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For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Myrrine’s life felt full. She’d simply been going through the motions for so long. Caring for her siblings, tending to the shop, looking after the household. It was a tedious routine that left her too exhausted to have any time or energy for herself.
But Calantha was twelve now, nearly a woman herself. She no longer needed constant supervision - even if Myrrine’s instinct was to be overly protective of the child she had truly raised as her own. Her other siblings were old enough to be living their own lives. She took on the family duties so they had the freedom to do just that. In truth, she asked for nearly nothing in return, seldom even for help.
Today though, she had Clio watching the shop and Calantha was off with Leila. Which meant she was free to go to the marketplace. They had made quite a profit in recent weeks, and she thought it was fitting to use that extra coin to treat her family.
She was in the midst of pondering just what would be the best surprise for her siblings when she was suddenly shoved into the wall of the alley. As she turned to scold whatever careless individual had caused this she instead found an arm pressed across her chest, holding her flat to the wall. “Give me your coin, or else,” the man grunted. His face was obscured by a scarf of sort, but it was rather shoddily wrapped. Enough that she could see he was certainly a local.
“Not going to happen,” she answered stubbornly, slowly moving her hand to grab for the dagger she kept secreted in her belt, moving carefully so that he wouldn’t notice. “Besides, a coward like you doesn’t have the balls to follow through on a threat.”
What happened next came so quickly that she couldn’t even see it coming. She didn’t hear whatever insult came with it as his fist collided with her face. Had it not been for his arm pressing her to the wall, the force of his assault would have sent her to the ground. As it was, she was disoriented, her vision going hazy as a throbbing ache set in. She felt the cold steel of his blade against her throat more than she heard whatever threat came next.
Still, she did not relent. Finally her fingers closed around the hilt of her own dagger. Her vision was still swimming, so she did the only thing she could think of. She spit in his face, ignoring the way the the metal stung her flesh with the small forward motion. It was enough to make him recoil, allowing her to move. So she swung wildly with her blade, hoping it would make contact and that would be enough.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Myrrine’s life felt full. She’d simply been going through the motions for so long. Caring for her siblings, tending to the shop, looking after the household. It was a tedious routine that left her too exhausted to have any time or energy for herself.
But Calantha was twelve now, nearly a woman herself. She no longer needed constant supervision - even if Myrrine’s instinct was to be overly protective of the child she had truly raised as her own. Her other siblings were old enough to be living their own lives. She took on the family duties so they had the freedom to do just that. In truth, she asked for nearly nothing in return, seldom even for help.
Today though, she had Clio watching the shop and Calantha was off with Leila. Which meant she was free to go to the marketplace. They had made quite a profit in recent weeks, and she thought it was fitting to use that extra coin to treat her family.
She was in the midst of pondering just what would be the best surprise for her siblings when she was suddenly shoved into the wall of the alley. As she turned to scold whatever careless individual had caused this she instead found an arm pressed across her chest, holding her flat to the wall. “Give me your coin, or else,” the man grunted. His face was obscured by a scarf of sort, but it was rather shoddily wrapped. Enough that she could see he was certainly a local.
“Not going to happen,” she answered stubbornly, slowly moving her hand to grab for the dagger she kept secreted in her belt, moving carefully so that he wouldn’t notice. “Besides, a coward like you doesn’t have the balls to follow through on a threat.”
What happened next came so quickly that she couldn’t even see it coming. She didn’t hear whatever insult came with it as his fist collided with her face. Had it not been for his arm pressing her to the wall, the force of his assault would have sent her to the ground. As it was, she was disoriented, her vision going hazy as a throbbing ache set in. She felt the cold steel of his blade against her throat more than she heard whatever threat came next.
Still, she did not relent. Finally her fingers closed around the hilt of her own dagger. Her vision was still swimming, so she did the only thing she could think of. She spit in his face, ignoring the way the the metal stung her flesh with the small forward motion. It was enough to make him recoil, allowing her to move. So she swung wildly with her blade, hoping it would make contact and that would be enough.
For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Myrrine’s life felt full. She’d simply been going through the motions for so long. Caring for her siblings, tending to the shop, looking after the household. It was a tedious routine that left her too exhausted to have any time or energy for herself.
But Calantha was twelve now, nearly a woman herself. She no longer needed constant supervision - even if Myrrine’s instinct was to be overly protective of the child she had truly raised as her own. Her other siblings were old enough to be living their own lives. She took on the family duties so they had the freedom to do just that. In truth, she asked for nearly nothing in return, seldom even for help.
Today though, she had Clio watching the shop and Calantha was off with Leila. Which meant she was free to go to the marketplace. They had made quite a profit in recent weeks, and she thought it was fitting to use that extra coin to treat her family.
She was in the midst of pondering just what would be the best surprise for her siblings when she was suddenly shoved into the wall of the alley. As she turned to scold whatever careless individual had caused this she instead found an arm pressed across her chest, holding her flat to the wall. “Give me your coin, or else,” the man grunted. His face was obscured by a scarf of sort, but it was rather shoddily wrapped. Enough that she could see he was certainly a local.
“Not going to happen,” she answered stubbornly, slowly moving her hand to grab for the dagger she kept secreted in her belt, moving carefully so that he wouldn’t notice. “Besides, a coward like you doesn’t have the balls to follow through on a threat.”
What happened next came so quickly that she couldn’t even see it coming. She didn’t hear whatever insult came with it as his fist collided with her face. Had it not been for his arm pressing her to the wall, the force of his assault would have sent her to the ground. As it was, she was disoriented, her vision going hazy as a throbbing ache set in. She felt the cold steel of his blade against her throat more than she heard whatever threat came next.
Still, she did not relent. Finally her fingers closed around the hilt of her own dagger. Her vision was still swimming, so she did the only thing she could think of. She spit in his face, ignoring the way the the metal stung her flesh with the small forward motion. It was enough to make him recoil, allowing her to move. So she swung wildly with her blade, hoping it would make contact and that would be enough.
Akhmad was skilled at what he did. An assassin with no tongue (or so it was rumoured) was a handy enough asset for a group of thieves. Whenever a voice needed to be silenced or a witness blinded, the easiest route was a quick blade to the throat. A quiet and effective removal of issue. Akhmad was the man that was sought for just such work. And he was good at it. Moving with only the barest hint of sound - the gentle slide of his bound feet over the rooftops - he was no more than a shadow against the dark tiles and charred stone of the Lower Levels. His breathing was even and his heartrate was steady. A man who moved like a spider across whatever unruly surface at residential zones of cities offered him, Akhmad was fit and lean beneath his clothes. Wiry and strong and stripped of the fat of unnecessary eating or inactive lifestyle. He was one, long stretch of sinew that flowed and shifted over the rooftops. The taut string of a bow aimed and fired with deadly precision.
And yet... there was not always a target that needed such terminal attention. In some kingdoms, dramatic entrances and big displays of power were useful to the Sariqas' cause. In others, subtlety and secrecy reigned supreme. Depending on how carefully the members of their group adhered to that secrecy determined how usefully Akhmad was to the group at any one time. A truly gifted assassin was a rare and valuable asset. But it was not a requirement for always. As such, Akhmad was often employed in other means. He was a decent hunter and gatherer for the group. He was a sneaky thief and useful for snappy escapes from heists and home invasions. He was also often used for surveillance. As a man who made no sound, he was a useful asset as a watcher. Able to move around in ways that common folk wouldn't suspect or look towards and able to do so without effort or noise, meant that Akhmad could spy, listen and then communicate his findings quickly and unobserved.
It was just such a duty that he was set to that day.
When Nahash had come to Akhmad that morning and made it clear that his target for that day was to be killed or injured not but simply watched for the next few days, Akhmad had not questioned the instruction. A loyal member of Nahash's group, he had never offered an argument that wasn't quietly signed in private or mentioned at the outset of discussions. When it was an order, when the choice had been made, there was no argument to be had. No objection to be made. He had been given a command by his superior. And he obeyed without question.
It was for this reason that Akhmad had been scouring the Lower Levels of the city of Midas for the last few hours, quickly locating the woman in question. Brunette, pretty but unassuming and answering to the name of Myrrine, Akhmad had found her leaving her family home, calling back instruction to her siblings as she had parted from their company. His gaze narrowed as he looked down upon her, his position a simple and silent squat upon a nearby rooftop.
Once he was certain of his target, Akhmad had drawn back a little. Staying two buildings from the girl instead of one - for he had not been instructed to eavesdrop and had no need to be within earshot of the woman - Akhmad maintained his distance and his secrecy as he crawled around from building to building. His gaze never leaving the girl, it was easy enough to spot when trouble found her.
Wondering if Nahash had suspected such a thing to occur and if this was the reason for his assignment, Akhmad was quick to unhook his feet, slide the length of the slanted roof he had occupied and then catch the edge with his heels. Launching his weight from the rim of the rooftop, Akhmad was quick to latch onto the next structure, swing his legs back around and land on his feet with a soft and muted thump. He sprinted the length of the flat top of the building and then came to a quick and quiet stop when the heads of his quarry were once more in view, dead below.
For Nahash had stated for her to be followed silently. Which meant no interaction. Yet he had also said not to injure her. Which meant that Akhmad's boss didn't want her injured. So, when one of the young woman's attackers struck out with a closed fist, Akhmad took this as his cue to act.
Leaping from the roof top, his body arching like a bow and falling into a backwards spin, Akhmad fell head first until his arms were able to latch around the neck of Myrrine's would be mugger. One hand clamping over the assailant’s mouth and his body falling to wrap his legs around his middle, suddenly Akhmad was in complete control of the thief and was able to-
Damnit!
As the victim had turned aggressive and sought to protect herself with a knife, the blade that she flung out wildly at her attacker's neck now cut deeply into the forearm wrapped around it - Akhmad's forearm.
Resisting any sounds of pain that many rumoured could not pass his lips, Akhmad focused on the task at hand and cranked his body around into a twist that had the thief bent backwards and then tumbled to the ground. His knees his cobbles and then Akhmad's elbow found his neck, knocking him out entirely and sending him to a crumpled heap on the stone. Never once would the mugger have seen Akhmad's presence.
Rolling back to his feet, Akhmad shook out the arm that now burned with pain, speckles of crimson hitting the floor as he glanced at the girl from his peripheral and then immediately moved towards the wall in order to climb and remove himself from the scene of violence that he left in his wake...
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Akhmad was skilled at what he did. An assassin with no tongue (or so it was rumoured) was a handy enough asset for a group of thieves. Whenever a voice needed to be silenced or a witness blinded, the easiest route was a quick blade to the throat. A quiet and effective removal of issue. Akhmad was the man that was sought for just such work. And he was good at it. Moving with only the barest hint of sound - the gentle slide of his bound feet over the rooftops - he was no more than a shadow against the dark tiles and charred stone of the Lower Levels. His breathing was even and his heartrate was steady. A man who moved like a spider across whatever unruly surface at residential zones of cities offered him, Akhmad was fit and lean beneath his clothes. Wiry and strong and stripped of the fat of unnecessary eating or inactive lifestyle. He was one, long stretch of sinew that flowed and shifted over the rooftops. The taut string of a bow aimed and fired with deadly precision.
And yet... there was not always a target that needed such terminal attention. In some kingdoms, dramatic entrances and big displays of power were useful to the Sariqas' cause. In others, subtlety and secrecy reigned supreme. Depending on how carefully the members of their group adhered to that secrecy determined how usefully Akhmad was to the group at any one time. A truly gifted assassin was a rare and valuable asset. But it was not a requirement for always. As such, Akhmad was often employed in other means. He was a decent hunter and gatherer for the group. He was a sneaky thief and useful for snappy escapes from heists and home invasions. He was also often used for surveillance. As a man who made no sound, he was a useful asset as a watcher. Able to move around in ways that common folk wouldn't suspect or look towards and able to do so without effort or noise, meant that Akhmad could spy, listen and then communicate his findings quickly and unobserved.
It was just such a duty that he was set to that day.
When Nahash had come to Akhmad that morning and made it clear that his target for that day was to be killed or injured not but simply watched for the next few days, Akhmad had not questioned the instruction. A loyal member of Nahash's group, he had never offered an argument that wasn't quietly signed in private or mentioned at the outset of discussions. When it was an order, when the choice had been made, there was no argument to be had. No objection to be made. He had been given a command by his superior. And he obeyed without question.
It was for this reason that Akhmad had been scouring the Lower Levels of the city of Midas for the last few hours, quickly locating the woman in question. Brunette, pretty but unassuming and answering to the name of Myrrine, Akhmad had found her leaving her family home, calling back instruction to her siblings as she had parted from their company. His gaze narrowed as he looked down upon her, his position a simple and silent squat upon a nearby rooftop.
