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Fortune Teller. It was official. Miri of Lea was to become the Tempest of Set’s fortune teller. She was to read palms and omens and sit in a dark tent whispering the gods’ plans to each patron who offered her the right amount of coins. Several days had passed since her conversation with Amenemhat and Miri’s heart was still swollen with pride. Here was her purpose.
She had glided around the circus grounds ever since with her chin raised and a newfound purpose in her eyes. The acrobats snickered and rolled their eyes, but Miri felt more welcome than ever within the Tempest. Now that her time with Rekhmire was over, her fellow performers had begun to approach her more readily. They were her family, if not her friends. There was little need for friends, anyway, with the power of all the gods whispering in her ears. And the gods were content, apparently pleased with her efforts and the fruit they bore. She spent her evenings alone in her tent, eyes squeezed shut, listening intently. Sometimes the gods spoke to each other, rather than her. Fascinating conversations about the sky and the darkness and love and other topics Miri could never begin to comprehend. Those were the greatest moments of all. The ones that left her feeling small, like a tiny component of some huge sculpture. The ones that raised the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck, like some spirit had risen from the sand and passed through her by accident. Her new life was everything she could have wished for and more. She was useful and valued and at peace at last.
But while Rekhmire’s treatments had brought back the gods in full force, Miri was still growing adjusted to the speed at which they sometimes communicated. And so her wanderings were often spent in complete silence, listening intently and often frantically. The overlapping words were in Egyptian now, melting together like waves on the beach, with all the roar of the ocean behind them. Keep up, girl, Set would laugh as Miri struggled to keep up with the tidbits of wisdom and future events. No one ever said it would be easy, shrugged Hathor, her voice kind but quiet in the back of Miri’s mind.
It went on like that forever. The lulls never lasting long—Miri slept as little as she could manage, though blurred versions of the gods’ prophecies found their way into her dreams—the silence when they did deafening and full of fear. Constantly listening to the purpose of her existence, with little regard or notice of anything else. The balance was drawing nearer with practice, but Miri was still living inside of her own head.
It was in this manner that Miri of Lea nearly ran into a knife.
The girl blinked slowly and turned to stare at the weapon, embedded in a wooden circle just inches from her head. “Oh,” was all she managed, fingers reaching up to graze the still-quivering handle. And you call yourself observant? Idiot girl, you must be more careful. You cannot speak our words with a knife in your skull.
Miri dipped her head in nervous apology to the gods before turning again to look at the knife thrower. The woman was new, she thought, but Miri did not know much else. Beautiful and somehow fierce, and probably looking for some kind of explanation. Miri did not have one. Or, at least not one that would satisfy a mortal. The gods chuckled, and went still.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Fortune Teller. It was official. Miri of Lea was to become the Tempest of Set’s fortune teller. She was to read palms and omens and sit in a dark tent whispering the gods’ plans to each patron who offered her the right amount of coins. Several days had passed since her conversation with Amenemhat and Miri’s heart was still swollen with pride. Here was her purpose.
She had glided around the circus grounds ever since with her chin raised and a newfound purpose in her eyes. The acrobats snickered and rolled their eyes, but Miri felt more welcome than ever within the Tempest. Now that her time with Rekhmire was over, her fellow performers had begun to approach her more readily. They were her family, if not her friends. There was little need for friends, anyway, with the power of all the gods whispering in her ears. And the gods were content, apparently pleased with her efforts and the fruit they bore. She spent her evenings alone in her tent, eyes squeezed shut, listening intently. Sometimes the gods spoke to each other, rather than her. Fascinating conversations about the sky and the darkness and love and other topics Miri could never begin to comprehend. Those were the greatest moments of all. The ones that left her feeling small, like a tiny component of some huge sculpture. The ones that raised the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck, like some spirit had risen from the sand and passed through her by accident. Her new life was everything she could have wished for and more. She was useful and valued and at peace at last.
But while Rekhmire’s treatments had brought back the gods in full force, Miri was still growing adjusted to the speed at which they sometimes communicated. And so her wanderings were often spent in complete silence, listening intently and often frantically. The overlapping words were in Egyptian now, melting together like waves on the beach, with all the roar of the ocean behind them. Keep up, girl, Set would laugh as Miri struggled to keep up with the tidbits of wisdom and future events. No one ever said it would be easy, shrugged Hathor, her voice kind but quiet in the back of Miri’s mind.
