeted with a quick and sweet bob of her head.
The woman was an astonishing beauty. Her hair and skin immaculately cared for, for a member of a Bedoan tribe. There was no doubt in Neena's mind at all that this young lady would be part of one of the first families of a tribe - the Rwandi, in fact, as the girl introduced herself. No low class Bedoan Neena had ever seen looked as this girl did.
Immediately, she was therefore a little nervous. For Neena was not a politician, nor a diplomat. She offered translation skills to just such people, but she was never the one who spoke the words herself. She also knew that her perpetual optimism was liked by most but annoying to a few. And the last thing she wanted was for her attitude and manner to discover that this girl was one of those few and cause damage in the relations between tribes. Because that would be harmful to her husband and Leier. Glancing over the girl's shoulder, to see said husband speaking a little way off with a young boy, Neena decided that the best course of action, without him here to guide her, was to simply be as genuine and nice as she could.
When the woman asked her where she was from, Neena's grin broke wider and her eyes sparked with mischievous mystery.
"Well, that really is the question, is it not?" She answered with her own before setting the silver cup down on the trader's table, smiled at the merchant and started to walk down the natural row of stalls that had been propped up in the sand, her gaze holding that of Jawahir and encouraging her to walk with her. "I guess I'm a little from all over." She said, slipping into the Rwandi accent as she talked, her own skills in languages and tribal idiosyncrasies coming through in her tone. "It the moment I am with the Zaire. I have heard of the Rwandi. You are a wise people, I am told." She said, offering a compliment that was in no way untrue, in the hope of smoothing conversation towards something that would flow into kinship.
There seemed to be nothing to fear. The woman, whatever her name was, seemed kind, though clumsy. Jawahir was just about to offer her help before the manic juggling act ended. Jawahir withdrew her hand from that situation and smiled graciously, just as mother would want. Jawahir was glad that she appeared light on her feet. Jawahir had always thought of herself as a bit like a camel in the aspect of hiding things, especially when it came to people. She might have laughed a little, if she hadn't felt a little bit of guilt for making the woman drop the small silver cup in the first place. "I am so sorry! That must be all my fault. Is it damaged?" Jawahir examined the cup from her distance away, scared to touch it for fear the object might break. When it seemed fine, she let it go, a deep breath of relief she hoped the other didn't hear.
Jawahir felt bad for startling the woman, though she had no idea how she was supposed to make amends. It seemed alright to the stranger, but Jawahir was raised with politeness, manners, and to a point she forgot that at times it was possible to be too polite. She would bet that Bashira would know what to do, and wished she was the older girl. She had the diplomacy that Jawahir suspected would take a wild lion on and end in the creature agreeing not to attack her.
Relief shown through her eyes when she kept talking. It seemed interesting, that she was from many different places. Jawahir had only ever been with the Rwandi, and even then she did not enjoy much change, except when it strictly benefited her. The constant moving was something she was used to, and something she assumed was common in the world. She thought the Egyptians were a little odd for staying in just the one place, but she had to admit the fresh fruits and vegetables would have made it worth it if not for a hidden desire Jawahir had to never stay in one place too long. Too long and they would realize she wasn't anything like they thought she was, and she couldn't very well have that.
The leierseunin tried not to wince when the Zaire woman brought up the wise knowledge of her people. Jawahir truthfully believed she didn't have that, thinking only of whether she was smart when compared with her sister, with her mother, with her father's first wife, and with her father himself. "You have been told truths, my father is a wise man through and through, and the rest of my people follow suit." Jawahir remembered something about the Zaire, hoping to connect with the other woman as well, "I have heard the Zaire are knowledgeable as well."
Jawahir was impressed by how easily the Zaire woman had mimicked her dialect. It made communication easier, for one thing, and if the conversation led that way, she would certainly be happy to compliment it. Jawahir wondered what she had meant when she had said she was a little from everywhere, briefly entertaining the idea that the woman was some type of people jumper, fitting into whatever area fit her best at the time. Zaire if she was feeling knowledgeable, Buuchu if she was feeling warlike, and so on. Jawahir thought this seemed ridiculous when she gave it a second thought, and did not bring the topic up, fearing only embarrassment should she bring the topic up, or that she might somehow offend the other woman.
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There seemed to be nothing to fear. The woman, whatever her name was, seemed kind, though clumsy. Jawahir was just about to offer her help before the manic juggling act ended. Jawahir withdrew her hand from that situation and smiled graciously, just as mother would want. Jawahir was glad that she appeared light on her feet. Jawahir had always thought of herself as a bit like a camel in the aspect of hiding things, especially when it came to people. She might have laughed a little, if she hadn't felt a little bit of guilt for making the woman drop the small silver cup in the first place. "I am so sorry! That must be all my fault. Is it damaged?" Jawahir examined the cup from her distance away, scared to touch it for fear the object might break. When it seemed fine, she let it go, a deep breath of relief she hoped the other didn't hear.
Jawahir felt bad for startling the woman, though she had no idea how she was supposed to make amends. It seemed alright to the stranger, but Jawahir was raised with politeness, manners, and to a point she forgot that at times it was possible to be too polite. She would bet that Bashira would know what to do, and wished she was the older girl. She had the diplomacy that Jawahir suspected would take a wild lion on and end in the creature agreeing not to attack her.
Relief shown through her eyes when she kept talking. It seemed interesting, that she was from many different places. Jawahir had only ever been with the Rwandi, and even then she did not enjoy much change, except when it strictly benefited her. The constant moving was something she was used to, and something she assumed was common in the world. She thought the Egyptians were a little odd for staying in just the one place, but she had to admit the fresh fruits and vegetables would have made it worth it if not for a hidden desire Jawahir had to never stay in one place too long. Too long and they would realize she wasn't anything like they thought she was, and she couldn't very well have that.