Once he was certain of his target, Akhmad had drawn back a little. Staying two buildings from the girl instead of one - for he had not been instructed to eavesdrop and had no need to be within earshot of the woman - Akhmad maintained his distance and his secrecy as he crawled around from building to building. His gaze never leaving the girl, it was easy enough to spot when trouble found her.
Wondering if Nahash had suspected such a thing to occur and if this was the reason for his assignment, Akhmad was quick to unhook his feet, slide the length of the slanted roof he had occupied and then catch the edge with his heels. Launching his weight from the rim of the rooftop, Akhmad was quick to latch onto the next structure, swing his legs back around and land on his feet with a soft and muted thump. He sprinted the length of the flat top of the building and then came to a quick and quiet stop when the heads of his quarry were once more in view, dead below.
For Nahash had stated for her to be followed silently. Which meant no interaction. Yet he had also said not to injure her. Which meant that Akhmad's boss didn't want her injured. So, when one of the young woman's attackers struck out with a closed fist, Akhmad took this as his cue to act.
Leaping from the roof top, his body arching like a bow and falling into a backwards spin, Akhmad fell head first until his arms were able to latch around the neck of Myrrine's would be mugger. One hand clamping over the assailant’s mouth and his body falling to wrap his legs around his middle, suddenly Akhmad was in complete control of the thief and was able to-
Damnit!
As the victim had turned aggressive and sought to protect herself with a knife, the blade that she flung out wildly at her attacker's neck now cut deeply into the forearm wrapped around it - Akhmad's forearm.
Resisting any sounds of pain that many rumoured could not pass his lips, Akhmad focused on the task at hand and cranked his body around into a twist that had the thief bent backwards and then tumbled to the ground. His knees his cobbles and then Akhmad's elbow found his neck, knocking him out entirely and sending him to a crumpled heap on the stone. Never once would the mugger have seen Akhmad's presence.
Rolling back to his feet, Akhmad shook out the arm that now burned with pain, speckles of crimson hitting the floor as he glanced at the girl from his peripheral and then immediately moved towards the wall in order to climb and remove himself from the scene of violence that he left in his wake...
Akhmad was skilled at what he did. An assassin with no tongue (or so it was rumoured) was a handy enough asset for a group of thieves. Whenever a voice needed to be silenced or a witness blinded, the easiest route was a quick blade to the throat. A quiet and effective removal of issue. Akhmad was the man that was sought for just such work. And he was good at it. Moving with only the barest hint of sound - the gentle slide of his bound feet over the rooftops - he was no more than a shadow against the dark tiles and charred stone of the Lower Levels. His breathing was even and his heartrate was steady. A man who moved like a spider across whatever unruly surface at residential zones of cities offered him, Akhmad was fit and lean beneath his clothes. Wiry and strong and stripped of the fat of unnecessary eating or inactive lifestyle. He was one, long stretch of sinew that flowed and shifted over the rooftops. The taut string of a bow aimed and fired with deadly precision.
And yet... there was not always a target that needed such terminal attention. In some kingdoms, dramatic entrances and big displays of power were useful to the Sariqas' cause. In others, subtlety and secrecy reigned supreme. Depending on how carefully the members of their group adhered to that secrecy determined how usefully Akhmad was to the group at any one time. A truly gifted assassin was a rare and valuable asset. But it was not a requirement for always. As such, Akhmad was often employed in other means. He was a decent hunter and gatherer for the group. He was a sneaky thief and useful for snappy escapes from heists and home invasions. He was also often used for surveillance. As a man who made no sound, he was a useful asset as a watcher. Able to move around in ways that common folk wouldn't suspect or look towards and able to do so without effort or noise, meant that Akhmad could spy, listen and then communicate his findings quickly and unobserved.
It was just such a duty that he was set to that day.
When Nahash had come to Akhmad that morning and made it clear that his target for that day was to be killed or injured not but simply watched for the next few days, Akhmad had not questioned the instruction. A loyal member of Nahash's group, he had never offered an argument that wasn't quietly signed in private or mentioned at the outset of discussions. When it was an order, when the choice had been made, there was no argument to be had. No objection to be made. He had been given a command by his superior. And he obeyed without question.
It was for this reason that Akhmad had been scouring the Lower Levels of the city of Midas for the last few hours, quickly locating the woman in question. Brunette, pretty but unassuming and answering to the name of Myrrine, Akhmad had found her leaving her family home, calling back instruction to her siblings as she had parted from their company. His gaze narrowed as he looked down upon her, his position a simple and silent squat upon a nearby rooftop.
Once he was certain of his target, Akhmad had drawn back a little. Staying two buildings from the girl instead of one - for he had not been instructed to eavesdrop and had no need to be within earshot of the woman - Akhmad maintained his distance and his secrecy as he crawled around from building to building. His gaze never leaving the girl, it was easy enough to spot when trouble found her.
Wondering if Nahash had suspected such a thing to occur and if this was the reason for his assignment, Akhmad was quick to unhook his feet, slide the length of the slanted roof he had occupied and then catch the edge with his heels. Launching his weight from the rim of the rooftop, Akhmad was quick to latch onto the next structure, swing his legs back around and land on his feet with a soft and muted thump. He sprinted the length of the flat top of the building and then came to a quick and quiet stop when the heads of his quarry were once more in view, dead below.
For Nahash had stated for her to be followed silently. Which meant no interaction. Yet he had also said not to injure her. Which meant that Akhmad's boss didn't want her injured. So, when one of the young woman's attackers struck out with a closed fist, Akhmad took this as his cue to act.
Leaping from the roof top, his body arching like a bow and falling into a backwards spin, Akhmad fell head first until his arms were able to latch around the neck of Myrrine's would be mugger. One hand clamping over the assailant’s mouth and his body falling to wrap his legs around his middle, suddenly Akhmad was in complete control of the thief and was able to-
Damnit!
As the victim had turned aggressive and sought to protect herself with a knife, the blade that she flung out wildly at her attacker's neck now cut deeply into the forearm wrapped around it - Akhmad's forearm.
Resisting any sounds of pain that many rumoured could not pass his lips, Akhmad focused on the task at hand and cranked his body around into a twist that had the thief bent backwards and then tumbled to the ground. His knees his cobbles and then Akhmad's elbow found his neck, knocking him out entirely and sending him to a crumpled heap on the stone. Never once would the mugger have seen Akhmad's presence.
Rolling back to his feet, Akhmad shook out the arm that now burned with pain, speckles of crimson hitting the floor as he glanced at the girl from his peripheral and then immediately moved towards the wall in order to climb and remove himself from the scene of violence that he left in his wake...
As Myrrine lashed out, she felt her blade make contact with enough impact that it twisted in her grip, falling to the ground as her hand fell back to her side. She felt her assailant’s blade leave her throat after, and she finally dared to gasp for breath, hoping that had bought her time to regain her vision. She pressed a hand to her eyes, rubbing at them, and when she looked once more, she saw the scene before her, just as a second man sent the other to the ground with a twist of his body. Numbly, she reached down to grasp the handle of her dagger before she could risk forgetting it.
Her eyes widened as she returned her gaze to take in the man hidden entirely beneath wraps of cloth. Yet even as she replayed events in her mind, she had never so much as heard a sound that indicated the presence of another. It wasn’t until the strange man rose to his feet that she saw the splatter of red that the motion speckled onto the ground. Her eyes looked up, searching his form until she saw it. A torn - no, cut - sleeve and skin red with blood. A moment later, her mind immediately made the connection.
She hadn’t injured her assailant at all. She had instead cut her rescuer. A cold rush of dread washed over her. Myrrine forced herself to look at the facts instead. After she had been hit, her vision had been affected. She hadn’t known there was another soul present, let alone attempting to save her. There had been a blade to her throat. She had only been trying to defend herself. There was no other choice she could have made really in the moment. Yet somehow that did little to ease the guilt she felt. So as he turned to go, she didn’t have time to think, only react.
“Wait!” she called out, flinching slightly at her own too loud voice, as she hastily moved forward, as if she was even capable of holding him back if he wanted to leave. She stopped just shy of where he stood, his back to her. Her hand had reached for him out of habit, but she stopped herself just shy.
This new realization of the consequences of her efforts had her entirely forgetting the pain she had suffered. That her own blood had been spilled via the shallow cut at her own throat, and the ringing of her head faded to the background as her attention sharpened on the man before her. It was second nature to her after all - to forget her own discomforts and focus on those around her instead. Especially if it was someone she felt responsible for. In this case, that included the stranger since she was the one who had caused his suffering by her own actions.
“I’m sorry,” she continued. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else present, let alone trying to help.” She bit her lip slightly as she considered things. Clio was looking after the shop, the girls were out... The pieces came together in her mind and she knew what she had to do. Once her resolve was set, there was little that could shake it. When she spoke, her voice was gentle, yet firm - a tone perfected from twelve years of mothering.
“Please, let me tend to your wound. My home isn’t far at all. Besides, it’s the least I can do after causing it, and I owe you for your help anyway.”
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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As Myrrine lashed out, she felt her blade make contact with enough impact that it twisted in her grip, falling to the ground as her hand fell back to her side. She felt her assailant’s blade leave her throat after, and she finally dared to gasp for breath, hoping that had bought her time to regain her vision. She pressed a hand to her eyes, rubbing at them, and when she looked once more, she saw the scene before her, just as a second man sent the other to the ground with a twist of his body. Numbly, she reached down to grasp the handle of her dagger before she could risk forgetting it.
Her eyes widened as she returned her gaze to take in the man hidden entirely beneath wraps of cloth. Yet even as she replayed events in her mind, she had never so much as heard a sound that indicated the presence of another. It wasn’t until the strange man rose to his feet that she saw the splatter of red that the motion speckled onto the ground. Her eyes looked up, searching his form until she saw it. A torn - no, cut - sleeve and skin red with blood. A moment later, her mind immediately made the connection.
She hadn’t injured her assailant at all. She had instead cut her rescuer. A cold rush of dread washed over her. Myrrine forced herself to look at the facts instead. After she had been hit, her vision had been affected. She hadn’t known there was another soul present, let alone attempting to save her. There had been a blade to her throat. She had only been trying to defend herself. There was no other choice she could have made really in the moment. Yet somehow that did little to ease the guilt she felt. So as he turned to go, she didn’t have time to think, only react.
“Wait!” she called out, flinching slightly at her own too loud voice, as she hastily moved forward, as if she was even capable of holding him back if he wanted to leave. She stopped just shy of where he stood, his back to her. Her hand had reached for him out of habit, but she stopped herself just shy.
This new realization of the consequences of her efforts had her entirely forgetting the pain she had suffered. That her own blood had been spilled via the shallow cut at her own throat, and the ringing of her head faded to the background as her attention sharpened on the man before her. It was second nature to her after all - to forget her own discomforts and focus on those around her instead. Especially if it was someone she felt responsible for. In this case, that included the stranger since she was the one who had caused his suffering by her own actions.
“I’m sorry,” she continued. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else present, let alone trying to help.” She bit her lip slightly as she considered things. Clio was looking after the shop, the girls were out... The pieces came together in her mind and she knew what she had to do. Once her resolve was set, there was little that could shake it. When she spoke, her voice was gentle, yet firm - a tone perfected from twelve years of mothering.
“Please, let me tend to your wound. My home isn’t far at all. Besides, it’s the least I can do after causing it, and I owe you for your help anyway.”
As Myrrine lashed out, she felt her blade make contact with enough impact that it twisted in her grip, falling to the ground as her hand fell back to her side. She felt her assailant’s blade leave her throat after, and she finally dared to gasp for breath, hoping that had bought her time to regain her vision. She pressed a hand to her eyes, rubbing at them, and when she looked once more, she saw the scene before her, just as a second man sent the other to the ground with a twist of his body. Numbly, she reached down to grasp the handle of her dagger before she could risk forgetting it.
Her eyes widened as she returned her gaze to take in the man hidden entirely beneath wraps of cloth. Yet even as she replayed events in her mind, she had never so much as heard a sound that indicated the presence of another. It wasn’t until the strange man rose to his feet that she saw the splatter of red that the motion speckled onto the ground. Her eyes looked up, searching his form until she saw it. A torn - no, cut - sleeve and skin red with blood. A moment later, her mind immediately made the connection.
She hadn’t injured her assailant at all. She had instead cut her rescuer. A cold rush of dread washed over her. Myrrine forced herself to look at the facts instead. After she had been hit, her vision had been affected. She hadn’t known there was another soul present, let alone attempting to save her. There had been a blade to her throat. She had only been trying to defend herself. There was no other choice she could have made really in the moment. Yet somehow that did little to ease the guilt she felt. So as he turned to go, she didn’t have time to think, only react.
“Wait!” she called out, flinching slightly at her own too loud voice, as she hastily moved forward, as if she was even capable of holding him back if he wanted to leave. She stopped just shy of where he stood, his back to her. Her hand had reached for him out of habit, but she stopped herself just shy.