It went on like that forever. The lulls never lasting long—Miri slept as little as she could manage, though blurred versions of the gods’ prophecies found their way into her dreams—the silence when they did deafening and full of fear. Constantly listening to the purpose of her existence, with little regard or notice of anything else. The balance was drawing nearer with practice, but Miri was still living inside of her own head.
It was in this manner that Miri of Lea nearly ran into a knife.
The girl blinked slowly and turned to stare at the weapon, embedded in a wooden circle just inches from her head. “Oh,” was all she managed, fingers reaching up to graze the still-quivering handle. And you call yourself observant? Idiot girl, you must be more careful. You cannot speak our words with a knife in your skull.
Miri dipped her head in nervous apology to the gods before turning again to look at the knife thrower. The woman was new, she thought, but Miri did not know much else. Beautiful and somehow fierce, and probably looking for some kind of explanation. Miri did not have one. Or, at least not one that would satisfy a mortal. The gods chuckled, and went still.
Fortune Teller. It was official. Miri of Lea was to become the Tempest of Set’s fortune teller. She was to read palms and omens and sit in a dark tent whispering the gods’ plans to each patron who offered her the right amount of coins. Several days had passed since her conversation with Amenemhat and Miri’s heart was still swollen with pride. Here was her purpose.
She had glided around the circus grounds ever since with her chin raised and a newfound purpose in her eyes. The acrobats snickered and rolled their eyes, but Miri felt more welcome than ever within the Tempest. Now that her time with Rekhmire was over, her fellow performers had begun to approach her more readily. They were her family, if not her friends. There was little need for friends, anyway, with the power of all the gods whispering in her ears. And the gods were content, apparently pleased with her efforts and the fruit they bore. She spent her evenings alone in her tent, eyes squeezed shut, listening intently. Sometimes the gods spoke to each other, rather than her. Fascinating conversations about the sky and the darkness and love and other topics Miri could never begin to comprehend. Those were the greatest moments of all. The ones that left her feeling small, like a tiny component of some huge sculpture. The ones that raised the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck, like some spirit had risen from the sand and passed through her by accident. Her new life was everything she could have wished for and more. She was useful and valued and at peace at last.
But while Rekhmire’s treatments had brought back the gods in full force, Miri was still growing adjusted to the speed at which they sometimes communicated. And so her wanderings were often spent in complete silence, listening intently and often frantically. The overlapping words were in Egyptian now, melting together like waves on the beach, with all the roar of the ocean behind them. Keep up, girl, Set would laugh as Miri struggled to keep up with the tidbits of wisdom and future events. No one ever said it would be easy, shrugged Hathor, her voice kind but quiet in the back of Miri’s mind.
It went on like that forever. The lulls never lasting long—Miri slept as little as she could manage, though blurred versions of the gods’ prophecies found their way into her dreams—the silence when they did deafening and full of fear. Constantly listening to the purpose of her existence, with little regard or notice of anything else. The balance was drawing nearer with practice, but Miri was still living inside of her own head.
It was in this manner that Miri of Lea nearly ran into a knife.
The girl blinked slowly and turned to stare at the weapon, embedded in a wooden circle just inches from her head. “Oh,” was all she managed, fingers reaching up to graze the still-quivering handle. And you call yourself observant? Idiot girl, you must be more careful. You cannot speak our words with a knife in your skull.
Miri dipped her head in nervous apology to the gods before turning again to look at the knife thrower. The woman was new, she thought, but Miri did not know much else. Beautiful and somehow fierce, and probably looking for some kind of explanation. Miri did not have one. Or, at least not one that would satisfy a mortal. The gods chuckled, and went still.
Adjusting to life as a circus performer had been relatively easy for Zephyra. It was not as free as life had been just a few short months ago when she’d had all her own money to spend in whatever way pleased her most, but it was not as restrictive and controlling as life under Andras had been. She would never willingly put herself in that kind of situation again. No, the circus paid her, and paid her well enough that even with room and board she had her own money to spend. She was her own person there, able to come and go as she pleased, subject only to the directions of those most senior in the circus, to which she only truly listened to Amenemhat. A hierarchical situation chafed just a little. Zephyra also had the feeling there was something about the circus she was missing, and yet it was not important enough for her to chase after. She was merely pleased at the moment to have a place to belong.
Or, a place she hoped she could belong. Most of those she had met had been friendly so far, but Zephyra still ate meals off to the side or by herself, and conversations progressed little past what her act was. She thought the others at least liked her. Liked what little of herself she put forth, anyway, which was not much. She knew she needed to try more. She still didn’t try. Opening up to others was too much of a risk even though the risk of not opening up meant friendships could possibly never develop.