The leierseunin tried not to wince when the Zaire woman brought up the wise knowledge of her people. Jawahir truthfully believed she didn't have that, thinking only of whether she was smart when compared with her sister, with her mother, with her father's first wife, and with her father himself. "You have been told truths, my father is a wise man through and through, and the rest of my people follow suit." Jawahir remembered something about the Zaire, hoping to connect with the other woman as well, "I have heard the Zaire are knowledgeable as well."
Jawahir was impressed by how easily the Zaire woman had mimicked her dialect. It made communication easier, for one thing, and if the conversation led that way, she would certainly be happy to compliment it. Jawahir wondered what she had meant when she had said she was a little from everywhere, briefly entertaining the idea that the woman was some type of people jumper, fitting into whatever area fit her best at the time. Zaire if she was feeling knowledgeable, Buuchu if she was feeling warlike, and so on. Jawahir thought this seemed ridiculous when she gave it a second thought, and did not bring the topic up, fearing only embarrassment should she bring the topic up, or that she might somehow offend the other woman.
There seemed to be nothing to fear. The woman, whatever her name was, seemed kind, though clumsy. Jawahir was just about to offer her help before the manic juggling act ended. Jawahir withdrew her hand from that situation and smiled graciously, just as mother would want. Jawahir was glad that she appeared light on her feet. Jawahir had always thought of herself as a bit like a camel in the aspect of hiding things, especially when it came to people. She might have laughed a little, if she hadn't felt a little bit of guilt for making the woman drop the small silver cup in the first place. "I am so sorry! That must be all my fault. Is it damaged?" Jawahir examined the cup from her distance away, scared to touch it for fear the object might break. When it seemed fine, she let it go, a deep breath of relief she hoped the other didn't hear.
Jawahir felt bad for startling the woman, though she had no idea how she was supposed to make amends. It seemed alright to the stranger, but Jawahir was raised with politeness, manners, and to a point she forgot that at times it was possible to be too polite. She would bet that Bashira would know what to do, and wished she was the older girl. She had the diplomacy that Jawahir suspected would take a wild lion on and end in the creature agreeing not to attack her.
Relief shown through her eyes when she kept talking. It seemed interesting, that she was from many different places. Jawahir had only ever been with the Rwandi, and even then she did not enjoy much change, except when it strictly benefited her. The constant moving was something she was used to, and something she assumed was common in the world. She thought the Egyptians were a little odd for staying in just the one place, but she had to admit the fresh fruits and vegetables would have made it worth it if not for a hidden desire Jawahir had to never stay in one place too long. Too long and they would realize she wasn't anything like they thought she was, and she couldn't very well have that.
The leierseunin tried not to wince when the Zaire woman brought up the wise knowledge of her people. Jawahir truthfully believed she didn't have that, thinking only of whether she was smart when compared with her sister, with her mother, with her father's first wife, and with her father himself. "You have been told truths, my father is a wise man through and through, and the rest of my people follow suit." Jawahir remembered something about the Zaire, hoping to connect with the other woman as well, "I have heard the Zaire are knowledgeable as well."
Jawahir was impressed by how easily the Zaire woman had mimicked her dialect. It made communication easier, for one thing, and if the conversation led that way, she would certainly be happy to compliment it. Jawahir wondered what she had meant when she had said she was a little from everywhere, briefly entertaining the idea that the woman was some type of people jumper, fitting into whatever area fit her best at the time. Zaire if she was feeling knowledgeable, Buuchu if she was feeling warlike, and so on. Jawahir thought this seemed ridiculous when she gave it a second thought, and did not bring the topic up, fearing only embarrassment should she bring the topic up, or that she might somehow offend the other woman.
Qen looked Hasani over with an experienced eye. He knew little about the people and culture of Bedoa, but he could tell that this scarred and tattoo hulk of a man was a personage of respect, if not authority. As such, it would be wiser to use charm rather than to be intimidating in this interaction; indeed, there was likely no way Qen could intimidate such a giant, unless perhaps he had a dagger to his throat. “Greetings to you,” he said in return, his voice warm but formal. He glanced at the nearby Bedoan stall and shrugged. “Truth be told, I have little knowledge about these things…”
Something caught his eye and he looked back at the stall. Laid out were some jewelry, easily affordable but still beautiful, from the hands of a talented craftsman. He recognized a necklace that was like something he had once given his wife, Taqari. It had been a celebration of their marriage, and he had wanted to show her that the fire in his heart still burned for her and her alone. It had cost a small fortune, but he had saved enough from guarding the roads to purchase the gift. She had returned the present with the same loyalty and kindness she had showed him since the day they were married.
He choked down the rising emotion and gave his son a hard look. “You should look where you are going, my son,” he said sternly. “You wouldn’t want to step on the toes of this fellow.” He motioned upward, at the tremendous height of Hasani.
“Who are you?” Mahu asked bluntly. Unlike Qen, he did not speak with deference or friendliness. He demanded the information as if he and Hasani were equals. The boy still had much to learn. Showing such familiarity could lead to serious problems.
“Forgive the boy, sir,” Qen said with a chuckle. “He doesn’t know any better. I’m a widower, and it falls to me to raise him. I try to do right by him, but it’s not easy being a father.” He stole another glance at the necklace. It was true; he never imagined himself a single parent, raising a child alone. But, then, in those happy days before, he had never imagined that Taraqi and his other boy Menna would be stolen from him so wrongly.