This new realization of the consequences of her efforts had her entirely forgetting the pain she had suffered. That her own blood had been spilled via the shallow cut at her own throat, and the ringing of her head faded to the background as her attention sharpened on the man before her. It was second nature to her after all - to forget her own discomforts and focus on those around her instead. Especially if it was someone she felt responsible for. In this case, that included the stranger since she was the one who had caused his suffering by her own actions.
“I’m sorry,” she continued. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else present, let alone trying to help.” She bit her lip slightly as she considered things. Clio was looking after the shop, the girls were out... The pieces came together in her mind and she knew what she had to do. Once her resolve was set, there was little that could shake it. When she spoke, her voice was gentle, yet firm - a tone perfected from twelve years of mothering.
“Please, let me tend to your wound. My home isn’t far at all. Besides, it’s the least I can do after causing it, and I owe you for your help anyway.”
It was hardly the girl's tone of voice that had Akhmad's frame holding still. His hands were already latched onto the uneven surface of the wall before him, fingertips curled around a window ledge. One of his feet was pressed to the wall ready to haul his weight upwards. He stilled in such a position, his breathing calm and his spine straight as he then turned to glance towards the woman. His eyes, ochre in palette and cold in gesture, found her own in the darkness of the alley. As he held there, he felt the wrappings over his arm grow warm and damp, the blood from his cut seeping into the cloth before it pooled beneath his elbow and dripped to the floor.
He didn't appear to care or react to the wound but this wasn't true. It stung like a bitch and burned with a heat that warned him of the potential for infection. It was also rapidly draining the strength from his arm and fingers which meant that the cut was deep and he was losing the life blood of the limb. He would need to see it bandaged quickly.
Perfectly capable of performing his own doctoring, it was in line with Akhmad's personal regime that he would disappear, leave the woman alone and see to his own flesh. He was able to stitch, bind and clean most wounds he received and had had to over the years. For an assassin rarely offered himself into a position of weakness before another. But this cut was on his forearm. Which meant the use of only one hand to bind it. Which would make things harder.
Not to mention the fact that, in following Nahash's orders, Akhmad was due to follow the girl regardless. True, he had been supposed to do so without alerting her to his presence and whilst ensuring that she was unharmed. But one had overridden the other. At least if he walked back with her, he could be certain that she treated the mark on her own skin - the thin, scarlet line on her neck.
With a quick decision that roused no words from his lips, Akhmad's acquiescence to the girl's request came in the physical form. Removing his foot from the wall and his arms from the ledge, he turned towards her, doing nothing to support his injured arm and offered a half shrug. One of his shoulders rose and then fell with a fluid sort of gesture that made him seem even more boneless than his acrobatics often made him appear. The quick rise of his chin for her to lead the way set his masked wrappings rippling. Akhmad folded his arms and shifted his weight to one leg looking towards her in a gesture of stoicism that refused to go first. Regardless of the fact that he knew where she lived, Akhmad could keep a better eye on her if she led the way...
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It was hardly the girl's tone of voice that had Akhmad's frame holding still. His hands were already latched onto the uneven surface of the wall before him, fingertips curled around a window ledge. One of his feet was pressed to the wall ready to haul his weight upwards. He stilled in such a position, his breathing calm and his spine straight as he then turned to glance towards the woman. His eyes, ochre in palette and cold in gesture, found her own in the darkness of the alley. As he held there, he felt the wrappings over his arm grow warm and damp, the blood from his cut seeping into the cloth before it pooled beneath his elbow and dripped to the floor.
He didn't appear to care or react to the wound but this wasn't true. It stung like a bitch and burned with a heat that warned him of the potential for infection. It was also rapidly draining the strength from his arm and fingers which meant that the cut was deep and he was losing the life blood of the limb. He would need to see it bandaged quickly.
Perfectly capable of performing his own doctoring, it was in line with Akhmad's personal regime that he would disappear, leave the woman alone and see to his own flesh. He was able to stitch, bind and clean most wounds he received and had had to over the years. For an assassin rarely offered himself into a position of weakness before another. But this cut was on his forearm. Which meant the use of only one hand to bind it. Which would make things harder.
Not to mention the fact that, in following Nahash's orders, Akhmad was due to follow the girl regardless. True, he had been supposed to do so without alerting her to his presence and whilst ensuring that she was unharmed. But one had overridden the other. At least if he walked back with her, he could be certain that she treated the mark on her own skin - the thin, scarlet line on her neck.
With a quick decision that roused no words from his lips, Akhmad's acquiescence to the girl's request came in the physical form. Removing his foot from the wall and his arms from the ledge, he turned towards her, doing nothing to support his injured arm and offered a half shrug. One of his shoulders rose and then fell with a fluid sort of gesture that made him seem even more boneless than his acrobatics often made him appear. The quick rise of his chin for her to lead the way set his masked wrappings rippling. Akhmad folded his arms and shifted his weight to one leg looking towards her in a gesture of stoicism that refused to go first. Regardless of the fact that he knew where she lived, Akhmad could keep a better eye on her if she led the way...
It was hardly the girl's tone of voice that had Akhmad's frame holding still. His hands were already latched onto the uneven surface of the wall before him, fingertips curled around a window ledge. One of his feet was pressed to the wall ready to haul his weight upwards. He stilled in such a position, his breathing calm and his spine straight as he then turned to glance towards the woman. His eyes, ochre in palette and cold in gesture, found her own in the darkness of the alley. As he held there, he felt the wrappings over his arm grow warm and damp, the blood from his cut seeping into the cloth before it pooled beneath his elbow and dripped to the floor.
He didn't appear to care or react to the wound but this wasn't true. It stung like a bitch and burned with a heat that warned him of the potential for infection. It was also rapidly draining the strength from his arm and fingers which meant that the cut was deep and he was losing the life blood of the limb. He would need to see it bandaged quickly.
Perfectly capable of performing his own doctoring, it was in line with Akhmad's personal regime that he would disappear, leave the woman alone and see to his own flesh. He was able to stitch, bind and clean most wounds he received and had had to over the years. For an assassin rarely offered himself into a position of weakness before another. But this cut was on his forearm. Which meant the use of only one hand to bind it. Which would make things harder.
Not to mention the fact that, in following Nahash's orders, Akhmad was due to follow the girl regardless. True, he had been supposed to do so without alerting her to his presence and whilst ensuring that she was unharmed. But one had overridden the other. At least if he walked back with her, he could be certain that she treated the mark on her own skin - the thin, scarlet line on her neck.
With a quick decision that roused no words from his lips, Akhmad's acquiescence to the girl's request came in the physical form. Removing his foot from the wall and his arms from the ledge, he turned towards her, doing nothing to support his injured arm and offered a half shrug. One of his shoulders rose and then fell with a fluid sort of gesture that made him seem even more boneless than his acrobatics often made him appear. The quick rise of his chin for her to lead the way set his masked wrappings rippling. Akhmad folded his arms and shifted his weight to one leg looking towards her in a gesture of stoicism that refused to go first. Regardless of the fact that he knew where she lived, Akhmad could keep a better eye on her if she led the way...
He was going to flee, and it only increased the icy clutch of guilt that seemed to be gripping her insides now. She couldn’t force him to accept her help, but it would haunt her if he didn’t. After all, it was entirely her fault that he was in this position. Even if he didn’t seem to be acting in much pain, she couldn’t imagine he would remain numb to it once the adrenaline wore off.
She could see he was debating if accepting her help was worth even as he turned to look at her. Myrrine didn’t dare move, as though that might spook him. Nor did she want to rush him. Finally he moved away from the wall and offered a vague half-shrug. She could only guess that was an agreement, even if a reluctant one. It was enough for her.
He nodded for her to lead the way, yet she found herself hesitating, her eyes glancing back to the wound as it still bled. She bit her lower lip, half turning away as she considered. Finally, she turned back to him as she undid the sash she wore around the waist of her chiton.
“First, we should at least stop the bleeding,” she said softly, meeting his eyes before beginning to wrap the cloth around his wound and tying it off. “That will help until I can stitch you up at least.” She offered him a reassuring smile. He did not seem to speak - whether by choice or necessity she wasn’t sure. Either way, that was no reason to treat him differently. He was more than capable of communicating in his own way.
She turned back the way she had come, nodding her head to the side. “Come on, this way.” She began to walk, glancing behind herself at the alley’s end, making certain he was in fact following. As she began to navigate the streets back towards her home, another thought occurred to her.
“Thank you.” She glanced towards him once more. “I realized I never actually said it before. But I’m grateful that you were there and chose to help me. It was truly fortunate.” She fell silent a moment longer. “I honestly don’t know what might of happened if you hadn’t.”
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He was going to flee, and it only increased the icy clutch of guilt that seemed to be gripping her insides now. She couldn’t force him to accept her help, but it would haunt her if he didn’t. After all, it was entirely her fault that he was in this position. Even if he didn’t seem to be acting in much pain, she couldn’t imagine he would remain numb to it once the adrenaline wore off.
She could see he was debating if accepting her help was worth even as he turned to look at her. Myrrine didn’t dare move, as though that might spook him. Nor did she want to rush him. Finally he moved away from the wall and offered a vague half-shrug. She could only guess that was an agreement, even if a reluctant one. It was enough for her.
He nodded for her to lead the way, yet she found herself hesitating, her eyes glancing back to the wound as it still bled. She bit her lower lip, half turning away as she considered. Finally, she turned back to him as she undid the sash she wore around the waist of her chiton.
“First, we should at least stop the bleeding,” she said softly, meeting his eyes before beginning to wrap the cloth around his wound and tying it off. “That will help until I can stitch you up at least.” She offered him a reassuring smile. He did not seem to speak - whether by choice or necessity she wasn’t sure. Either way, that was no reason to treat him differently. He was more than capable of communicating in his own way.
She turned back the way she had come, nodding her head to the side. “Come on, this way.” She began to walk, glancing behind herself at the alley’s end, making certain he was in fact following. As she began to navigate the streets back towards her home, another thought occurred to her.
“Thank you.” She glanced towards him once more. “I realized I never actually said it before. But I’m grateful that you were there and chose to help me. It was truly fortunate.” She fell silent a moment longer. “I honestly don’t know what might of happened if you hadn’t.”
He was going to flee, and it only increased the icy clutch of guilt that seemed to be gripping her insides now. She couldn’t force him to accept her help, but it would haunt her if he didn’t. After all, it was entirely her fault that he was in this position. Even if he didn’t seem to be acting in much pain, she couldn’t imagine he would remain numb to it once the adrenaline wore off.
She could see he was debating if accepting her help was worth even as he turned to look at her. Myrrine didn’t dare move, as though that might spook him. Nor did she want to rush him. Finally he moved away from the wall and offered a vague half-shrug. She could only guess that was an agreement, even if a reluctant one. It was enough for her.
He nodded for her to lead the way, yet she found herself hesitating, her eyes glancing back to the wound as it still bled. She bit her lower lip, half turning away as she considered. Finally, she turned back to him as she undid the sash she wore around the waist of her chiton.
“First, we should at least stop the bleeding,” she said softly, meeting his eyes before beginning to wrap the cloth around his wound and tying it off. “That will help until I can stitch you up at least.” She offered him a reassuring smile. He did not seem to speak - whether by choice or necessity she wasn’t sure. Either way, that was no reason to treat him differently. He was more than capable of communicating in his own way.
She turned back the way she had come, nodding her head to the side. “Come on, this way.” She began to walk, glancing behind herself at the alley’s end, making certain he was in fact following. As she began to navigate the streets back towards her home, another thought occurred to her.
“Thank you.” She glanced towards him once more. “I realized I never actually said it before. But I’m grateful that you were there and chose to help me. It was truly fortunate.” She fell silent a moment longer. “I honestly don’t know what might of happened if you hadn’t.”
Having had every intention of following her back towards the home that he actually knew how to find himself, Akhmad's footsteps were brought to an awkward halt when the girl was resistant to leading him down and out of the alley. Instead of guiding him has he had semi-implied, she moved towards him, prompting a stillness in his muscles that was almost unnatural. He froze as she untied the sash from her chiton and took a step towards him.
At first, for a heartbeat of time, he didn't move; didn't offer his arm for her tending, nor step back and away from her touch. Instead, he just hovered and waited. As if he were testing her resolve in ruining the sash of her gown for the sake of a little blood. For, whilst she considered the deep slash to be some grave wound, Akhmad had had far worse and viewed it through the eyes of gruesome experience. When she simply kept her hands ready to receive his arm, obviously unperturbed by his indecision or his silence or his appearance, Akhmad surrendered, seeing no benefit in resistance. Lifting his arm so that it was a simple bar between them, he waited as she wrapped the sash around his forearm and cinched it tight at his elbow.
Glancing at the pretty blue colour and having a mildly amusing thought that it did nothing for his outfit, Akhmad only raised a brow at the girl from between the wrappings over his face and, as per usual, said nothing.