It was a cycle she did not know how to break, one that frustrated her and often sent her into a practicing frenzy at the boards she set up near her tent. It was what caused her to practice for hours, the thud of the knife hitting the board over and over again the only sound she allowed to ring in her ears. No one had approached her for quite some time, and what little audience she had at the beginning had long since dissipated. Her focus was solely on her knives. She should have been more aware of her surroundings.
It was by fate, or luck, or perhaps the gods that her knife did not strike through Miri’s head. Not that Zephyra thought Hades or the Grecian gods cared about those in Egypt, and her views on the Egyptian gods were still iffy regardless of the views of the circus. Zephyra sucked in a sharp breath, letting it hiss through her teeth as she exhaled. She did not have anything against killing people seeing as she’d done so before, but to harm someone from the circus who did not warrant it would surely see her thrown out even if it was an accident.
Zephyra had seen Miri around a few times, though the two had never spoken as far as she could recollect. So this was to be their first interaction. It would not win her any points, she was sure. The woman’s body was still posed in her knife throwing stance, as if the shock of what happened had frozen all but her mouth. “Oh? OH? That is all you can say? I nearly killed you! Don’t you look where you’re going?” Her voice rose as she talked, her slight accent getting stronger as the words flowed out.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Adjusting to life as a circus performer had been relatively easy for Zephyra. It was not as free as life had been just a few short months ago when she’d had all her own money to spend in whatever way pleased her most, but it was not as restrictive and controlling as life under Andras had been. She would never willingly put herself in that kind of situation again. No, the circus paid her, and paid her well enough that even with room and board she had her own money to spend. She was her own person there, able to come and go as she pleased, subject only to the directions of those most senior in the circus, to which she only truly listened to Amenemhat. A hierarchical situation chafed just a little. Zephyra also had the feeling there was something about the circus she was missing, and yet it was not important enough for her to chase after. She was merely pleased at the moment to have a place to belong.
Or, a place she hoped she could belong. Most of those she had met had been friendly so far, but Zephyra still ate meals off to the side or by herself, and conversations progressed little past what her act was. She thought the others at least liked her. Liked what little of herself she put forth, anyway, which was not much. She knew she needed to try more. She still didn’t try. Opening up to others was too much of a risk even though the risk of not opening up meant friendships could possibly never develop.
It was a cycle she did not know how to break, one that frustrated her and often sent her into a practicing frenzy at the boards she set up near her tent. It was what caused her to practice for hours, the thud of the knife hitting the board over and over again the only sound she allowed to ring in her ears. No one had approached her for quite some time, and what little audience she had at the beginning had long since dissipated. Her focus was solely on her knives. She should have been more aware of her surroundings.
It was by fate, or luck, or perhaps the gods that her knife did not strike through Miri’s head. Not that Zephyra thought Hades or the Grecian gods cared about those in Egypt, and her views on the Egyptian gods were still iffy regardless of the views of the circus. Zephyra sucked in a sharp breath, letting it hiss through her teeth as she exhaled. She did not have anything against killing people seeing as she’d done so before, but to harm someone from the circus who did not warrant it would surely see her thrown out even if it was an accident.
Zephyra had seen Miri around a few times, though the two had never spoken as far as she could recollect. So this was to be their first interaction. It would not win her any points, she was sure. The woman’s body was still posed in her knife throwing stance, as if the shock of what happened had frozen all but her mouth. “Oh? OH? That is all you can say? I nearly killed you! Don’t you look where you’re going?” Her voice rose as she talked, her slight accent getting stronger as the words flowed out.
Adjusting to life as a circus performer had been relatively easy for Zephyra. It was not as free as life had been just a few short months ago when she’d had all her own money to spend in whatever way pleased her most, but it was not as restrictive and controlling as life under Andras had been. She would never willingly put herself in that kind of situation again. No, the circus paid her, and paid her well enough that even with room and board she had her own money to spend. She was her own person there, able to come and go as she pleased, subject only to the directions of those most senior in the circus, to which she only truly listened to Amenemhat. A hierarchical situation chafed just a little. Zephyra also had the feeling there was something about the circus she was missing, and yet it was not important enough for her to chase after. She was merely pleased at the moment to have a place to belong.