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Qen looked Hasani over with an experienced eye. He knew little about the people and culture of Bedoa, but he could tell that this scarred and tattoo hulk of a man was a personage of respect, if not authority. As such, it would be wiser to use charm rather than to be intimidating in this interaction; indeed, there was likely no way Qen could intimidate such a giant, unless perhaps he had a dagger to his throat. “Greetings to you,” he said in return, his voice warm but formal. He glanced at the nearby Bedoan stall and shrugged. “Truth be told, I have little knowledge about these things…”
Something caught his eye and he looked back at the stall. Laid out were some jewelry, easily affordable but still beautiful, from the hands of a talented craftsman. He recognized a necklace that was like something he had once given his wife, Taqari. It had been a celebration of their marriage, and he had wanted to show her that the fire in his heart still burned for her and her alone. It had cost a small fortune, but he had saved enough from guarding the roads to purchase the gift. She had returned the present with the same loyalty and kindness she had showed him since the day they were married.
He choked down the rising emotion and gave his son a hard look. “You should look where you are going, my son,” he said sternly. “You wouldn’t want to step on the toes of this fellow.” He motioned upward, at the tremendous height of Hasani.
“Who are you?” Mahu asked bluntly. Unlike Qen, he did not speak with deference or friendliness. He demanded the information as if he and Hasani were equals. The boy still had much to learn. Showing such familiarity could lead to serious problems.
“Forgive the boy, sir,” Qen said with a chuckle. “He doesn’t know any better. I’m a widower, and it falls to me to raise him. I try to do right by him, but it’s not easy being a father.” He stole another glance at the necklace. It was true; he never imagined himself a single parent, raising a child alone. But, then, in those happy days before, he had never imagined that Taraqi and his other boy Menna would be stolen from him so wrongly.
Qen looked Hasani over with an experienced eye. He knew little about the people and culture of Bedoa, but he could tell that this scarred and tattoo hulk of a man was a personage of respect, if not authority. As such, it would be wiser to use charm rather than to be intimidating in this interaction; indeed, there was likely no way Qen could intimidate such a giant, unless perhaps he had a dagger to his throat. “Greetings to you,” he said in return, his voice warm but formal. He glanced at the nearby Bedoan stall and shrugged. “Truth be told, I have little knowledge about these things…”
Something caught his eye and he looked back at the stall. Laid out were some jewelry, easily affordable but still beautiful, from the hands of a talented craftsman. He recognized a necklace that was like something he had once given his wife, Taqari. It had been a celebration of their marriage, and he had wanted to show her that the fire in his heart still burned for her and her alone. It had cost a small fortune, but he had saved enough from guarding the roads to purchase the gift. She had returned the present with the same loyalty and kindness she had showed him since the day they were married.
He choked down the rising emotion and gave his son a hard look. “You should look where you are going, my son,” he said sternly. “You wouldn’t want to step on the toes of this fellow.” He motioned upward, at the tremendous height of Hasani.
“Who are you?” Mahu asked bluntly. Unlike Qen, he did not speak with deference or friendliness. He demanded the information as if he and Hasani were equals. The boy still had much to learn. Showing such familiarity could lead to serious problems.
“Forgive the boy, sir,” Qen said with a chuckle. “He doesn’t know any better. I’m a widower, and it falls to me to raise him. I try to do right by him, but it’s not easy being a father.” He stole another glance at the necklace. It was true; he never imagined himself a single parent, raising a child alone. But, then, in those happy days before, he had never imagined that Taraqi and his other boy Menna would be stolen from him so wrongly.
When the young woman spoke an apology and tried to take fault for Neena's surprise and near dropping of the small ceramic, Neena wrinkled her nose and waved a hand in disregard, making it very clear through her body language that she was insisting the woman not worry about it. When the beautiful Rwandi asked if the item was damaged, Neena was opening her mouth to ensure her that that was not the case only to freeze as she noticed a small crack that had developed in the lip of the item. Having no idea whether the piece had been damaged before she picked it up or if the small hair-thin, angular line had been caused her the startlement and following juggling act, Neena simply placed the item to one side, offered a bright smile to her new acquaintance and spoke in a sing-song voice of optimism.
"Nope! Not at all..."
And with that she quickly linked her arm with the young and beautiful Rwandi girl and started frogmarching them down the market alleyway without a backward glance, intent on putting as much distance between they and the stall with its little cracked piece, as possible.
When the young woman spoke of her tribe and their intelligence and wisdom, Neena was quick to pick up on a few telling word choices in the girl that she might not have been aware she was making. She mentioned her father... her family... she didn't seem to include herself in the praise she lavished onto her blood relatives. She then turned the conversation towards the Zaire. Whether she was attempting to be polite or was uncomfortable talking of the positive and prodigious reputation of her people, Neena wasn't sure.
"Oh, most definitely." She responded simply, when the girl offered her back her own understanding that the Zaire were a tribe of knowledgeable Bedoans. "The Zaire like to turn their knowledge to very particular subjects. I'm a little a more eclectic in my interests." She defined the difference between herself and the people she now - technically - led, without shame or awkwardness. As if it was simply factual that she was different from her husband's people and that that was okay, her natural confidence shining through. "But I have learnt much since being among them."
She turned and smiled to the young girl she still had her arm linked with.
"You speak of your family but not of yourself. You must surely have thoughts of your own, what is it that fascinates you, Pretty Rwandi?" Whilst her words were personal and probing, Neena was bright and bubbly as normal, her tone open and friendly and her body language unchallenging. Whilst some might have used such a tone and posture to deliberately put someone at ease, Neena was simply being herself...