Having been to other kingdoms that had discovered the art of stitching, the comments that left Myrrine's lips were not a peculiarity to Akhmad, but he was surprised that she knew what it was. Quarterisation was certainly the most popular means of sealing flesh in Greece - at least that he had seen - and had been the method he would have applied to himself given he only had the one hand. But, if she was willing and able to offer stitches, then he was open to the idea. Burning the flesh often led the awkward stretches in the skin or muscle that effected motion. And he liked to avoid such things if he could. It didn't help to have an old injure play up during a crucial moment in the execution of a planned killing.
With a simple and shallow nod to show his acceptance of her assessment and that he would follow her if she moved, Akhmad stepped into place a pace behind and two to the side of the girl. He moved with a fluidity and a silence that was unusual to most but he remained ever careful to keep the balance of distance and proximity to the woman. Nahash would not see her injured or associated with him if possible.
Luckily for them, the streets that she chose to take were more private, the sort of alleys and turns that someone familiar with every building might take in order to cut precious seconds from their journey. It was easy for Akhmad to follow her without attracting attention. And just as easy for her to speak over to him in conversation.
Her gratitude was responded to with little more than a shifting of his vision, his eyes turning to meet herself momentarily before they shifted forwards once more. When she went on to worry over what might have happened had he not been there in the moment, Akhmad's flat hand moved out from his hip. A dismissive and casual gesture that suggested she threw such thoughts away. The 'what if's of the world were tormenting if they were allowed to be. And pointless either way…
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Having had every intention of following her back towards the home that he actually knew how to find himself, Akhmad's footsteps were brought to an awkward halt when the girl was resistant to leading him down and out of the alley. Instead of guiding him has he had semi-implied, she moved towards him, prompting a stillness in his muscles that was almost unnatural. He froze as she untied the sash from her chiton and took a step towards him.
At first, for a heartbeat of time, he didn't move; didn't offer his arm for her tending, nor step back and away from her touch. Instead, he just hovered and waited. As if he were testing her resolve in ruining the sash of her gown for the sake of a little blood. For, whilst she considered the deep slash to be some grave wound, Akhmad had had far worse and viewed it through the eyes of gruesome experience. When she simply kept her hands ready to receive his arm, obviously unperturbed by his indecision or his silence or his appearance, Akhmad surrendered, seeing no benefit in resistance. Lifting his arm so that it was a simple bar between them, he waited as she wrapped the sash around his forearm and cinched it tight at his elbow.
Glancing at the pretty blue colour and having a mildly amusing thought that it did nothing for his outfit, Akhmad only raised a brow at the girl from between the wrappings over his face and, as per usual, said nothing.
Having been to other kingdoms that had discovered the art of stitching, the comments that left Myrrine's lips were not a peculiarity to Akhmad, but he was surprised that she knew what it was. Quarterisation was certainly the most popular means of sealing flesh in Greece - at least that he had seen - and had been the method he would have applied to himself given he only had the one hand. But, if she was willing and able to offer stitches, then he was open to the idea. Burning the flesh often led the awkward stretches in the skin or muscle that effected motion. And he liked to avoid such things if he could. It didn't help to have an old injure play up during a crucial moment in the execution of a planned killing.
With a simple and shallow nod to show his acceptance of her assessment and that he would follow her if she moved, Akhmad stepped into place a pace behind and two to the side of the girl. He moved with a fluidity and a silence that was unusual to most but he remained ever careful to keep the balance of distance and proximity to the woman. Nahash would not see her injured or associated with him if possible.
Luckily for them, the streets that she chose to take were more private, the sort of alleys and turns that someone familiar with every building might take in order to cut precious seconds from their journey. It was easy for Akhmad to follow her without attracting attention. And just as easy for her to speak over to him in conversation.
Her gratitude was responded to with little more than a shifting of his vision, his eyes turning to meet herself momentarily before they shifted forwards once more. When she went on to worry over what might have happened had he not been there in the moment, Akhmad's flat hand moved out from his hip. A dismissive and casual gesture that suggested she threw such thoughts away. The 'what if's of the world were tormenting if they were allowed to be. And pointless either way…
Having had every intention of following her back towards the home that he actually knew how to find himself, Akhmad's footsteps were brought to an awkward halt when the girl was resistant to leading him down and out of the alley. Instead of guiding him has he had semi-implied, she moved towards him, prompting a stillness in his muscles that was almost unnatural. He froze as she untied the sash from her chiton and took a step towards him.
At first, for a heartbeat of time, he didn't move; didn't offer his arm for her tending, nor step back and away from her touch. Instead, he just hovered and waited. As if he were testing her resolve in ruining the sash of her gown for the sake of a little blood. For, whilst she considered the deep slash to be some grave wound, Akhmad had had far worse and viewed it through the eyes of gruesome experience. When she simply kept her hands ready to receive his arm, obviously unperturbed by his indecision or his silence or his appearance, Akhmad surrendered, seeing no benefit in resistance. Lifting his arm so that it was a simple bar between them, he waited as she wrapped the sash around his forearm and cinched it tight at his elbow.
Glancing at the pretty blue colour and having a mildly amusing thought that it did nothing for his outfit, Akhmad only raised a brow at the girl from between the wrappings over his face and, as per usual, said nothing.
Having been to other kingdoms that had discovered the art of stitching, the comments that left Myrrine's lips were not a peculiarity to Akhmad, but he was surprised that she knew what it was. Quarterisation was certainly the most popular means of sealing flesh in Greece - at least that he had seen - and had been the method he would have applied to himself given he only had the one hand. But, if she was willing and able to offer stitches, then he was open to the idea. Burning the flesh often led the awkward stretches in the skin or muscle that effected motion. And he liked to avoid such things if he could. It didn't help to have an old injure play up during a crucial moment in the execution of a planned killing.
With a simple and shallow nod to show his acceptance of her assessment and that he would follow her if she moved, Akhmad stepped into place a pace behind and two to the side of the girl. He moved with a fluidity and a silence that was unusual to most but he remained ever careful to keep the balance of distance and proximity to the woman. Nahash would not see her injured or associated with him if possible.
Luckily for them, the streets that she chose to take were more private, the sort of alleys and turns that someone familiar with every building might take in order to cut precious seconds from their journey. It was easy for Akhmad to follow her without attracting attention. And just as easy for her to speak over to him in conversation.
Her gratitude was responded to with little more than a shifting of his vision, his eyes turning to meet herself momentarily before they shifted forwards once more. When she went on to worry over what might have happened had he not been there in the moment, Akhmad's flat hand moved out from his hip. A dismissive and casual gesture that suggested she threw such thoughts away. The 'what if's of the world were tormenting if they were allowed to be. And pointless either way…
He was reluctant to accept her help, that was obvious. First from his hesitance to stay and now from the way he froze as she approached. Yet as he had the first time, he eventually submitted, offering his arm between them so she could tie her sash around it, slowing his blood loss for the walk.
It seemed odd to her that he kept a pace significantly behind her, but she didn’t push him on the matter. He was following her after all, and she had a feeling that was not something he was typically inclined towards. That was enough for her. Better than badgering him to the point where he simply ran off without his arm being tended to at all. That would not sit right with her in the least.
His stoic silence was odd to Myrrine. She was so used to the constant chatter of children or the bustling sounds of the merchant shops. Such silence was unusual, yet she did not find it innately uncomfortable either. Simply... different.
She nodded reflexively as he made a dismissive gesture. He didn’t seem the sort who sought out praise, and he did have a point. The situation could have gone many different ways. But what could have happened was inconsequential. Only what did happen mattered now. Wasting time on pointless possibilities was foolish. She knew better than that.
They arrived to her home shortly after. She held open the door and gestured him inside. She knew none of her siblings nor her father would be home, so no one would be around to question her or the stranger who accompanied her. She was already dreading the questions she would surely face once she began to bruise from the encounter.
“Take a seat,” she said softly, gesturing to a chair as she led him into the kitchen. Myrrine wasted no time, quickly moving about the room, gathering the supplies she would need. She pulled up another chair so that she could tend to his arm easily. She held a dampened cloth in her hand, prepared to cleanse the wound, only to hesitate as she looked at where the sash was.
“Is there any way you could remove your sleeve? I don’t really want to rip your clothes anymore than my blade already has, but I really need a bit more room to work than I have right now.”
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He was reluctant to accept her help, that was obvious. First from his hesitance to stay and now from the way he froze as she approached. Yet as he had the first time, he eventually submitted, offering his arm between them so she could tie her sash around it, slowing his blood loss for the walk.
It seemed odd to her that he kept a pace significantly behind her, but she didn’t push him on the matter. He was following her after all, and she had a feeling that was not something he was typically inclined towards. That was enough for her. Better than badgering him to the point where he simply ran off without his arm being tended to at all. That would not sit right with her in the least.
His stoic silence was odd to Myrrine. She was so used to the constant chatter of children or the bustling sounds of the merchant shops. Such silence was unusual, yet she did not find it innately uncomfortable either. Simply... different.
She nodded reflexively as he made a dismissive gesture. He didn’t seem the sort who sought out praise, and he did have a point. The situation could have gone many different ways. But what could have happened was inconsequential. Only what did happen mattered now. Wasting time on pointless possibilities was foolish. She knew better than that.
They arrived to her home shortly after. She held open the door and gestured him inside. She knew none of her siblings nor her father would be home, so no one would be around to question her or the stranger who accompanied her. She was already dreading the questions she would surely face once she began to bruise from the encounter.
“Take a seat,” she said softly, gesturing to a chair as she led him into the kitchen. Myrrine wasted no time, quickly moving about the room, gathering the supplies she would need. She pulled up another chair so that she could tend to his arm easily. She held a dampened cloth in her hand, prepared to cleanse the wound, only to hesitate as she looked at where the sash was.
“Is there any way you could remove your sleeve? I don’t really want to rip your clothes anymore than my blade already has, but I really need a bit more room to work than I have right now.”
He was reluctant to accept her help, that was obvious. First from his hesitance to stay and now from the way he froze as she approached. Yet as he had the first time, he eventually submitted, offering his arm between them so she could tie her sash around it, slowing his blood loss for the walk.
It seemed odd to her that he kept a pace significantly behind her, but she didn’t push him on the matter. He was following her after all, and she had a feeling that was not something he was typically inclined towards. That was enough for her. Better than badgering him to the point where he simply ran off without his arm being tended to at all. That would not sit right with her in the least.
His stoic silence was odd to Myrrine. She was so used to the constant chatter of children or the bustling sounds of the merchant shops. Such silence was unusual, yet she did not find it innately uncomfortable either. Simply... different.
She nodded reflexively as he made a dismissive gesture. He didn’t seem the sort who sought out praise, and he did have a point. The situation could have gone many different ways. But what could have happened was inconsequential. Only what did happen mattered now. Wasting time on pointless possibilities was foolish. She knew better than that.
They arrived to her home shortly after. She held open the door and gestured him inside. She knew none of her siblings nor her father would be home, so no one would be around to question her or the stranger who accompanied her. She was already dreading the questions she would surely face once she began to bruise from the encounter.
“Take a seat,” she said softly, gesturing to a chair as she led him into the kitchen. Myrrine wasted no time, quickly moving about the room, gathering the supplies she would need. She pulled up another chair so that she could tend to his arm easily. She held a dampened cloth in her hand, prepared to cleanse the wound, only to hesitate as she looked at where the sash was.
“Is there any way you could remove your sleeve? I don’t really want to rip your clothes anymore than my blade already has, but I really need a bit more room to work than I have right now.”
Akhmad followed the woman back to her home, momentarily thankful when she seemed to understand the meaning behind his gesture. Whilst he had never considered himself to be the sort to feel frustration over others not grasping his implications, it didn't stop a judgement upon them when they remained ignorant of his meaning. People could judge and offer distaste over his silence all they wanted. And he felt no annoyance when he wasn't understood. It was simply a desire to roll his eyes, curl his lip and reflect the judgement back upon them if they weren't able to open their eyes and minds enough to consider something outside of their norm.
At least this woman seemed intelligent enough to do so.
Though he'd be lying if he didn't judge her a little for the stupidly selfless act of trying to heal a stranger with masked face. He had just committed an act of violence upon a man, had offered her no signs of loyalty or friendship, existed as a shadow without identity to claim for his own and she was welcoming him into her home?
Idiot.
But given he was not due to kill her and had been given no such orders, Akhmad at least knew her to be safe, even if he silently cast aspersions upon her foolish empathy for the fact that she didn't know it. And so, as she opened the wooden door to the little stone building, he paused only slightly before entering, allowing her to have secured herself so far within its confines that he would not brush beside her person to follow her in.