Or, a place she hoped she could belong. Most of those she had met had been friendly so far, but Zephyra still ate meals off to the side or by herself, and conversations progressed little past what her act was. She thought the others at least liked her. Liked what little of herself she put forth, anyway, which was not much. She knew she needed to try more. She still didn’t try. Opening up to others was too much of a risk even though the risk of not opening up meant friendships could possibly never develop.
It was a cycle she did not know how to break, one that frustrated her and often sent her into a practicing frenzy at the boards she set up near her tent. It was what caused her to practice for hours, the thud of the knife hitting the board over and over again the only sound she allowed to ring in her ears. No one had approached her for quite some time, and what little audience she had at the beginning had long since dissipated. Her focus was solely on her knives. She should have been more aware of her surroundings.
It was by fate, or luck, or perhaps the gods that her knife did not strike through Miri’s head. Not that Zephyra thought Hades or the Grecian gods cared about those in Egypt, and her views on the Egyptian gods were still iffy regardless of the views of the circus. Zephyra sucked in a sharp breath, letting it hiss through her teeth as she exhaled. She did not have anything against killing people seeing as she’d done so before, but to harm someone from the circus who did not warrant it would surely see her thrown out even if it was an accident.
Zephyra had seen Miri around a few times, though the two had never spoken as far as she could recollect. So this was to be their first interaction. It would not win her any points, she was sure. The woman’s body was still posed in her knife throwing stance, as if the shock of what happened had frozen all but her mouth. “Oh? OH? That is all you can say? I nearly killed you! Don’t you look where you’re going?” Her voice rose as she talked, her slight accent getting stronger as the words flowed out.
If the gods had not been shouting insults and threats in her ears, Miri might have pretended that, rather than her own vagueness causing her to nearly die, it had been the gods who chose to save her, to guide the knife thrower’s weapon away. But the barrage continued, and it was clear that it was Miri who was at fault. She was a fortune teller, not a tightrope walker, but it seemed a similar sort of skill. A balancing act where one misstep could lead to a knife buried in her skull. It was all she could do to keep her hands relaxed at her sides, to stay upright when all she wanted was to curl into a ball and cry. She had disappointed them. The only ones who mattered at all. As they reminded her on a loop, she could not serve them, nor Amenemhat, if she was dead.
The knife thrower did not look or sound particularly pleased, either. Miri stared at her, hazel eyes clear of the turmoil that threatened to conquer her mind. She did not want to admit fault. “The gods watch out for me,” she said simply, one eyebrow arching high. “It was by their grace that your knife missed.”
Miri knew she was seen as aloof, distant, absent-minded. She knew, too, that her perceptiveness was rarely matched, though apparently far from flawless. This image that she portrayed… it was what made her attractive as a performer. She had been told that she had a mysterious aura of unknowable knowledge, which had always been the goal. Customers needed her to be reliable. And the image would not be authentic if she let it slip for just anyone, circus members included. No, Miri needed to stay distant at all times in order to see people for who they truly were. If she knew anyone too well, people would whisper that she merely made up her fortunes. Unacceptable.
“You are new,” Miri said, rotating back towards the knife and pulling it from the target with some effort. The woman was strong, and her aim was true; it was clear why Amenemhat had chosen to give her a place with the Tempest of Set. Miri did not ask for her name. Her name was far less important than the gods’ plans for her. But the gods were still furious, and seemed reluctant to give Miri any information on the new addition.
Twirling the knife between her fingers, she took a few steps forward and offered it back to its owner, handle pointed at the thrower’s heart. In a moment she had glided backwards to the target, expression both neutral and proud. “You have come here to find a home. It will be a home better than you could have possibly imagined.” Miri’s eyes flashed with something unknown, still struggling to block out the godly barrage of hatred in her head. It was so hard to concentrate. But new arrivals needed to respect her. Everyone needed to respect her, or how would the gods make their wills known? Not all believed in the true gods. And not all believed in the tiny girl who claimed to hear their voices loud in her head. But all would look at Miri and walk away a little less sure that she was an insane little orphan.
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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If the gods had not been shouting insults and threats in her ears, Miri might have pretended that, rather than her own vagueness causing her to nearly die, it had been the gods who chose to save her, to guide the knife thrower’s weapon away. But the barrage continued, and it was clear that it was Miri who was at fault. She was a fortune teller, not a tightrope walker, but it seemed a similar sort of skill. A balancing act where one misstep could lead to a knife buried in her skull. It was all she could do to keep her hands relaxed at her sides, to stay upright when all she wanted was to curl into a ball and cry. She had disappointed them. The only ones who mattered at all. As they reminded her on a loop, she could not serve them, nor Amenemhat, if she was dead.