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Jul 13, 2019 16:07:59 GMT
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When the young woman spoke an apology and tried to take fault for Neena's surprise and near dropping of the small ceramic, Neena wrinkled her nose and waved a hand in disregard, making it very clear through her body language that she was insisting the woman not worry about it. When the beautiful Rwandi asked if the item was damaged, Neena was opening her mouth to ensure her that that was not the case only to freeze as she noticed a small crack that had developed in the lip of the item. Having no idea whether the piece had been damaged before she picked it up or if the small hair-thin, angular line had been caused her the startlement and following juggling act, Neena simply placed the item to one side, offered a bright smile to her new acquaintance and spoke in a sing-song voice of optimism.
"Nope! Not at all..."
And with that she quickly linked her arm with the young and beautiful Rwandi girl and started frogmarching them down the market alleyway without a backward glance, intent on putting as much distance between they and the stall with its little cracked piece, as possible.
When the young woman spoke of her tribe and their intelligence and wisdom, Neena was quick to pick up on a few telling word choices in the girl that she might not have been aware she was making. She mentioned her father... her family... she didn't seem to include herself in the praise she lavished onto her blood relatives. She then turned the conversation towards the Zaire. Whether she was attempting to be polite or was uncomfortable talking of the positive and prodigious reputation of her people, Neena wasn't sure.
"Oh, most definitely." She responded simply, when the girl offered her back her own understanding that the Zaire were a tribe of knowledgeable Bedoans. "The Zaire like to turn their knowledge to very particular subjects. I'm a little a more eclectic in my interests." She defined the difference between herself and the people she now - technically - led, without shame or awkwardness. As if it was simply factual that she was different from her husband's people and that that was okay, her natural confidence shining through. "But I have learnt much since being among them."
She turned and smiled to the young girl she still had her arm linked with.
"You speak of your family but not of yourself. You must surely have thoughts of your own, what is it that fascinates you, Pretty Rwandi?" Whilst her words were personal and probing, Neena was bright and bubbly as normal, her tone open and friendly and her body language unchallenging. Whilst some might have used such a tone and posture to deliberately put someone at ease, Neena was simply being herself...
When the young woman spoke an apology and tried to take fault for Neena's surprise and near dropping of the small ceramic, Neena wrinkled her nose and waved a hand in disregard, making it very clear through her body language that she was insisting the woman not worry about it. When the beautiful Rwandi asked if the item was damaged, Neena was opening her mouth to ensure her that that was not the case only to freeze as she noticed a small crack that had developed in the lip of the item. Having no idea whether the piece had been damaged before she picked it up or if the small hair-thin, angular line had been caused her the startlement and following juggling act, Neena simply placed the item to one side, offered a bright smile to her new acquaintance and spoke in a sing-song voice of optimism.
"Nope! Not at all..."
And with that she quickly linked her arm with the young and beautiful Rwandi girl and started frogmarching them down the market alleyway without a backward glance, intent on putting as much distance between they and the stall with its little cracked piece, as possible.
When the young woman spoke of her tribe and their intelligence and wisdom, Neena was quick to pick up on a few telling word choices in the girl that she might not have been aware she was making. She mentioned her father... her family... she didn't seem to include herself in the praise she lavished onto her blood relatives. She then turned the conversation towards the Zaire. Whether she was attempting to be polite or was uncomfortable talking of the positive and prodigious reputation of her people, Neena wasn't sure.
"Oh, most definitely." She responded simply, when the girl offered her back her own understanding that the Zaire were a tribe of knowledgeable Bedoans. "The Zaire like to turn their knowledge to very particular subjects. I'm a little a more eclectic in my interests." She defined the difference between herself and the people she now - technically - led, without shame or awkwardness. As if it was simply factual that she was different from her husband's people and that that was okay, her natural confidence shining through. "But I have learnt much since being among them."
She turned and smiled to the young girl she still had her arm linked with.
"You speak of your family but not of yourself. You must surely have thoughts of your own, what is it that fascinates you, Pretty Rwandi?" Whilst her words were personal and probing, Neena was bright and bubbly as normal, her tone open and friendly and her body language unchallenging. Whilst some might have used such a tone and posture to deliberately put someone at ease, Neena was simply being herself...
Jawahir was sure that it had been her fault, however the Zaire woman insisted that she was not to blame. The young Leierseunin didn't even recognize that the cup had a small fracture in it, having instead focused more on the woman in front of her. Socialization had been highly trained into Jawahir, and she had rules. Most enjoyed eye contact, most enjoyed being focused on, at least in positive lights. Jawahir knew this from her own personal experience. When her father turned kind eyes on her, and listened, she felt like she might become the hot Tammuz sun and shine his face away with how bright she burned. Her mother had the tendency of focusing on Jawahir as a shadow did, distorted and showcasing only parts of her, a silhouette of who she wanted to be. Sometimes it was easier to become a shadow than the sun, but that didn't mean Hiri felt any less distorted.
"Excuse me..." Jawahir protested a little as the older, though by no means old, woman marched them forcefully away. She attempted a slight maneuver to get free, but found the hold wasn't quite so menacing, just forceful, unexpected, like a particularly tough blast of wind, though Jawahir remembered when she was quite young and had one of her layers that she wore like holy armor had almost come loose, and would have if it hadn't been for her younger sister. She most likely didn't have the strength to break away from the Zaire woman. The way she spoke of her people seemed a little removed. Jawahir expected this must have been a result of her perhaps marrying in from a different group, one Jawahir wasn't as familiar with. She was already worried about having gone with a strange woman, and wondered if her father or one of the men of her Gesin, the ones she trusted to protect her as she was incapable of protecting herself.