The home was similar to that of the one that the Sariqas had claimed for their own. A simple, cuboid structure with wooden furniture of basic construct. There was a secondary level that Akhmad assumed led to sleeping quarters for there were enough chairs and space that such a dwelling could not belong solely to she. The home was of enough wealth to sport an internal stove but that was the limit of its rich facilities. And there was nothing that could be considered real art about the place. Hardly the kind of residence that the Sariqas would harbour plans to invade...
Perhaps the woman was employed in a richer place and was an opening to a larger score, he thought, glancing around the place without the movement of his head; his eyes only shifted to scower every corner. It was the only use he could surmise in the woman that would make her of interest to Nahash.
When the young woman brought over a chair and offered him to take another, Akhmad felt a shifting discomfort in his gut over the simple domesticity of the scene. Since when had he simply sat before another, in each reaching distance. One grab and she could take hold of his mask, pull it from his face and eradicate over twenty years of subterfuge.
Not that his reflexes would permit her to get that far. She would lose fingers before his identity was revealed and such an injury would have to be passable to Nahash. For not even the Sariqas had seen his face. Or any part of his skin, for that matter.
Taking the seat, regardless, Akhmad's knees spread and his feet remained curled, his toes digging into his boots which pushed the wrappings around his soles harder into the stony earth beneath. In a second, he could push into his thighs, be back on his feet and two steps out of the door. His perch upon the chair was precarious at best, but he belligerently offered his arm to the woman. The strength of his muscles held the limb horizontal in the air with apparently no effort or strain. It just hung there, eerily still.
When Myrrine turned her attention to the wound, her hands ready to tend to damage hidden by the silk of her sash, her next query had Akhmad sensing that he was drowning even further. Like a frog or toad in gradually heating water, he had brought himself to this spot without realising the dangers of it.
Almost ready to make his escape then and there, not deigning to offer her an answer, Akhmad knew that he would have to keep a watch upon her even so. That he wouldn't be able to flee far enough to be lost from her empathetic intentions but also remain within sight of his quarry. Which meant speeding away meant sacrificing his health or his duty to Nahash. His brow lowered behind his mask, not liking that choice one bit.
He was not about to remove his sleeve. There was no way that this woman would be able to glance upon an entire limb from shoulder to wrist. He didn't even reveal that much of himself when he bathed, taking pieces of his wrappings away bit by bit as he cleaned both his skin and the fabric that coated it. Usually whilst others of the Sariqas were back within their meeting place, sleeping or munching on numbles. This time, however, he reached upon and quickly and roughly pulled away the sash that was now stained dark with his blood. The fabric fell to the floor to show the slash through his dark wrappings and hints of pale skin beneath.
Looping the curl of his fingers into the laceration her knife had inflicted on his clothes, Akhmad tugged and tore the strips of cloth further. With a few rough shoves at his preferred raiment, a few ends of dark cloth shook loose and hung to the ground.
A few inches of his forearm lay bare for her assessment. The skin was pale - too pale for an Arabian - and dusted in hair that was light and fine. Given that it had seen no sun or the harsh cast of winds in years, the skin itself was soft and almost feminine in its smoothness. The only breaks in such silky texture were the little scars. Cuts of all shapes and sizes that had nicked at his skin over the years from one fight or another stood starkly, shimmering white. Despite the paleness of his skin, the scars were clear to the naked eye because their lack of colour was obvious in the way that they slashed through black ink. For the entirety of the arm shown between the tears in the cloth was decorated.
The design of ink upon Akhmad's arm was intricate and almost beautiful. The twists, turns and repeated Saracen patterns, reminiscent of Ottoman artistry had been layered in different shades of grey and black. As if only the finest of artists had taken the mosaic work of the masters and embossed it upon his skin. The only mistakes, breaks to the fluid shape and elegance, were that of the scars. And now a new one would join them. The largest of them all, Myrrine's knife had left a harsh cut directly through one of the main designs and now leaked crimson in and around the patterns that marked Akhmad's skin.
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Akhmad followed the woman back to her home, momentarily thankful when she seemed to understand the meaning behind his gesture. Whilst he had never considered himself to be the sort to feel frustration over others not grasping his implications, it didn't stop a judgement upon them when they remained ignorant of his meaning. People could judge and offer distaste over his silence all they wanted. And he felt no annoyance when he wasn't understood. It was simply a desire to roll his eyes, curl his lip and reflect the judgement back upon them if they weren't able to open their eyes and minds enough to consider something outside of their norm.
At least this woman seemed intelligent enough to do so.
Though he'd be lying if he didn't judge her a little for the stupidly selfless act of trying to heal a stranger with masked face. He had just committed an act of violence upon a man, had offered her no signs of loyalty or friendship, existed as a shadow without identity to claim for his own and she was welcoming him into her home?
Idiot.
But given he was not due to kill her and had been given no such orders, Akhmad at least knew her to be safe, even if he silently cast aspersions upon her foolish empathy for the fact that she didn't know it. And so, as she opened the wooden door to the little stone building, he paused only slightly before entering, allowing her to have secured herself so far within its confines that he would not brush beside her person to follow her in.
The home was similar to that of the one that the Sariqas had claimed for their own. A simple, cuboid structure with wooden furniture of basic construct. There was a secondary level that Akhmad assumed led to sleeping quarters for there were enough chairs and space that such a dwelling could not belong solely to she. The home was of enough wealth to sport an internal stove but that was the limit of its rich facilities. And there was nothing that could be considered real art about the place. Hardly the kind of residence that the Sariqas would harbour plans to invade...
Perhaps the woman was employed in a richer place and was an opening to a larger score, he thought, glancing around the place without the movement of his head; his eyes only shifted to scower every corner. It was the only use he could surmise in the woman that would make her of interest to Nahash.
When the young woman brought over a chair and offered him to take another, Akhmad felt a shifting discomfort in his gut over the simple domesticity of the scene. Since when had he simply sat before another, in each reaching distance. One grab and she could take hold of his mask, pull it from his face and eradicate over twenty years of subterfuge.
Not that his reflexes would permit her to get that far. She would lose fingers before his identity was revealed and such an injury would have to be passable to Nahash. For not even the Sariqas had seen his face. Or any part of his skin, for that matter.
Taking the seat, regardless, Akhmad's knees spread and his feet remained curled, his toes digging into his boots which pushed the wrappings around his soles harder into the stony earth beneath. In a second, he could push into his thighs, be back on his feet and two steps out of the door. His perch upon the chair was precarious at best, but he belligerently offered his arm to the woman. The strength of his muscles held the limb horizontal in the air with apparently no effort or strain. It just hung there, eerily still.
When Myrrine turned her attention to the wound, her hands ready to tend to damage hidden by the silk of her sash, her next query had Akhmad sensing that he was drowning even further. Like a frog or toad in gradually heating water, he had brought himself to this spot without realising the dangers of it.
Almost ready to make his escape then and there, not deigning to offer her an answer, Akhmad knew that he would have to keep a watch upon her even so. That he wouldn't be able to flee far enough to be lost from her empathetic intentions but also remain within sight of his quarry. Which meant speeding away meant sacrificing his health or his duty to Nahash. His brow lowered behind his mask, not liking that choice one bit.
He was not about to remove his sleeve. There was no way that this woman would be able to glance upon an entire limb from shoulder to wrist. He didn't even reveal that much of himself when he bathed, taking pieces of his wrappings away bit by bit as he cleaned both his skin and the fabric that coated it. Usually whilst others of the Sariqas were back within their meeting place, sleeping or munching on numbles. This time, however, he reached upon and quickly and roughly pulled away the sash that was now stained dark with his blood. The fabric fell to the floor to show the slash through his dark wrappings and hints of pale skin beneath.
Looping the curl of his fingers into the laceration her knife had inflicted on his clothes, Akhmad tugged and tore the strips of cloth further. With a few rough shoves at his preferred raiment, a few ends of dark cloth shook loose and hung to the ground.
A few inches of his forearm lay bare for her assessment. The skin was pale - too pale for an Arabian - and dusted in hair that was light and fine. Given that it had seen no sun or the harsh cast of winds in years, the skin itself was soft and almost feminine in its smoothness. The only breaks in such silky texture were the little scars. Cuts of all shapes and sizes that had nicked at his skin over the years from one fight or another stood starkly, shimmering white. Despite the paleness of his skin, the scars were clear to the naked eye because their lack of colour was obvious in the way that they slashed through black ink. For the entirety of the arm shown between the tears in the cloth was decorated.
The design of ink upon Akhmad's arm was intricate and almost beautiful. The twists, turns and repeated Saracen patterns, reminiscent of Ottoman artistry had been layered in different shades of grey and black. As if only the finest of artists had taken the mosaic work of the masters and embossed it upon his skin. The only mistakes, breaks to the fluid shape and elegance, were that of the scars. And now a new one would join them. The largest of them all, Myrrine's knife had left a harsh cut directly through one of the main designs and now leaked crimson in and around the patterns that marked Akhmad's skin.
Akhmad followed the woman back to her home, momentarily thankful when she seemed to understand the meaning behind his gesture. Whilst he had never considered himself to be the sort to feel frustration over others not grasping his implications, it didn't stop a judgement upon them when they remained ignorant of his meaning. People could judge and offer distaste over his silence all they wanted. And he felt no annoyance when he wasn't understood. It was simply a desire to roll his eyes, curl his lip and reflect the judgement back upon them if they weren't able to open their eyes and minds enough to consider something outside of their norm.
At least this woman seemed intelligent enough to do so.
Though he'd be lying if he didn't judge her a little for the stupidly selfless act of trying to heal a stranger with masked face. He had just committed an act of violence upon a man, had offered her no signs of loyalty or friendship, existed as a shadow without identity to claim for his own and she was welcoming him into her home?
Idiot.
But given he was not due to kill her and had been given no such orders, Akhmad at least knew her to be safe, even if he silently cast aspersions upon her foolish empathy for the fact that she didn't know it. And so, as she opened the wooden door to the little stone building, he paused only slightly before entering, allowing her to have secured herself so far within its confines that he would not brush beside her person to follow her in.
The home was similar to that of the one that the Sariqas had claimed for their own. A simple, cuboid structure with wooden furniture of basic construct. There was a secondary level that Akhmad assumed led to sleeping quarters for there were enough chairs and space that such a dwelling could not belong solely to she. The home was of enough wealth to sport an internal stove but that was the limit of its rich facilities. And there was nothing that could be considered real art about the place. Hardly the kind of residence that the Sariqas would harbour plans to invade...
Perhaps the woman was employed in a richer place and was an opening to a larger score, he thought, glancing around the place without the movement of his head; his eyes only shifted to scower every corner. It was the only use he could surmise in the woman that would make her of interest to Nahash.
When the young woman brought over a chair and offered him to take another, Akhmad felt a shifting discomfort in his gut over the simple domesticity of the scene. Since when had he simply sat before another, in each reaching distance. One grab and she could take hold of his mask, pull it from his face and eradicate over twenty years of subterfuge.
Not that his reflexes would permit her to get that far. She would lose fingers before his identity was revealed and such an injury would have to be passable to Nahash. For not even the Sariqas had seen his face. Or any part of his skin, for that matter.
Taking the seat, regardless, Akhmad's knees spread and his feet remained curled, his toes digging into his boots which pushed the wrappings around his soles harder into the stony earth beneath. In a second, he could push into his thighs, be back on his feet and two steps out of the door. His perch upon the chair was precarious at best, but he belligerently offered his arm to the woman. The strength of his muscles held the limb horizontal in the air with apparently no effort or strain. It just hung there, eerily still.
When Myrrine turned her attention to the wound, her hands ready to tend to damage hidden by the silk of her sash, her next query had Akhmad sensing that he was drowning even further. Like a frog or toad in gradually heating water, he had brought himself to this spot without realising the dangers of it.
Almost ready to make his escape then and there, not deigning to offer her an answer, Akhmad knew that he would have to keep a watch upon her even so. That he wouldn't be able to flee far enough to be lost from her empathetic intentions but also remain within sight of his quarry. Which meant speeding away meant sacrificing his health or his duty to Nahash. His brow lowered behind his mask, not liking that choice one bit.
He was not about to remove his sleeve. There was no way that this woman would be able to glance upon an entire limb from shoulder to wrist. He didn't even reveal that much of himself when he bathed, taking pieces of his wrappings away bit by bit as he cleaned both his skin and the fabric that coated it. Usually whilst others of the Sariqas were back within their meeting place, sleeping or munching on numbles. This time, however, he reached upon and quickly and roughly pulled away the sash that was now stained dark with his blood. The fabric fell to the floor to show the slash through his dark wrappings and hints of pale skin beneath.
Looping the curl of his fingers into the laceration her knife had inflicted on his clothes, Akhmad tugged and tore the strips of cloth further. With a few rough shoves at his preferred raiment, a few ends of dark cloth shook loose and hung to the ground.