The knife thrower did not look or sound particularly pleased, either. Miri stared at her, hazel eyes clear of the turmoil that threatened to conquer her mind. She did not want to admit fault. “The gods watch out for me,” she said simply, one eyebrow arching high. “It was by their grace that your knife missed.”
Miri knew she was seen as aloof, distant, absent-minded. She knew, too, that her perceptiveness was rarely matched, though apparently far from flawless. This image that she portrayed… it was what made her attractive as a performer. She had been told that she had a mysterious aura of unknowable knowledge, which had always been the goal. Customers needed her to be reliable. And the image would not be authentic if she let it slip for just anyone, circus members included. No, Miri needed to stay distant at all times in order to see people for who they truly were. If she knew anyone too well, people would whisper that she merely made up her fortunes. Unacceptable.
“You are new,” Miri said, rotating back towards the knife and pulling it from the target with some effort. The woman was strong, and her aim was true; it was clear why Amenemhat had chosen to give her a place with the Tempest of Set. Miri did not ask for her name. Her name was far less important than the gods’ plans for her. But the gods were still furious, and seemed reluctant to give Miri any information on the new addition.
Twirling the knife between her fingers, she took a few steps forward and offered it back to its owner, handle pointed at the thrower’s heart. In a moment she had glided backwards to the target, expression both neutral and proud. “You have come here to find a home. It will be a home better than you could have possibly imagined.” Miri’s eyes flashed with something unknown, still struggling to block out the godly barrage of hatred in her head. It was so hard to concentrate. But new arrivals needed to respect her. Everyone needed to respect her, or how would the gods make their wills known? Not all believed in the true gods. And not all believed in the tiny girl who claimed to hear their voices loud in her head. But all would look at Miri and walk away a little less sure that she was an insane little orphan.
If the gods had not been shouting insults and threats in her ears, Miri might have pretended that, rather than her own vagueness causing her to nearly die, it had been the gods who chose to save her, to guide the knife thrower’s weapon away. But the barrage continued, and it was clear that it was Miri who was at fault. She was a fortune teller, not a tightrope walker, but it seemed a similar sort of skill. A balancing act where one misstep could lead to a knife buried in her skull. It was all she could do to keep her hands relaxed at her sides, to stay upright when all she wanted was to curl into a ball and cry. She had disappointed them. The only ones who mattered at all. As they reminded her on a loop, she could not serve them, nor Amenemhat, if she was dead.
The knife thrower did not look or sound particularly pleased, either. Miri stared at her, hazel eyes clear of the turmoil that threatened to conquer her mind. She did not want to admit fault. “The gods watch out for me,” she said simply, one eyebrow arching high. “It was by their grace that your knife missed.”
Miri knew she was seen as aloof, distant, absent-minded. She knew, too, that her perceptiveness was rarely matched, though apparently far from flawless. This image that she portrayed… it was what made her attractive as a performer. She had been told that she had a mysterious aura of unknowable knowledge, which had always been the goal. Customers needed her to be reliable. And the image would not be authentic if she let it slip for just anyone, circus members included. No, Miri needed to stay distant at all times in order to see people for who they truly were. If she knew anyone too well, people would whisper that she merely made up her fortunes. Unacceptable.
“You are new,” Miri said, rotating back towards the knife and pulling it from the target with some effort. The woman was strong, and her aim was true; it was clear why Amenemhat had chosen to give her a place with the Tempest of Set. Miri did not ask for her name. Her name was far less important than the gods’ plans for her. But the gods were still furious, and seemed reluctant to give Miri any information on the new addition.
Twirling the knife between her fingers, she took a few steps forward and offered it back to its owner, handle pointed at the thrower’s heart. In a moment she had glided backwards to the target, expression both neutral and proud. “You have come here to find a home. It will be a home better than you could have possibly imagined.” Miri’s eyes flashed with something unknown, still struggling to block out the godly barrage of hatred in her head. It was so hard to concentrate. But new arrivals needed to respect her. Everyone needed to respect her, or how would the gods make their wills known? Not all believed in the true gods. And not all believed in the tiny girl who claimed to hear their voices loud in her head. But all would look at Miri and walk away a little less sure that she was an insane little orphan.