"I enjoy learning of my ancestors," Jawahir spoke truthfully, "The people I have never met, and the ones I do not have the pleasure of remembering. I heard that one of my great-grandfathers spoke as many as five other languages, including one that he used to speak with those of Judea! You know, the ones with the, well, the rather interesting god." Jawahir blushed, gossip was not becoming, nor was disrespecting another's religion. She knew well enough that she would hate for those of Judea to disrespect her ancestors, but she didn't understand the stories her father and others in the Gesin would tell her of adventures there, and had not cared to discuss it with those in Judea, had they spoken any language that she might have understood.
Jawahir didn't care much for change, though she hoped desperately to prove herself worthy by becoming the proper wife. She didn't know how her father would see the matter, as it was him who would ultimately choose where and with whom she ended up. The Zaire woman didn't seem to care for what Jawahir thought of her family, or rather she wanted to understand Hiri better. "I like to sit with my younger sister and braid her hair during special occasions. It takes quite a while, but it does look quite nice." Jawahir admitted separately. The details seemed minute enough that they could be anybody's, and thus didn't offend Jawahir's mistrust of the woman who had taken her farther away.
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Jul 23, 2019 3:17:11 GMT
Posted In Border Trade on Jul 23, 2019 3:17:11 GMT
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Jawahir was sure that it had been her fault, however the Zaire woman insisted that she was not to blame. The young Leierseunin didn't even recognize that the cup had a small fracture in it, having instead focused more on the woman in front of her. Socialization had been highly trained into Jawahir, and she had rules. Most enjoyed eye contact, most enjoyed being focused on, at least in positive lights. Jawahir knew this from her own personal experience. When her father turned kind eyes on her, and listened, she felt like she might become the hot Tammuz sun and shine his face away with how bright she burned. Her mother had the tendency of focusing on Jawahir as a shadow did, distorted and showcasing only parts of her, a silhouette of who she wanted to be. Sometimes it was easier to become a shadow than the sun, but that didn't mean Hiri felt any less distorted.
"Excuse me..." Jawahir protested a little as the older, though by no means old, woman marched them forcefully away. She attempted a slight maneuver to get free, but found the hold wasn't quite so menacing, just forceful, unexpected, like a particularly tough blast of wind, though Jawahir remembered when she was quite young and had one of her layers that she wore like holy armor had almost come loose, and would have if it hadn't been for her younger sister. She most likely didn't have the strength to break away from the Zaire woman. The way she spoke of her people seemed a little removed. Jawahir expected this must have been a result of her perhaps marrying in from a different group, one Jawahir wasn't as familiar with. She was already worried about having gone with a strange woman, and wondered if her father or one of the men of her Gesin, the ones she trusted to protect her as she was incapable of protecting herself.
"I enjoy learning of my ancestors," Jawahir spoke truthfully, "The people I have never met, and the ones I do not have the pleasure of remembering. I heard that one of my great-grandfathers spoke as many as five other languages, including one that he used to speak with those of Judea! You know, the ones with the, well, the rather interesting god." Jawahir blushed, gossip was not becoming, nor was disrespecting another's religion. She knew well enough that she would hate for those of Judea to disrespect her ancestors, but she didn't understand the stories her father and others in the Gesin would tell her of adventures there, and had not cared to discuss it with those in Judea, had they spoken any language that she might have understood.
Jawahir didn't care much for change, though she hoped desperately to prove herself worthy by becoming the proper wife. She didn't know how her father would see the matter, as it was him who would ultimately choose where and with whom she ended up. The Zaire woman didn't seem to care for what Jawahir thought of her family, or rather she wanted to understand Hiri better. "I like to sit with my younger sister and braid her hair during special occasions. It takes quite a while, but it does look quite nice." Jawahir admitted separately. The details seemed minute enough that they could be anybody's, and thus didn't offend Jawahir's mistrust of the woman who had taken her farther away.
Jawahir was sure that it had been her fault, however the Zaire woman insisted that she was not to blame. The young Leierseunin didn't even recognize that the cup had a small fracture in it, having instead focused more on the woman in front of her. Socialization had been highly trained into Jawahir, and she had rules. Most enjoyed eye contact, most enjoyed being focused on, at least in positive lights. Jawahir knew this from her own personal experience. When her father turned kind eyes on her, and listened, she felt like she might become the hot Tammuz sun and shine his face away with how bright she burned. Her mother had the tendency of focusing on Jawahir as a shadow did, distorted and showcasing only parts of her, a silhouette of who she wanted to be. Sometimes it was easier to become a shadow than the sun, but that didn't mean Hiri felt any less distorted.
"Excuse me..." Jawahir protested a little as the older, though by no means old, woman marched them forcefully away. She attempted a slight maneuver to get free, but found the hold wasn't quite so menacing, just forceful, unexpected, like a particularly tough blast of wind, though Jawahir remembered when she was quite young and had one of her layers that she wore like holy armor had almost come loose, and would have if it hadn't been for her younger sister. She most likely didn't have the strength to break away from the Zaire woman. The way she spoke of her people seemed a little removed. Jawahir expected this must have been a result of her perhaps marrying in from a different group, one Jawahir wasn't as familiar with. She was already worried about having gone with a strange woman, and wondered if her father or one of the men of her Gesin, the ones she trusted to protect her as she was incapable of protecting herself.
"I enjoy learning of my ancestors," Jawahir spoke truthfully, "The people I have never met, and the ones I do not have the pleasure of remembering. I heard that one of my great-grandfathers spoke as many as five other languages, including one that he used to speak with those of Judea! You know, the ones with the, well, the rather interesting god." Jawahir blushed, gossip was not becoming, nor was disrespecting another's religion. She knew well enough that she would hate for those of Judea to disrespect her ancestors, but she didn't understand the stories her father and others in the Gesin would tell her of adventures there, and had not cared to discuss it with those in Judea, had they spoken any language that she might have understood.