A few inches of his forearm lay bare for her assessment. The skin was pale - too pale for an Arabian - and dusted in hair that was light and fine. Given that it had seen no sun or the harsh cast of winds in years, the skin itself was soft and almost feminine in its smoothness. The only breaks in such silky texture were the little scars. Cuts of all shapes and sizes that had nicked at his skin over the years from one fight or another stood starkly, shimmering white. Despite the paleness of his skin, the scars were clear to the naked eye because their lack of colour was obvious in the way that they slashed through black ink. For the entirety of the arm shown between the tears in the cloth was decorated.
The design of ink upon Akhmad's arm was intricate and almost beautiful. The twists, turns and repeated Saracen patterns, reminiscent of Ottoman artistry had been layered in different shades of grey and black. As if only the finest of artists had taken the mosaic work of the masters and embossed it upon his skin. The only mistakes, breaks to the fluid shape and elegance, were that of the scars. And now a new one would join them. The largest of them all, Myrrine's knife had left a harsh cut directly through one of the main designs and now leaked crimson in and around the patterns that marked Akhmad's skin.
There was no way for her to know just how ill at ease her rescuer felt from her simple offer of a seat as she prepared to tend to him. After all, his silence and stillness betrayed nothing of his thoughts. Instead, she continued her preparations, entirely clueless to his discomfort at the situation.
What was obvious however was his displeasure at being asked to remove his sleeve. For a moment, she wondered if he was simply going to bolt before she had tended to him at all. She wasn’t foolish enough to think she could stop him if that was his choice. He had already proven himself immensely skilled after all.
So she could merely watch, stunned, as he removed first her sash and then undid just a fraction of the cloth. It was effective, so she could only nod in appreciation, murmuring her thanks.
She didn’t hesitate to begin her work of cleaning the wound and the blood that stained his skin. Yet she quickly found herself fascinated by what had been revealed. She knew nothing of the man, though she had suspected he was a foreigner given the head covering he wore, yet his skin was lighter than she might have guessed.
What caught her attention most though was the intricate pattern of ink that adorned his skin. It was a work of art in the twistings of the pattern - the sort she’d expect to find on a tapestry rather than skin. Just as beautiful though. The thin white lines of scars disrupted it, yet somehow seemed to belong. Clearly, he had earned those skills which had saved her today. Yet there was no denying this new wound - the one she had inflicted - was by far the largest of them all.
“It’s magnificent,” she said finally as she realized she had been quite blatantly staring as she wiped away the scarlet stains from his skin. “I’ve never seen anything like it before,” she admitted. “Though I feel I owe you another apology for disfiguring it.” After a moment, she figured that was likely as good as it would get before she sealed the wound itself. She reached over to grab the needle and thread required before turning back to him.
“You’ve been remarkably stoic thus far, but I’ll ask anyway. Is there anything I can get for you to ease the pain while I begin? Perhaps some wine or something to bite down on?”
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There was no way for her to know just how ill at ease her rescuer felt from her simple offer of a seat as she prepared to tend to him. After all, his silence and stillness betrayed nothing of his thoughts. Instead, she continued her preparations, entirely clueless to his discomfort at the situation.
What was obvious however was his displeasure at being asked to remove his sleeve. For a moment, she wondered if he was simply going to bolt before she had tended to him at all. She wasn’t foolish enough to think she could stop him if that was his choice. He had already proven himself immensely skilled after all.
So she could merely watch, stunned, as he removed first her sash and then undid just a fraction of the cloth. It was effective, so she could only nod in appreciation, murmuring her thanks.
She didn’t hesitate to begin her work of cleaning the wound and the blood that stained his skin. Yet she quickly found herself fascinated by what had been revealed. She knew nothing of the man, though she had suspected he was a foreigner given the head covering he wore, yet his skin was lighter than she might have guessed.
What caught her attention most though was the intricate pattern of ink that adorned his skin. It was a work of art in the twistings of the pattern - the sort she’d expect to find on a tapestry rather than skin. Just as beautiful though. The thin white lines of scars disrupted it, yet somehow seemed to belong. Clearly, he had earned those skills which had saved her today. Yet there was no denying this new wound - the one she had inflicted - was by far the largest of them all.
“It’s magnificent,” she said finally as she realized she had been quite blatantly staring as she wiped away the scarlet stains from his skin. “I’ve never seen anything like it before,” she admitted. “Though I feel I owe you another apology for disfiguring it.” After a moment, she figured that was likely as good as it would get before she sealed the wound itself. She reached over to grab the needle and thread required before turning back to him.
“You’ve been remarkably stoic thus far, but I’ll ask anyway. Is there anything I can get for you to ease the pain while I begin? Perhaps some wine or something to bite down on?”
There was no way for her to know just how ill at ease her rescuer felt from her simple offer of a seat as she prepared to tend to him. After all, his silence and stillness betrayed nothing of his thoughts. Instead, she continued her preparations, entirely clueless to his discomfort at the situation.
What was obvious however was his displeasure at being asked to remove his sleeve. For a moment, she wondered if he was simply going to bolt before she had tended to him at all. She wasn’t foolish enough to think she could stop him if that was his choice. He had already proven himself immensely skilled after all.
So she could merely watch, stunned, as he removed first her sash and then undid just a fraction of the cloth. It was effective, so she could only nod in appreciation, murmuring her thanks.
She didn’t hesitate to begin her work of cleaning the wound and the blood that stained his skin. Yet she quickly found herself fascinated by what had been revealed. She knew nothing of the man, though she had suspected he was a foreigner given the head covering he wore, yet his skin was lighter than she might have guessed.
What caught her attention most though was the intricate pattern of ink that adorned his skin. It was a work of art in the twistings of the pattern - the sort she’d expect to find on a tapestry rather than skin. Just as beautiful though. The thin white lines of scars disrupted it, yet somehow seemed to belong. Clearly, he had earned those skills which had saved her today. Yet there was no denying this new wound - the one she had inflicted - was by far the largest of them all.
“It’s magnificent,” she said finally as she realized she had been quite blatantly staring as she wiped away the scarlet stains from his skin. “I’ve never seen anything like it before,” she admitted. “Though I feel I owe you another apology for disfiguring it.” After a moment, she figured that was likely as good as it would get before she sealed the wound itself. She reached over to grab the needle and thread required before turning back to him.
“You’ve been remarkably stoic thus far, but I’ll ask anyway. Is there anything I can get for you to ease the pain while I begin? Perhaps some wine or something to bite down on?”
Akhmad's eyes were fixed on Myrrine's hands. His ears and outer senses worked on the surrounding area and he would know the moment he was forced to escape or disappear should another figure approach the little house. But his eyes were a sense reserved for Myrrine as she tended to his arm. Her fingers were soft, thin and deft in what they were doing. They were gentle. But that didn't mean that he trusted them. One reach, one tug and she could unravel a large portion of his bindings, free more of his skin with so simple a pull. He was especially cautious when she spoke in awe of the markings on his arm. Would she pull at the wrappings to see more of the design that clearly disappeared beneath them on all sides?
It was this sense of protectiveness, the defence of his secret, that had him watching her hands with a hawkish determination. His stare broken only momentarily to glance at her face when she mentioned about the pattern being disfigured by the wound she had left. The skin between his eyes, resting over the bridge of his nose wrinkled, as if he were dismissing the notion like a bad smell. He offered neither pride nor shame over the inked designs and therefore no reaction to how they had been altered by the path of her blade. He shook his head a little at the offer of an apology.
The family that dwelled here clearly had access to a well of some kind as the water she used to clean his wound was almost clean. Only the finest few grains of silt could be felt on his skin as she tended to the wound. Akhmad was stoic and sturdy, solid as a statue under her ministrations. He seemed to give no reaction to her touch or her healing efforts.
Yet, the cleaning was always fairly easy, the coolness of the water stilling some of the burn that tingled from the breaks in skin and whispered through the limb. Stitching would be a far more painful experience. Whatever needle Myrrine had at her disposal, Akhmad had never met a thin one. And the manner in which the skin had to be pulled and altered to come together in a single seal risked tearing the wound longer if the physician didn't know what they were doing.
Myrrine was at least able to offer a semblance of experience as she spoke of him needing some kind of pain relief, something to bite on or get drunk upon in order to stave off the discomfort.
Never partaking in alcohol and having no need to bite down, Akhmad simply shook his head. His chin struck out a little to nudge towards his arm, his forearm raising closer to her. He might not speak a word but Akhmad could make himself clear when it was needed. He didn't need pain relief. He only needed the stitches. And he would remain the stoic statue that he had been from the start when she set in with that needle.
It was a promise to himself that he met with a cool dignity. He didn't seem to flinch, nor did his arm drop or lower. There was a moment in which his breathing altered its rhythm, as if he might gasp in pain, but it was controlled and released naturally, masking back into the normal cadence of his lungs. In all other ways, he reacted little to Myrrine's caring repairs to his skin.
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Akhmad's eyes were fixed on Myrrine's hands. His ears and outer senses worked on the surrounding area and he would know the moment he was forced to escape or disappear should another figure approach the little house. But his eyes were a sense reserved for Myrrine as she tended to his arm. Her fingers were soft, thin and deft in what they were doing. They were gentle. But that didn't mean that he trusted them. One reach, one tug and she could unravel a large portion of his bindings, free more of his skin with so simple a pull. He was especially cautious when she spoke in awe of the markings on his arm. Would she pull at the wrappings to see more of the design that clearly disappeared beneath them on all sides?
It was this sense of protectiveness, the defence of his secret, that had him watching her hands with a hawkish determination. His stare broken only momentarily to glance at her face when she mentioned about the pattern being disfigured by the wound she had left. The skin between his eyes, resting over the bridge of his nose wrinkled, as if he were dismissing the notion like a bad smell. He offered neither pride nor shame over the inked designs and therefore no reaction to how they had been altered by the path of her blade. He shook his head a little at the offer of an apology.
The family that dwelled here clearly had access to a well of some kind as the water she used to clean his wound was almost clean. Only the finest few grains of silt could be felt on his skin as she tended to the wound. Akhmad was stoic and sturdy, solid as a statue under her ministrations. He seemed to give no reaction to her touch or her healing efforts.
Yet, the cleaning was always fairly easy, the coolness of the water stilling some of the burn that tingled from the breaks in skin and whispered through the limb. Stitching would be a far more painful experience. Whatever needle Myrrine had at her disposal, Akhmad had never met a thin one. And the manner in which the skin had to be pulled and altered to come together in a single seal risked tearing the wound longer if the physician didn't know what they were doing.
Myrrine was at least able to offer a semblance of experience as she spoke of him needing some kind of pain relief, something to bite on or get drunk upon in order to stave off the discomfort.
Never partaking in alcohol and having no need to bite down, Akhmad simply shook his head. His chin struck out a little to nudge towards his arm, his forearm raising closer to her. He might not speak a word but Akhmad could make himself clear when it was needed. He didn't need pain relief. He only needed the stitches. And he would remain the stoic statue that he had been from the start when she set in with that needle.
It was a promise to himself that he met with a cool dignity. He didn't seem to flinch, nor did his arm drop or lower. There was a moment in which his breathing altered its rhythm, as if he might gasp in pain, but it was controlled and released naturally, masking back into the normal cadence of his lungs. In all other ways, he reacted little to Myrrine's caring repairs to his skin.
Akhmad's eyes were fixed on Myrrine's hands. His ears and outer senses worked on the surrounding area and he would know the moment he was forced to escape or disappear should another figure approach the little house. But his eyes were a sense reserved for Myrrine as she tended to his arm. Her fingers were soft, thin and deft in what they were doing. They were gentle. But that didn't mean that he trusted them. One reach, one tug and she could unravel a large portion of his bindings, free more of his skin with so simple a pull. He was especially cautious when she spoke in awe of the markings on his arm. Would she pull at the wrappings to see more of the design that clearly disappeared beneath them on all sides?
It was this sense of protectiveness, the defence of his secret, that had him watching her hands with a hawkish determination. His stare broken only momentarily to glance at her face when she mentioned about the pattern being disfigured by the wound she had left. The skin between his eyes, resting over the bridge of his nose wrinkled, as if he were dismissing the notion like a bad smell. He offered neither pride nor shame over the inked designs and therefore no reaction to how they had been altered by the path of her blade. He shook his head a little at the offer of an apology.
The family that dwelled here clearly had access to a well of some kind as the water she used to clean his wound was almost clean. Only the finest few grains of silt could be felt on his skin as she tended to the wound. Akhmad was stoic and sturdy, solid as a statue under her ministrations. He seemed to give no reaction to her touch or her healing efforts.
Yet, the cleaning was always fairly easy, the coolness of the water stilling some of the burn that tingled from the breaks in skin and whispered through the limb. Stitching would be a far more painful experience. Whatever needle Myrrine had at her disposal, Akhmad had never met a thin one. And the manner in which the skin had to be pulled and altered to come together in a single seal risked tearing the wound longer if the physician didn't know what they were doing.