The gods watch out for me… It took all of Zephyra’s will not to snort when those words came out of Miri’s mouth. That was right, Miri was the one who supposedly talked to the Egyptian gods. Zephyra’s unbelief in the Egyptian pantheon, or vague acceptance that they could perhaps be real, though Hades still held Zephyra’s disinterested worship, made it hard for her to be convinced of Miri’s explanation. Instead, it felt almost laughable. She would not laugh, however, because to do so would most likely offend the female before her. Offending people wasn’t going to get Zephyra anywhere. Alternatively, she nodded before replying, “I am grateful that they had me miss, for I would have felt terrible if I had wounded or killed you.” While the woman was still upset, her words took on a calmer quality, and her body shifted so her feet were next to one another, arms folded over her chest. If what she knew of Miri was accurate, shouting at her would not make any difference. It would only attract the attention of those around them.
The knife thrower did not offer Miri any help retrieving the knife from the target, however. The struggle it gave the other woman felt like a punishment enough. Zephyra didn’t have to punish people anymore, didn’t have to be vicious, and it allowed her to avoid striking the foolish Miri as she would have been prone to do not too very long ago. The instinct was still there, but she could control it. Usually. Sometimes. Well, she was getting better at it. The instinct wouldn’t be there at all if Miri was of a higher authority than Zephyra. Though, maybe she was.
There was no point of replying about her being new. It wasn’t as if she could counter that fact, and to try and make a conversation off of it seemed too common for her to willingly start and engage in again. Yes, she was new, she was a knife thrower for her main act, blah blah blah. It always started and ended there. Miri did not ask those questions right away, something that made Zephyra grateful for about two seconds until Miri spoke again.
Her fingers grasped the hilt of the knife as it was returned to her, her mind turning over Miri’s words. It wasn’t as if it was a far reaching guess to think Zephyra wanted to find a home with the circus, but it was strange and a little unsettling to hear the words from someone else’s mouth. “I hope you are right,” she muttered, at a loss of words for anything else to say. She raised a hand as if to shoo the other woman away from the target so Zephyra could resume practicing. It was not a complete dismissal of Miri. Miri could stay as long as she wanted, but Zephyra wanted to throw. It would seem as if Zephyra was done speaking, but in an attempt to be friendly, she added, “Have you found such a home here?”
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The gods watch out for me… It took all of Zephyra’s will not to snort when those words came out of Miri’s mouth. That was right, Miri was the one who supposedly talked to the Egyptian gods. Zephyra’s unbelief in the Egyptian pantheon, or vague acceptance that they could perhaps be real, though Hades still held Zephyra’s disinterested worship, made it hard for her to be convinced of Miri’s explanation. Instead, it felt almost laughable. She would not laugh, however, because to do so would most likely offend the female before her. Offending people wasn’t going to get Zephyra anywhere. Alternatively, she nodded before replying, “I am grateful that they had me miss, for I would have felt terrible if I had wounded or killed you.” While the woman was still upset, her words took on a calmer quality, and her body shifted so her feet were next to one another, arms folded over her chest. If what she knew of Miri was accurate, shouting at her would not make any difference. It would only attract the attention of those around them.
The knife thrower did not offer Miri any help retrieving the knife from the target, however. The struggle it gave the other woman felt like a punishment enough. Zephyra didn’t have to punish people anymore, didn’t have to be vicious, and it allowed her to avoid striking the foolish Miri as she would have been prone to do not too very long ago. The instinct was still there, but she could control it. Usually. Sometimes. Well, she was getting better at it. The instinct wouldn’t be there at all if Miri was of a higher authority than Zephyra. Though, maybe she was.
There was no point of replying about her being new. It wasn’t as if she could counter that fact, and to try and make a conversation off of it seemed too common for her to willingly start and engage in again. Yes, she was new, she was a knife thrower for her main act, blah blah blah. It always started and ended there. Miri did not ask those questions right away, something that made Zephyra grateful for about two seconds until Miri spoke again.
Her fingers grasped the hilt of the knife as it was returned to her, her mind turning over Miri’s words. It wasn’t as if it was a far reaching guess to think Zephyra wanted to find a home with the circus, but it was strange and a little unsettling to hear the words from someone else’s mouth. “I hope you are right,” she muttered, at a loss of words for anything else to say. She raised a hand as if to shoo the other woman away from the target so Zephyra could resume practicing. It was not a complete dismissal of Miri. Miri could stay as long as she wanted, but Zephyra wanted to throw. It would seem as if Zephyra was done speaking, but in an attempt to be friendly, she added, “Have you found such a home here?”