Jawahir didn't care much for change, though she hoped desperately to prove herself worthy by becoming the proper wife. She didn't know how her father would see the matter, as it was him who would ultimately choose where and with whom she ended up. The Zaire woman didn't seem to care for what Jawahir thought of her family, or rather she wanted to understand Hiri better. "I like to sit with my younger sister and braid her hair during special occasions. It takes quite a while, but it does look quite nice." Jawahir admitted separately. The details seemed minute enough that they could be anybody's, and thus didn't offend Jawahir's mistrust of the woman who had taken her farther away.
Walking along with the woman, Neena made no move to show that she was aware the girl was trying to free herself. She knew herself to be a forceful whirlwind of personality. But this world was full of mistrust and disquiet between people. Ergo, if she waited for others to make the first overtures of friendship, or moved at the slow and steady pace of organic friendship, she would have had few via which to call friends. Instead, Neena preferred ignoring all social convention, brushing passed people's natural dislikes or mistrusts and simply behave as she would were she to have known that person for years. The ones who brought down and allowed her friendship, genuine as it was, became one of her many acquaintances and friends all across the kingdoms she had travelled. Those who were simply off put by her actions and refused to acquiesce to her determined connection were of no loss to her. Too mistrusting, fearful or prideful to take her up on her offer of goodness - they were not people she needed in her life regardless. That was, at least, her life philosophy. And it had severed her well so far.
"Learning from your parents and grandparents and so forth, is a good practice." She said as the two of them walked down the aisles of stalls. "If we learn the mistakes of those before us, we cannot repeat them ourselves, yes?" She explained with a smile, perhaps taking the idea of learning from history in a different manner to Rwandi girl. Who, clearly, idolised those who came before her.
Spotting a stall of pretty jewellery, Neena, steered them in that direction, suspecting that the beautiful girl was distinctly more feminine than she and would like to look at such jewels and twisted pieces of gold thread.
"I like languages too." She added. "I speak a few. Hebrew is the language that the Judeans speak. And it's a very pretty language - especially written down."
Neena might have been able to speak multiple languages but she was, herself, illiterate and could not write any of them. But she distinctly felt that the Judean language was the prettiest when she saw it on parchment or clay - regardless of whether or not she knew what it meant.
"And the Judean's believe in Yahweh. A great and all-powerful spiritual being that exists in a realm separate from ours."
The words were spoken calmly and with genuine interest but lack of preaching, as Neena reached out to inspect a few of the jewellery pieces with little interest. She liked speaking of other cultures and helping others to understand the differences between kingdoms if she could. But she also knew that some found such information unwelcome and as if she were trying to force her own opinions onto others. So, she spoke as if she were delivering facts, not passionate exultation.
The comments about braiding her younger sister's hair, Neena deliberately ignored. Not to be rude, but simply because she had nothing to respond with. It was clear that this girl was family centric. She valued her parents, honoured her ancestors, was devoted to her sister. With no family, parents nor siblings, it was hard for Neena to offer her own input on the conversation without it seeming like she was pandering to the girl with limited feedback. Instead, she hoped that her knowledge of other cultures might be enough to stimulate the stranger into friendly conversation...
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Jul 29, 2019 23:51:57 GMT
Posted In Border Trade on Jul 29, 2019 23:51:57 GMT
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Walking along with the woman, Neena made no move to show that she was aware the girl was trying to free herself. She knew herself to be a forceful whirlwind of personality. But this world was full of mistrust and disquiet between people. Ergo, if she waited for others to make the first overtures of friendship, or moved at the slow and steady pace of organic friendship, she would have had few via which to call friends. Instead, Neena preferred ignoring all social convention, brushing passed people's natural dislikes or mistrusts and simply behave as she would were she to have known that person for years. The ones who brought down and allowed her friendship, genuine as it was, became one of her many acquaintances and friends all across the kingdoms she had travelled. Those who were simply off put by her actions and refused to acquiesce to her determined connection were of no loss to her. Too mistrusting, fearful or prideful to take her up on her offer of goodness - they were not people she needed in her life regardless. That was, at least, her life philosophy. And it had severed her well so far.
"Learning from your parents and grandparents and so forth, is a good practice." She said as the two of them walked down the aisles of stalls. "If we learn the mistakes of those before us, we cannot repeat them ourselves, yes?" She explained with a smile, perhaps taking the idea of learning from history in a different manner to Rwandi girl. Who, clearly, idolised those who came before her.
Spotting a stall of pretty jewellery, Neena, steered them in that direction, suspecting that the beautiful girl was distinctly more feminine than she and would like to look at such jewels and twisted pieces of gold thread.
"I like languages too." She added. "I speak a few. Hebrew is the language that the Judeans speak. And it's a very pretty language - especially written down."
Neena might have been able to speak multiple languages but she was, herself, illiterate and could not write any of them. But she distinctly felt that the Judean language was the prettiest when she saw it on parchment or clay - regardless of whether or not she knew what it meant.
"And the Judean's believe in Yahweh. A great and all-powerful spiritual being that exists in a realm separate from ours."
The words were spoken calmly and with genuine interest but lack of preaching, as Neena reached out to inspect a few of the jewellery pieces with little interest. She liked speaking of other cultures and helping others to understand the differences between kingdoms if she could. But she also knew that some found such information unwelcome and as if she were trying to force her own opinions onto others. So, she spoke as if she were delivering facts, not passionate exultation.
The comments about braiding her younger sister's hair, Neena deliberately ignored. Not to be rude, but simply because she had nothing to respond with. It was clear that this girl was family centric. She valued her parents, honoured her ancestors, was devoted to her sister. With no family, parents nor siblings, it was hard for Neena to offer her own input on the conversation without it seeming like she was pandering to the girl with limited feedback. Instead, she hoped that her knowledge of other cultures might be enough to stimulate the stranger into friendly conversation...