Myrrine was at least able to offer a semblance of experience as she spoke of him needing some kind of pain relief, something to bite on or get drunk upon in order to stave off the discomfort.
Never partaking in alcohol and having no need to bite down, Akhmad simply shook his head. His chin struck out a little to nudge towards his arm, his forearm raising closer to her. He might not speak a word but Akhmad could make himself clear when it was needed. He didn't need pain relief. He only needed the stitches. And he would remain the stoic statue that he had been from the start when she set in with that needle.
It was a promise to himself that he met with a cool dignity. He didn't seem to flinch, nor did his arm drop or lower. There was a moment in which his breathing altered its rhythm, as if he might gasp in pain, but it was controlled and released naturally, masking back into the normal cadence of his lungs. In all other ways, he reacted little to Myrrine's caring repairs to his skin.
Her focus was intensely fixed upon his wound. Enough to miss his first reaction, though not the shaking of his head. That motion was enough to make her lift her head to meet his gaze. She smiled warmly at him, appreciative of his lack of resentment. Of course, as many other scars of varying sizes marked his skin, she couldn’t say she was entirely shocked. He clearly had been in this position before.
She nodded as he denied any want for some sort of pain relief. “Well, if you are certain.” She wasn’t about to force anything on him, even if she couldn’t help but be a little skeptical. Then again, he hadn’t revealed any pain since the moment her blade had touched him, so perhaps he truly needed nothing.
His silence unnerved her a little, so she found herself filling the silence as she began to stitch his wound. “My mother learned this technique when she traveled with my father. She taught me when I was a girl. She said that if I could mend cloth, there was no reason I couldn’t mend flesh as well.” A fond smile spread over her lips as she spoke, though it faltered as silence fell once more over them.
That had been the last thing her mother taught her before her death. Of course, neither of them had known that would be the last. If she had been blessed with that knowledge, there would have been about a hundred other things she would have asked. Wisdom she had longed for over the last twelve years.
And remembering that brought back memories of those first few weeks after. The darkest time of her life, when she had been all but drowning from the sudden responsibility that was thrown upon her. She knew she never would have survived without her mentor’s aid. That time was also when she’d first needed to use the skill in question, after Farris had cut himself badly trying to help.
She cleared her throat, banishing the sudden flood of memories and continuing the stitches with renewed focus. She was making a great effort to sew his wound carefully, minimizing the alteration to the art that adorned his skin. He had expressed little concern for the matter, but it mattered to her nonetheless. The heavily garbed stranger was continuing to impress her as he indeed gave no reaction to her efforts.
“Your pain tolerance is remarkable,” she added, forcing a smile to lighten the mood.
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Her focus was intensely fixed upon his wound. Enough to miss his first reaction, though not the shaking of his head. That motion was enough to make her lift her head to meet his gaze. She smiled warmly at him, appreciative of his lack of resentment. Of course, as many other scars of varying sizes marked his skin, she couldn’t say she was entirely shocked. He clearly had been in this position before.
She nodded as he denied any want for some sort of pain relief. “Well, if you are certain.” She wasn’t about to force anything on him, even if she couldn’t help but be a little skeptical. Then again, he hadn’t revealed any pain since the moment her blade had touched him, so perhaps he truly needed nothing.
His silence unnerved her a little, so she found herself filling the silence as she began to stitch his wound. “My mother learned this technique when she traveled with my father. She taught me when I was a girl. She said that if I could mend cloth, there was no reason I couldn’t mend flesh as well.” A fond smile spread over her lips as she spoke, though it faltered as silence fell once more over them.
That had been the last thing her mother taught her before her death. Of course, neither of them had known that would be the last. If she had been blessed with that knowledge, there would have been about a hundred other things she would have asked. Wisdom she had longed for over the last twelve years.
And remembering that brought back memories of those first few weeks after. The darkest time of her life, when she had been all but drowning from the sudden responsibility that was thrown upon her. She knew she never would have survived without her mentor’s aid. That time was also when she’d first needed to use the skill in question, after Farris had cut himself badly trying to help.
She cleared her throat, banishing the sudden flood of memories and continuing the stitches with renewed focus. She was making a great effort to sew his wound carefully, minimizing the alteration to the art that adorned his skin. He had expressed little concern for the matter, but it mattered to her nonetheless. The heavily garbed stranger was continuing to impress her as he indeed gave no reaction to her efforts.
“Your pain tolerance is remarkable,” she added, forcing a smile to lighten the mood.
Her focus was intensely fixed upon his wound. Enough to miss his first reaction, though not the shaking of his head. That motion was enough to make her lift her head to meet his gaze. She smiled warmly at him, appreciative of his lack of resentment. Of course, as many other scars of varying sizes marked his skin, she couldn’t say she was entirely shocked. He clearly had been in this position before.
She nodded as he denied any want for some sort of pain relief. “Well, if you are certain.” She wasn’t about to force anything on him, even if she couldn’t help but be a little skeptical. Then again, he hadn’t revealed any pain since the moment her blade had touched him, so perhaps he truly needed nothing.
His silence unnerved her a little, so she found herself filling the silence as she began to stitch his wound. “My mother learned this technique when she traveled with my father. She taught me when I was a girl. She said that if I could mend cloth, there was no reason I couldn’t mend flesh as well.” A fond smile spread over her lips as she spoke, though it faltered as silence fell once more over them.
That had been the last thing her mother taught her before her death. Of course, neither of them had known that would be the last. If she had been blessed with that knowledge, there would have been about a hundred other things she would have asked. Wisdom she had longed for over the last twelve years.
And remembering that brought back memories of those first few weeks after. The darkest time of her life, when she had been all but drowning from the sudden responsibility that was thrown upon her. She knew she never would have survived without her mentor’s aid. That time was also when she’d first needed to use the skill in question, after Farris had cut himself badly trying to help.
She cleared her throat, banishing the sudden flood of memories and continuing the stitches with renewed focus. She was making a great effort to sew his wound carefully, minimizing the alteration to the art that adorned his skin. He had expressed little concern for the matter, but it mattered to her nonetheless. The heavily garbed stranger was continuing to impress her as he indeed gave no reaction to her efforts.
“Your pain tolerance is remarkable,” she added, forcing a smile to lighten the mood.
Akhmad watched the woman, content that he could not communicate his thoughts but pondering upon them nonetheless. He was used to being an individual that discussed his thoughts only with himself and didn't hold with frustration or the pain of failings to communicate. Instead, he learnt to exist in a state of absentia; cut off from the people he moved amongst.
When she spoke of her mother and how she had been taught to sew wounds, he might have told her that such a skill was useful. That she could earn more coin healing and becoming a physician than she might do currently. That all she needed was the investment to study. Or the determination to build a collective willing to see her for their medical treatment without qualifications. Either would take time. But she would end up richer for herself and her family if that was her intention. His gaze flickered over the little house she lived within - clearly with others. He noted a doll in one corner and surmised that some of those she lived with were still young. Or at least sentimental.
And yet he said none of it. Not because he wanted to but couldn't. But because thinking it was enough for him. He had no desire to see the concepts leave his mind, part from his lips and find some sort of bonding between the two of them. He was here to have the wound she had inflicted seen to and then he was to leave. His thoughts and their connection to her were insignificant.
It was clear from the way that she went quiet and how the corners of her mouth tightened in emotion, that the woman before him loved the woman she spoke of. Missed the life lessons that her mother had given her.
And for a brief moment, Akhmad wondered at that... What it would be like to have a blood relative that one could miss.
He dismissed such a thought as a tether. A ball of iron, an anchor, tied to your ankle, dragging you back with guilt and sorrow. How was that any way to live?
He ignored such an idea and focused on his lack of reaction, of the tightening of his muscles and the way in which he showed no pain. He ignored the woman almost entirely until she commented on his lack of reaction, speaking in a tone that was almost reverent - a compliment.
He offered a half shrug, moving the opposing shoulder in a gesture of dismissal. He didn't need compliments over a talent he had learnt through years of suffrage.
Suddenly, his eyes shot to the door as there was a soft sound beyond. The sound of voices. His feet shifted on the floor as if he were ready to rise and run. But such an act was not necessary as the voices passed on, clearly not destined for this house.
Glancing at the woman Myrrine as she continued to sew, reaching the end of the laceration and nearing the completion of her work, Akhmad then turned his focus upon the door, like a dog with a scent, concerned that strangers may arrive. It was one thing for this one to have seen him. It would be another for his presence to be spotted by more...
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Akhmad watched the woman, content that he could not communicate his thoughts but pondering upon them nonetheless. He was used to being an individual that discussed his thoughts only with himself and didn't hold with frustration or the pain of failings to communicate. Instead, he learnt to exist in a state of absentia; cut off from the people he moved amongst.
When she spoke of her mother and how she had been taught to sew wounds, he might have told her that such a skill was useful. That she could earn more coin healing and becoming a physician than she might do currently. That all she needed was the investment to study. Or the determination to build a collective willing to see her for their medical treatment without qualifications. Either would take time. But she would end up richer for herself and her family if that was her intention. His gaze flickered over the little house she lived within - clearly with others. He noted a doll in one corner and surmised that some of those she lived with were still young. Or at least sentimental.
And yet he said none of it. Not because he wanted to but couldn't. But because thinking it was enough for him. He had no desire to see the concepts leave his mind, part from his lips and find some sort of bonding between the two of them. He was here to have the wound she had inflicted seen to and then he was to leave. His thoughts and their connection to her were insignificant.
It was clear from the way that she went quiet and how the corners of her mouth tightened in emotion, that the woman before him loved the woman she spoke of. Missed the life lessons that her mother had given her.
And for a brief moment, Akhmad wondered at that... What it would be like to have a blood relative that one could miss.
He dismissed such a thought as a tether. A ball of iron, an anchor, tied to your ankle, dragging you back with guilt and sorrow. How was that any way to live?
He ignored such an idea and focused on his lack of reaction, of the tightening of his muscles and the way in which he showed no pain. He ignored the woman almost entirely until she commented on his lack of reaction, speaking in a tone that was almost reverent - a compliment.
He offered a half shrug, moving the opposing shoulder in a gesture of dismissal. He didn't need compliments over a talent he had learnt through years of suffrage.
Suddenly, his eyes shot to the door as there was a soft sound beyond. The sound of voices. His feet shifted on the floor as if he were ready to rise and run. But such an act was not necessary as the voices passed on, clearly not destined for this house.
Glancing at the woman Myrrine as she continued to sew, reaching the end of the laceration and nearing the completion of her work, Akhmad then turned his focus upon the door, like a dog with a scent, concerned that strangers may arrive. It was one thing for this one to have seen him. It would be another for his presence to be spotted by more...
Akhmad watched the woman, content that he could not communicate his thoughts but pondering upon them nonetheless. He was used to being an individual that discussed his thoughts only with himself and didn't hold with frustration or the pain of failings to communicate. Instead, he learnt to exist in a state of absentia; cut off from the people he moved amongst.
When she spoke of her mother and how she had been taught to sew wounds, he might have told her that such a skill was useful. That she could earn more coin healing and becoming a physician than she might do currently. That all she needed was the investment to study. Or the determination to build a collective willing to see her for their medical treatment without qualifications. Either would take time. But she would end up richer for herself and her family if that was her intention. His gaze flickered over the little house she lived within - clearly with others. He noted a doll in one corner and surmised that some of those she lived with were still young. Or at least sentimental.
And yet he said none of it. Not because he wanted to but couldn't. But because thinking it was enough for him. He had no desire to see the concepts leave his mind, part from his lips and find some sort of bonding between the two of them. He was here to have the wound she had inflicted seen to and then he was to leave. His thoughts and their connection to her were insignificant.
It was clear from the way that she went quiet and how the corners of her mouth tightened in emotion, that the woman before him loved the woman she spoke of. Missed the life lessons that her mother had given her.
And for a brief moment, Akhmad wondered at that... What it would be like to have a blood relative that one could miss.
He dismissed such a thought as a tether. A ball of iron, an anchor, tied to your ankle, dragging you back with guilt and sorrow. How was that any way to live?
He ignored such an idea and focused on his lack of reaction, of the tightening of his muscles and the way in which he showed no pain. He ignored the woman almost entirely until she commented on his lack of reaction, speaking in a tone that was almost reverent - a compliment.
He offered a half shrug, moving the opposing shoulder in a gesture of dismissal. He didn't need compliments over a talent he had learnt through years of suffrage.
Suddenly, his eyes shot to the door as there was a soft sound beyond. The sound of voices. His feet shifted on the floor as if he were ready to rise and run. But such an act was not necessary as the voices passed on, clearly not destined for this house.
Glancing at the woman Myrrine as she continued to sew, reaching the end of the laceration and nearing the completion of her work, Akhmad then turned his focus upon the door, like a dog with a scent, concerned that strangers may arrive. It was one thing for this one to have seen him. It would be another for his presence to be spotted by more...