The gods watch out for me… It took all of Zephyra’s will not to snort when those words came out of Miri’s mouth. That was right, Miri was the one who supposedly talked to the Egyptian gods. Zephyra’s unbelief in the Egyptian pantheon, or vague acceptance that they could perhaps be real, though Hades still held Zephyra’s disinterested worship, made it hard for her to be convinced of Miri’s explanation. Instead, it felt almost laughable. She would not laugh, however, because to do so would most likely offend the female before her. Offending people wasn’t going to get Zephyra anywhere. Alternatively, she nodded before replying, “I am grateful that they had me miss, for I would have felt terrible if I had wounded or killed you.” While the woman was still upset, her words took on a calmer quality, and her body shifted so her feet were next to one another, arms folded over her chest. If what she knew of Miri was accurate, shouting at her would not make any difference. It would only attract the attention of those around them.
The knife thrower did not offer Miri any help retrieving the knife from the target, however. The struggle it gave the other woman felt like a punishment enough. Zephyra didn’t have to punish people anymore, didn’t have to be vicious, and it allowed her to avoid striking the foolish Miri as she would have been prone to do not too very long ago. The instinct was still there, but she could control it. Usually. Sometimes. Well, she was getting better at it. The instinct wouldn’t be there at all if Miri was of a higher authority than Zephyra. Though, maybe she was.
There was no point of replying about her being new. It wasn’t as if she could counter that fact, and to try and make a conversation off of it seemed too common for her to willingly start and engage in again. Yes, she was new, she was a knife thrower for her main act, blah blah blah. It always started and ended there. Miri did not ask those questions right away, something that made Zephyra grateful for about two seconds until Miri spoke again.
Her fingers grasped the hilt of the knife as it was returned to her, her mind turning over Miri’s words. It wasn’t as if it was a far reaching guess to think Zephyra wanted to find a home with the circus, but it was strange and a little unsettling to hear the words from someone else’s mouth. “I hope you are right,” she muttered, at a loss of words for anything else to say. She raised a hand as if to shoo the other woman away from the target so Zephyra could resume practicing. It was not a complete dismissal of Miri. Miri could stay as long as she wanted, but Zephyra wanted to throw. It would seem as if Zephyra was done speaking, but in an attempt to be friendly, she added, “Have you found such a home here?”
Movement had always fascinated Miri. As a child, she would watch the way the blacksmith’s arm came down on a piece of metal, the way children tripped and fell in the street, the way a bird’s wings swooped and trembled under the pressure of the wind. All types of movement told a story, particularly human movement. A flinch or wince could betray fear or anxiety, a smile could be seen as forced or genuine depending on which corner of the lips moved first.
Miri spent as much time as possible watching people move. There was no better way to learn about a person than to observe how their body froze or crumbled under the pressure of life. The knife thrower was no different. “You should not have felt terrible,” she pondered, the ghost of a smile driving away the shock with such force that her knees almost trembled. “Had your knife not missed, it would have meant the gods did not need me anymore. You would have been honored.” Guffaws filled the inside of her mind. They found her steeled confidence endearing, if foolish.
By the time Miri turned back to face the newcomer, the woman’s posture had completely changed. Miri was sad to have missed the fluid motions that led her to this position, but saw the difference all the same. She no longer stood poised to attack. The energy still flowed through her arms and legs, to be sure—Miri doubted the woman before her ever truly relaxed—but it was quieter, gentler. Miri sidestepped away from the target, standing enough paces from the knife thrower to hopefully put her even more at ease. Usually, she thought, it was the godly aura around her that made people nervous. She did not think that was the case with this woman. Something in her eyes and the almost hesitant way she pushed Miri aside made Miri think she wanted approval, or reassurance. That was Delia’s job, but Miri could try to fill it all the same.
“I am generally right,” she smiled, eyes still intent upon the circus’s new addition. “I have not been here even a year yet, and already this is the best home I could possibly know. You will find one too…” she trailed off, hoping the woman would supply her with a name. The gods often did not care enough about mortal labels to provide her with that information, even when they weren’t furious. Her eyes flickered back to the target. Amenemhat must have already chosen her, liked her enough to bring her back here and give her a place to practice. That was a good sign.