Walking along with the woman, Neena made no move to show that she was aware the girl was trying to free herself. She knew herself to be a forceful whirlwind of personality. But this world was full of mistrust and disquiet between people. Ergo, if she waited for others to make the first overtures of friendship, or moved at the slow and steady pace of organic friendship, she would have had few via which to call friends. Instead, Neena preferred ignoring all social convention, brushing passed people's natural dislikes or mistrusts and simply behave as she would were she to have known that person for years. The ones who brought down and allowed her friendship, genuine as it was, became one of her many acquaintances and friends all across the kingdoms she had travelled. Those who were simply off put by her actions and refused to acquiesce to her determined connection were of no loss to her. Too mistrusting, fearful or prideful to take her up on her offer of goodness - they were not people she needed in her life regardless. That was, at least, her life philosophy. And it had severed her well so far.
"Learning from your parents and grandparents and so forth, is a good practice." She said as the two of them walked down the aisles of stalls. "If we learn the mistakes of those before us, we cannot repeat them ourselves, yes?" She explained with a smile, perhaps taking the idea of learning from history in a different manner to Rwandi girl. Who, clearly, idolised those who came before her.
Spotting a stall of pretty jewellery, Neena, steered them in that direction, suspecting that the beautiful girl was distinctly more feminine than she and would like to look at such jewels and twisted pieces of gold thread.
"I like languages too." She added. "I speak a few. Hebrew is the language that the Judeans speak. And it's a very pretty language - especially written down."
Neena might have been able to speak multiple languages but she was, herself, illiterate and could not write any of them. But she distinctly felt that the Judean language was the prettiest when she saw it on parchment or clay - regardless of whether or not she knew what it meant.
"And the Judean's believe in Yahweh. A great and all-powerful spiritual being that exists in a realm separate from ours."
The words were spoken calmly and with genuine interest but lack of preaching, as Neena reached out to inspect a few of the jewellery pieces with little interest. She liked speaking of other cultures and helping others to understand the differences between kingdoms if she could. But she also knew that some found such information unwelcome and as if she were trying to force her own opinions onto others. So, she spoke as if she were delivering facts, not passionate exultation.
The comments about braiding her younger sister's hair, Neena deliberately ignored. Not to be rude, but simply because she had nothing to respond with. It was clear that this girl was family centric. She valued her parents, honoured her ancestors, was devoted to her sister. With no family, parents nor siblings, it was hard for Neena to offer her own input on the conversation without it seeming like she was pandering to the girl with limited feedback. Instead, she hoped that her knowledge of other cultures might be enough to stimulate the stranger into friendly conversation...
Jawahir felt unsure about the way they were going, and more along the lines of if she would be able to find her father should she feel the need to purchase anything. She didn't carry money on her person, for though she was covered in multitudes of fabric, to keep her chaste, her people believed more in the permanent things rather than the money she knew other cultures traded with. Jawahir's free hand gently went to her neck as she considered trading it for another one she enjoyed the looks of more, but she felt unsure without asking her parents, thinking of her mother's shrewd ways. Jawahir was more unsure of the Zaire woman, who, though somewhat polite, was very different from anyone the young Leierseunin had ever met. Most seemed to wish to please her, or else they treated her as if she were in the background. Even her friends among the tribe followed the convention of showing her just that much more respect because of who her father was. She was beginning to question the very ways her mother worked, but of certain things Jawahir was certain. Strangers were to be kept at arms length, until you truly knew them. That would keep her safe, though Jawahir was more trusting of a woman than a man.
"This is true, and it is quite enjoyable to hear that my grandmother was once a young girl like me," Jawahir grinned, though it was painful to think that the one thing that made her notable, her looks, would one day dry up. She only hoped her father would secure her a husband before she became too horrible to look at. Jawahir assumed that because she was pretty now, she would grow to become uglier much later. It was one of her own personal beliefs, and there was nothing pointing to how it developed.
Jawahir let a slight and small gold chain trail through her fingers. She much preferred the thick gold bands she wore around her neck, and the chunky earrings she wore in her ears, however much the piercing had hurt when she first got it. Even though now she sometimes dreamed of other face piercings like she had seen on some other tribe women. "This is quite nice," she commented politely, though she had no intention of parting with any of her jewelry.
"Is it difficult to speak another language? I cannot imagine it. I have been speaking my own for such a long time," Jawahir said, for though she could place most languages as Bedoan, Egyptian, or Judean, and even knew a few more dialectal words in the Bedoan she could find in different tribes, she had never considered speaking the Hebrew, as the Zaire woman called it, let alone writing it.
Writing was foreign to Jawahir, though she knew enough to recognize certain symbols, she was a woman, and didn't feel the need to read anyways. There was nothing written she could not learn from speaking with her father or one of the other educated men in her tribe, or, if the topic was womanly, as Jawahir had once awaken to discover in the years as she had become a woman, ask her mother or one of the elders.
"Yahweh? An interesting name for a god, though I suppose our ancestors' names might sound the same in their ears," Jawahir said, eyeing the next stall, for it had the heavier jewelry she preferred. "You do not speak of your family almost as much as I speak of mine," Jawahir noted casually, hoping to move onwards to the next stall. She pulled the Zaire woman along with her, not sensing that her eyes did not fall upon the jewelry the ways Jawahir's did. "Though I admit it is fascinating to learn about other cultures, and even now I envy your learning the languages, I do enjoy my home. It is important to me."
And that was all that mattered to Hiri.