It was a good day - and a rare one. It always was when Thyra returned home before nightfall. But she had to come home - she had decided to hunt. The hills around Midas were a second home for her, and the bow felt warm and smooth in her hand, she couldn’t resist the morning sun dripping like dew on the leaves. Thyra could feel Artemis in the trees, moving with her, slowly, softly, slipping around the tree branches.
The bag she carried was a good one, the only indication of her activity was the bow in her hand. Thyra did stand out somewhat, as she wore a leather tunic rather than her chiton, but she felt positive for the first time in quite a while. She had direction, even if it was for a brief moment.
She was so distracted, in fact, that she missed her home entirely. Realizing her mistake, Thyra turned around, apologizing quietly to the girls she passed and slipped in the door and halted.
There was a small part of Thyra that panicked. A stranger was in their home, and his aura was one of danger and foreboding. He had silenced his feet with cloth, his face was covered - in fact, almost every inch of skin was covered Except for a strip across his eyes and where her sister was finishing her mending of a wound.
And then, Thyra laughed rapturously. “I knew it! I knew you were with someone!”
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It was a good day - and a rare one. It always was when Thyra returned home before nightfall. But she had to come home - she had decided to hunt. The hills around Midas were a second home for her, and the bow felt warm and smooth in her hand, she couldn’t resist the morning sun dripping like dew on the leaves. Thyra could feel Artemis in the trees, moving with her, slowly, softly, slipping around the tree branches.
The bag she carried was a good one, the only indication of her activity was the bow in her hand. Thyra did stand out somewhat, as she wore a leather tunic rather than her chiton, but she felt positive for the first time in quite a while. She had direction, even if it was for a brief moment.
She was so distracted, in fact, that she missed her home entirely. Realizing her mistake, Thyra turned around, apologizing quietly to the girls she passed and slipped in the door and halted.
There was a small part of Thyra that panicked. A stranger was in their home, and his aura was one of danger and foreboding. He had silenced his feet with cloth, his face was covered - in fact, almost every inch of skin was covered Except for a strip across his eyes and where her sister was finishing her mending of a wound.
And then, Thyra laughed rapturously. “I knew it! I knew you were with someone!”
It was a good day - and a rare one. It always was when Thyra returned home before nightfall. But she had to come home - she had decided to hunt. The hills around Midas were a second home for her, and the bow felt warm and smooth in her hand, she couldn’t resist the morning sun dripping like dew on the leaves. Thyra could feel Artemis in the trees, moving with her, slowly, softly, slipping around the tree branches.
The bag she carried was a good one, the only indication of her activity was the bow in her hand. Thyra did stand out somewhat, as she wore a leather tunic rather than her chiton, but she felt positive for the first time in quite a while. She had direction, even if it was for a brief moment.
She was so distracted, in fact, that she missed her home entirely. Realizing her mistake, Thyra turned around, apologizing quietly to the girls she passed and slipped in the door and halted.
There was a small part of Thyra that panicked. A stranger was in their home, and his aura was one of danger and foreboding. He had silenced his feet with cloth, his face was covered - in fact, almost every inch of skin was covered Except for a strip across his eyes and where her sister was finishing her mending of a wound.
And then, Thyra laughed rapturously. “I knew it! I knew you were with someone!”
Akhmad had heard the steps of another person approaching the house. But, as the little home was located on a relatively busy street in the Lower Levels of the city, he had heard many steps passing by during the course of Myrrine's treatment of his arm. They passed by the open doorway without so much as a glance or a twitching of the curtain that hung across the entryway.
It was only when this particular set of feet could be seen through the lower piece of entryway, and a shift started in the covering of the door, that Akhmad reacted.
Wrenching his arm away from Myrrine's touch, the thread and needle were lost to her grip and his arm yowled a sharp-keen of pain as the string for the stitches was yanked against his wound. The string hovered in the air as he quickly stood, the needle forcing it to dance in the air. Within a moment, the little shard of bone had worked its way loose of the thread and fallen to the ground with a little tinkle of sound. But Akhmad was already headed quickly for the nearest exit.
Like water, he leapt and swung through the window feet first, twisting as he went so that he might land on the floor facing the building. There he would find foot holds and pieces of cragged masonry to hold onto and lift himself to the rooftop of the building.
From there, he could leap to the rooftop a little lower, over the end of the cliff faces of the Kirakles Isles and began to descend through the Lower Levels, silent and speedy across the tiles.
He had seen to his mission. He had watched over Myrrine whilst she was away from her home. And now his priority was remaining anonymous. He would not see to his cover being blown by a little girl in leather.
As he had been on the wrong side of the room from the window, Akhmad had been within the little space of Myrrine's home long enough to hear the comments made by a female who was likely her sister or cousin, based on age. He had no notion of what the woman meant - whether she meant 'with' in the physical sense of otherwise. But either way, he did not care. All that had been important was the removal of his presence as quickly as possible. He would hide out in the rocks of the cliff face lower down the city. And then he would reverse and return so as to watch Myrrine for the rest of the day, as were his orders. And this time, he would not break his cover for anything.
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Akhmad had heard the steps of another person approaching the house. But, as the little home was located on a relatively busy street in the Lower Levels of the city, he had heard many steps passing by during the course of Myrrine's treatment of his arm. They passed by the open doorway without so much as a glance or a twitching of the curtain that hung across the entryway.
It was only when this particular set of feet could be seen through the lower piece of entryway, and a shift started in the covering of the door, that Akhmad reacted.
Wrenching his arm away from Myrrine's touch, the thread and needle were lost to her grip and his arm yowled a sharp-keen of pain as the string for the stitches was yanked against his wound. The string hovered in the air as he quickly stood, the needle forcing it to dance in the air. Within a moment, the little shard of bone had worked its way loose of the thread and fallen to the ground with a little tinkle of sound. But Akhmad was already headed quickly for the nearest exit.
Like water, he leapt and swung through the window feet first, twisting as he went so that he might land on the floor facing the building. There he would find foot holds and pieces of cragged masonry to hold onto and lift himself to the rooftop of the building.
From there, he could leap to the rooftop a little lower, over the end of the cliff faces of the Kirakles Isles and began to descend through the Lower Levels, silent and speedy across the tiles.
He had seen to his mission. He had watched over Myrrine whilst she was away from her home. And now his priority was remaining anonymous. He would not see to his cover being blown by a little girl in leather.
As he had been on the wrong side of the room from the window, Akhmad had been within the little space of Myrrine's home long enough to hear the comments made by a female who was likely her sister or cousin, based on age. He had no notion of what the woman meant - whether she meant 'with' in the physical sense of otherwise. But either way, he did not care. All that had been important was the removal of his presence as quickly as possible. He would hide out in the rocks of the cliff face lower down the city. And then he would reverse and return so as to watch Myrrine for the rest of the day, as were his orders. And this time, he would not break his cover for anything.
Akhmad had heard the steps of another person approaching the house. But, as the little home was located on a relatively busy street in the Lower Levels of the city, he had heard many steps passing by during the course of Myrrine's treatment of his arm. They passed by the open doorway without so much as a glance or a twitching of the curtain that hung across the entryway.
It was only when this particular set of feet could be seen through the lower piece of entryway, and a shift started in the covering of the door, that Akhmad reacted.
Wrenching his arm away from Myrrine's touch, the thread and needle were lost to her grip and his arm yowled a sharp-keen of pain as the string for the stitches was yanked against his wound. The string hovered in the air as he quickly stood, the needle forcing it to dance in the air. Within a moment, the little shard of bone had worked its way loose of the thread and fallen to the ground with a little tinkle of sound. But Akhmad was already headed quickly for the nearest exit.
Like water, he leapt and swung through the window feet first, twisting as he went so that he might land on the floor facing the building. There he would find foot holds and pieces of cragged masonry to hold onto and lift himself to the rooftop of the building.
From there, he could leap to the rooftop a little lower, over the end of the cliff faces of the Kirakles Isles and began to descend through the Lower Levels, silent and speedy across the tiles.
He had seen to his mission. He had watched over Myrrine whilst she was away from her home. And now his priority was remaining anonymous. He would not see to his cover being blown by a little girl in leather.
As he had been on the wrong side of the room from the window, Akhmad had been within the little space of Myrrine's home long enough to hear the comments made by a female who was likely her sister or cousin, based on age. He had no notion of what the woman meant - whether she meant 'with' in the physical sense of otherwise. But either way, he did not care. All that had been important was the removal of his presence as quickly as possible. He would hide out in the rocks of the cliff face lower down the city. And then he would reverse and return so as to watch Myrrine for the rest of the day, as were his orders. And this time, he would not break his cover for anything.
She was growing used to her strange rescuer’s silence. Enough that his half shrug in response made her smile a hint wider. He was a good patient at least. Better than impatient squirming children, or siblings who wanted to believe they were too grown for her tending. She was just in the process of tying off the thread when suddenly, her patient sprung to his feet. “Wait!” she called out instinctively, even as her sister entered the doorway. It mattered not, he was already fleeing through the window. What followed was an outburst of laughter that was enough to startle everyone, even without the words that followed it.
‘I knew it! I knew you were with someone!’
Myrrine turned to her sister, fuming. “Thyra! What has possessed you to act in such a way?” She scolded. Of course it was Thyra. It was always Thyra causing trouble for her. It was only then that her words truly sunk in.
“With someone? Are you mad? I was tending to a stranger’s injury. I don’t need to share someone’s bed simply to show some kindness, unlike some.” A pointed insult. She knew little of her sister’s sexual escapades and that was the way she preferred it. A flutter of nerves filled her chest though at the accusation as she thought of Hashe. There was no way that Thyra knew of him. They had been so careful, so quiet. Besides, her sister was scarcely home at night, let alone concerning herself with how Myrrine spent her time.
“Unlike you, I have my hands full seeing that you lot are cared for and we can keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.”
She couldn’t know. It was impossible. And it had to stay that way. She would have to say goodbye to Hashe far too soon as it was. She wasn’t about to let her sister ruin the one good thing she had found for herself.
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She was growing used to her strange rescuer’s silence. Enough that his half shrug in response made her smile a hint wider. He was a good patient at least. Better than impatient squirming children, or siblings who wanted to believe they were too grown for her tending. She was just in the process of tying off the thread when suddenly, her patient sprung to his feet. “Wait!” she called out instinctively, even as her sister entered the doorway. It mattered not, he was already fleeing through the window. What followed was an outburst of laughter that was enough to startle everyone, even without the words that followed it.
‘I knew it! I knew you were with someone!’
Myrrine turned to her sister, fuming. “Thyra! What has possessed you to act in such a way?” She scolded. Of course it was Thyra. It was always Thyra causing trouble for her. It was only then that her words truly sunk in.
“With someone? Are you mad? I was tending to a stranger’s injury. I don’t need to share someone’s bed simply to show some kindness, unlike some.” A pointed insult. She knew little of her sister’s sexual escapades and that was the way she preferred it. A flutter of nerves filled her chest though at the accusation as she thought of Hashe. There was no way that Thyra knew of him. They had been so careful, so quiet. Besides, her sister was scarcely home at night, let alone concerning herself with how Myrrine spent her time.
“Unlike you, I have my hands full seeing that you lot are cared for and we can keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.”
She couldn’t know. It was impossible. And it had to stay that way. She would have to say goodbye to Hashe far too soon as it was. She wasn’t about to let her sister ruin the one good thing she had found for herself.
She was growing used to her strange rescuer’s silence. Enough that his half shrug in response made her smile a hint wider. He was a good patient at least. Better than impatient squirming children, or siblings who wanted to believe they were too grown for her tending. She was just in the process of tying off the thread when suddenly, her patient sprung to his feet. “Wait!” she called out instinctively, even as her sister entered the doorway. It mattered not, he was already fleeing through the window. What followed was an outburst of laughter that was enough to startle everyone, even without the words that followed it.
‘I knew it! I knew you were with someone!’
Myrrine turned to her sister, fuming. “Thyra! What has possessed you to act in such a way?” She scolded. Of course it was Thyra. It was always Thyra causing trouble for her. It was only then that her words truly sunk in.
“With someone? Are you mad? I was tending to a stranger’s injury. I don’t need to share someone’s bed simply to show some kindness, unlike some.” A pointed insult. She knew little of her sister’s sexual escapades and that was the way she preferred it. A flutter of nerves filled her chest though at the accusation as she thought of Hashe. There was no way that Thyra knew of him. They had been so careful, so quiet. Besides, her sister was scarcely home at night, let alone concerning herself with how Myrrine spent her time.
“Unlike you, I have my hands full seeing that you lot are cared for and we can keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.”
She couldn’t know. It was impossible. And it had to stay that way. She would have to say goodbye to Hashe far too soon as it was. She wasn’t about to let her sister ruin the one good thing she had found for herself.