The day had been long. Dusty and hot, as all days were in the middle east. One could not breathe for the sand that clogged the nose and mouth, or see without blinking away grit from the eyes. There was never a lot of rainfall in the lands of desert but there were days that were hotter than others. Drier. Harsher to skin and to lung. And this had been one of those days.
In some ways, it was easier for the one known as Majhuul. He was wrapped in fabric coverings from head to toe, a turban in place upon his head and a hood drawn up over the top of it. He had masked every part of himself from the sun. And whilst this kept him cool, and the majority of the dust and grit from reaching his skin or mouth, there were also disadvantages. For there was nothing so horrid as grains of sand - no matter how few - stuck between layers of your clothes or against his skin underneath and rubbing you raw with every awkward step.
Used to the itch and the rash that it often left behind, Majhuul refused to remove even an inch of his coverings. From his fingertips to his boots, he was bound like he had heard Egyptians wrapped their dead. Fitting, given what he did for a living.
The residence that he had taken up in a nearby street was simple enough. What had once been a whorehouse, abandoned when the owner had been executed for dealing in the skin trade, stood in the centre of the street, pressed between a merchant that sold pottery and a forgotten storage space. The old brothel was dilapidated and suffering from the attack of moths. Every window that was cloaked firmly in nailed cloth had spots of bareness where insects had found their meal. They would need replacing soon. But, for now, the spots of light replaced a need for candles and allowed enough dim colour to see by. It shifted the rooms within from pitch black to dull grey.
The 'door' of the place was a simple slat of wood, propped against the opening from the inside. It was adjusted so that a finger's breadth of gap ran down one side so that anyone could reach to move it aside. There was no need to guard or secure what was within. There was nothing of value that Majhuul did not keep on his person at all times. Instead, he only nailed the wood in place over the door completely when he needed to undress.
Reaching out to slide the heavy plate of wood aside, Majhuul slithered in through the gap he created and then shifted it back into the place it had rested before.
Looking around the room - at the dust and dirt and the scent of decay, Majhuul appeared careless of the uncomfortable living arrangements.
The brothel had been run like a voyeur house. Screens of thin parchment had been erected along on side whilst candles and lanterns would flicker upon the opposing room. The women that were bedded in their own little square spaces, behind the screens, cast shadows on the paper for those beyond to pay and watch. Now, the screens were broken, peeling and half had fallen down already. The silks, cushions and bedding that would have laid beyond had been taken by the previous owner, sold as he attempted to bride officials out of taking his head. It hadn't worked.
There was only one cube of space that was still standing, which Majhuul used to sleep in. And, as he ne'er lit a light, he was hardly on show.
The rest of the room had been the common area, the space where funds were transferred and patronage paid. Where guests could view or simply wait for their turn. There was a cushion and a low desk on one side where the previous owner had worked to keep his books and finances in order, and Majhuul kept several weapons hidden beneath the furniture. He hadn't yet been forced to touch his reserve blades so the layer of dust that now coated the area gave an appearance of innocence.
He hadn't been home long, when the sound of shifted wood could be heard and a visitor approached his hideout... Shaking his wrists so that small blades would fall into his wrapped hands and looking back over his shoulder upon the intruder, Majhuul waited to see if this presence might be a client or an enemy...
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