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Jul 30, 2019 5:08:30 GMT
Posted In Border Trade on Jul 30, 2019 5:08:30 GMT
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Jawahir felt unsure about the way they were going, and more along the lines of if she would be able to find her father should she feel the need to purchase anything. She didn't carry money on her person, for though she was covered in multitudes of fabric, to keep her chaste, her people believed more in the permanent things rather than the money she knew other cultures traded with. Jawahir's free hand gently went to her neck as she considered trading it for another one she enjoyed the looks of more, but she felt unsure without asking her parents, thinking of her mother's shrewd ways. Jawahir was more unsure of the Zaire woman, who, though somewhat polite, was very different from anyone the young Leierseunin had ever met. Most seemed to wish to please her, or else they treated her as if she were in the background. Even her friends among the tribe followed the convention of showing her just that much more respect because of who her father was. She was beginning to question the very ways her mother worked, but of certain things Jawahir was certain. Strangers were to be kept at arms length, until you truly knew them. That would keep her safe, though Jawahir was more trusting of a woman than a man.
"This is true, and it is quite enjoyable to hear that my grandmother was once a young girl like me," Jawahir grinned, though it was painful to think that the one thing that made her notable, her looks, would one day dry up. She only hoped her father would secure her a husband before she became too horrible to look at. Jawahir assumed that because she was pretty now, she would grow to become uglier much later. It was one of her own personal beliefs, and there was nothing pointing to how it developed.
Jawahir let a slight and small gold chain trail through her fingers. She much preferred the thick gold bands she wore around her neck, and the chunky earrings she wore in her ears, however much the piercing had hurt when she first got it. Even though now she sometimes dreamed of other face piercings like she had seen on some other tribe women. "This is quite nice," she commented politely, though she had no intention of parting with any of her jewelry.
"Is it difficult to speak another language? I cannot imagine it. I have been speaking my own for such a long time," Jawahir said, for though she could place most languages as Bedoan, Egyptian, or Judean, and even knew a few more dialectal words in the Bedoan she could find in different tribes, she had never considered speaking the Hebrew, as the Zaire woman called it, let alone writing it.
Writing was foreign to Jawahir, though she knew enough to recognize certain symbols, she was a woman, and didn't feel the need to read anyways. There was nothing written she could not learn from speaking with her father or one of the other educated men in her tribe, or, if the topic was womanly, as Jawahir had once awaken to discover in the years as she had become a woman, ask her mother or one of the elders.
"Yahweh? An interesting name for a god, though I suppose our ancestors' names might sound the same in their ears," Jawahir said, eyeing the next stall, for it had the heavier jewelry she preferred. "You do not speak of your family almost as much as I speak of mine," Jawahir noted casually, hoping to move onwards to the next stall. She pulled the Zaire woman along with her, not sensing that her eyes did not fall upon the jewelry the ways Jawahir's did. "Though I admit it is fascinating to learn about other cultures, and even now I envy your learning the languages, I do enjoy my home. It is important to me."
And that was all that mattered to Hiri.
Jawahir felt unsure about the way they were going, and more along the lines of if she would be able to find her father should she feel the need to purchase anything. She didn't carry money on her person, for though she was covered in multitudes of fabric, to keep her chaste, her people believed more in the permanent things rather than the money she knew other cultures traded with. Jawahir's free hand gently went to her neck as she considered trading it for another one she enjoyed the looks of more, but she felt unsure without asking her parents, thinking of her mother's shrewd ways. Jawahir was more unsure of the Zaire woman, who, though somewhat polite, was very different from anyone the young Leierseunin had ever met. Most seemed to wish to please her, or else they treated her as if she were in the background. Even her friends among the tribe followed the convention of showing her just that much more respect because of who her father was. She was beginning to question the very ways her mother worked, but of certain things Jawahir was certain. Strangers were to be kept at arms length, until you truly knew them. That would keep her safe, though Jawahir was more trusting of a woman than a man.
"This is true, and it is quite enjoyable to hear that my grandmother was once a young girl like me," Jawahir grinned, though it was painful to think that the one thing that made her notable, her looks, would one day dry up. She only hoped her father would secure her a husband before she became too horrible to look at. Jawahir assumed that because she was pretty now, she would grow to become uglier much later. It was one of her own personal beliefs, and there was nothing pointing to how it developed.
Jawahir let a slight and small gold chain trail through her fingers. She much preferred the thick gold bands she wore around her neck, and the chunky earrings she wore in her ears, however much the piercing had hurt when she first got it. Even though now she sometimes dreamed of other face piercings like she had seen on some other tribe women. "This is quite nice," she commented politely, though she had no intention of parting with any of her jewelry.
"Is it difficult to speak another language? I cannot imagine it. I have been speaking my own for such a long time," Jawahir said, for though she could place most languages as Bedoan, Egyptian, or Judean, and even knew a few more dialectal words in the Bedoan she could find in different tribes, she had never considered speaking the Hebrew, as the Zaire woman called it, let alone writing it.
Writing was foreign to Jawahir, though she knew enough to recognize certain symbols, she was a woman, and didn't feel the need to read anyways. There was nothing written she could not learn from speaking with her father or one of the other educated men in her tribe, or, if the topic was womanly, as Jawahir had once awaken to discover in the years as she had become a woman, ask her mother or one of the elders.
"Yahweh? An interesting name for a god, though I suppose our ancestors' names might sound the same in their ears," Jawahir said, eyeing the next stall, for it had the heavier jewelry she preferred. "You do not speak of your family almost as much as I speak of mine," Jawahir noted casually, hoping to move onwards to the next stall. She pulled the Zaire woman along with her, not sensing that her eyes did not fall upon the jewelry the ways Jawahir's did. "Though I admit it is fascinating to learn about other cultures, and even now I envy your learning the languages, I do enjoy my home. It is important to me."