“You would do well to learn to trust,” Miri said after a while, contently watching the never-ending cycle of aim, throw, collect, repeat. Her abilities were already quite obvious, but seemed almost too methodical. That would not do for performance. “It will be more difficult to call this place home if you do not.”
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Movement had always fascinated Miri. As a child, she would watch the way the blacksmith’s arm came down on a piece of metal, the way children tripped and fell in the street, the way a bird’s wings swooped and trembled under the pressure of the wind. All types of movement told a story, particularly human movement. A flinch or wince could betray fear or anxiety, a smile could be seen as forced or genuine depending on which corner of the lips moved first.
Miri spent as much time as possible watching people move. There was no better way to learn about a person than to observe how their body froze or crumbled under the pressure of life. The knife thrower was no different. “You should not have felt terrible,” she pondered, the ghost of a smile driving away the shock with such force that her knees almost trembled. “Had your knife not missed, it would have meant the gods did not need me anymore. You would have been honored.” Guffaws filled the inside of her mind. They found her steeled confidence endearing, if foolish.
By the time Miri turned back to face the newcomer, the woman’s posture had completely changed. Miri was sad to have missed the fluid motions that led her to this position, but saw the difference all the same. She no longer stood poised to attack. The energy still flowed through her arms and legs, to be sure—Miri doubted the woman before her ever truly relaxed—but it was quieter, gentler. Miri sidestepped away from the target, standing enough paces from the knife thrower to hopefully put her even more at ease. Usually, she thought, it was the godly aura around her that made people nervous. She did not think that was the case with this woman. Something in her eyes and the almost hesitant way she pushed Miri aside made Miri think she wanted approval, or reassurance. That was Delia’s job, but Miri could try to fill it all the same.
“I am generally right,” she smiled, eyes still intent upon the circus’s new addition. “I have not been here even a year yet, and already this is the best home I could possibly know. You will find one too…” she trailed off, hoping the woman would supply her with a name. The gods often did not care enough about mortal labels to provide her with that information, even when they weren’t furious. Her eyes flickered back to the target. Amenemhat must have already chosen her, liked her enough to bring her back here and give her a place to practice. That was a good sign.
“You would do well to learn to trust,” Miri said after a while, contently watching the never-ending cycle of aim, throw, collect, repeat. Her abilities were already quite obvious, but seemed almost too methodical. That would not do for performance. “It will be more difficult to call this place home if you do not.”
Movement had always fascinated Miri. As a child, she would watch the way the blacksmith’s arm came down on a piece of metal, the way children tripped and fell in the street, the way a bird’s wings swooped and trembled under the pressure of the wind. All types of movement told a story, particularly human movement. A flinch or wince could betray fear or anxiety, a smile could be seen as forced or genuine depending on which corner of the lips moved first.
Miri spent as much time as possible watching people move. There was no better way to learn about a person than to observe how their body froze or crumbled under the pressure of life. The knife thrower was no different. “You should not have felt terrible,” she pondered, the ghost of a smile driving away the shock with such force that her knees almost trembled. “Had your knife not missed, it would have meant the gods did not need me anymore. You would have been honored.” Guffaws filled the inside of her mind. They found her steeled confidence endearing, if foolish.
By the time Miri turned back to face the newcomer, the woman’s posture had completely changed. Miri was sad to have missed the fluid motions that led her to this position, but saw the difference all the same. She no longer stood poised to attack. The energy still flowed through her arms and legs, to be sure—Miri doubted the woman before her ever truly relaxed—but it was quieter, gentler. Miri sidestepped away from the target, standing enough paces from the knife thrower to hopefully put her even more at ease. Usually, she thought, it was the godly aura around her that made people nervous. She did not think that was the case with this woman. Something in her eyes and the almost hesitant way she pushed Miri aside made Miri think she wanted approval, or reassurance. That was Delia’s job, but Miri could try to fill it all the same.
“I am generally right,” she smiled, eyes still intent upon the circus’s new addition. “I have not been here even a year yet, and already this is the best home I could possibly know. You will find one too…” she trailed off, hoping the woman would supply her with a name. The gods often did not care enough about mortal labels to provide her with that information, even when they weren’t furious. Her eyes flickered back to the target. Amenemhat must have already chosen her, liked her enough to bring her back here and give her a place to practice. That was a good sign.
“You would do well to learn to trust,” Miri said after a while, contently watching the never-ending cycle of aim, throw, collect, repeat. Her abilities were already quite obvious, but seemed almost too methodical. That would not do for performance. “It will be more difficult to call this place home if you do not.”