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Traveling the desert was a complicated beast. There was the danger of the journey, the necessity of planning, gauging food and supplies against the efficiency of frugality. Spoilage was an issue, as was the consideration of the gluttony of those in his charge. Amenemhat needed to juggle the reality of transporting upwards of seventy people across the desert with the need to keep the slaves in check and his performers satisfied. However, they had perfected this art. Before him, Amenhotep knew what it was to organize such a command. There were carriages that packed in the slaves, shackled to long benches and watched by several of his watchful eyes. There were the beasts in the next, massive and heavy creatures that were pacified by Hamidi and the other beast masters in his employ.
Everything needed to be in balance, but... there was also the quiet moments in travel. Amenemhat stopped the travel for the day, released the slaves to allow them to move and stretch their limbs. His performers were left, relatively speaking, to their devices. Most gathered together underneath the half-assembled circus tent, using the tarps as shade to cover them from the rising sun. While Egypt was giving over to the season, the heat did not yet relent. However, among the number of his performers, he noticed several of them missing. There was Zein, who'd wandered off with someone, surely. Kesi was nowhere to be seen. The Liu sisters were torn between staring at the ringmaster himself and some of the other men in the circus.
All was well, but notably missing and without particular reason was the knife thrower. Zephyra was not a terribly recent recruit to the circus' ranks, but she remained an enigma. She wandered off and kept to herself. Amenemhat did not particularly care where she went off to, but the reasoning as to why mattered to him. Having performers in the circus act as loners and separate from the whole was a detriment to the unity in performance. So, Amenemhat decided that this practice needed to be quelled before it became problematic. He knew there were targets assembled, for Zephyra's benefit as well as for use for archery. There were varied specialties in the circus, and nothing was simply given to one purpose.
I'm sure she's out there, he reasoned. She wouldn't be out with some other performer... if that propensity was in her he wouldn't have the issue. Relations between the circus members was, after all, encouraged so long as they didn't interfere with the show. Amenemhat, as he walked, heard the thunk of a knife sinking into a standing target, the satisfaction that even as the woman remained an enigma, Amenemhat could predict her location was quite amusing to him. The ringmaster arched his eyebrows as he watched her perfected throwing form, as his gaze fell to her body.
The gaze was unabashed, a natural curiosity for a woman he knew very little about. From the toned flesh of her calves to her thighs, then upward along the slender curves of her body before he met her features. This woman was unlike the acrobats of his circus, whose bodies were lithe and designed to bend and stretch. No, this woman seemed closer to a warrior, built for combat and an inkling thought to put that to the test arose in his mind. He needed people who were willing to strike out, to quell the rebellion in his slaves and protect his circus if the need arose.
Let's see if this straggler has ambition and mettle, he thought before he called out to the girl,
"Is throwing knives all you can do, Zephyra? Or is there a warrior in you?"
The smirk cast upon his lips as he pulled a knife out from the target, slinging it to the ground near the woman's feet, effectively returning it to her.
"You speak to no one and practice, practice, practice. At the very least, the ringmaster should know his performer, wouldn't you agree?"
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Traveling the desert was a complicated beast. There was the danger of the journey, the necessity of planning, gauging food and supplies against the efficiency of frugality. Spoilage was an issue, as was the consideration of the gluttony of those in his charge. Amenemhat needed to juggle the reality of transporting upwards of seventy people across the desert with the need to keep the slaves in check and his performers satisfied. However, they had perfected this art. Before him, Amenhotep knew what it was to organize such a command. There were carriages that packed in the slaves, shackled to long benches and watched by several of his watchful eyes. There were the beasts in the next, massive and heavy creatures that were pacified by Hamidi and the other beast masters in his employ.
Everything needed to be in balance, but... there was also the quiet moments in travel. Amenemhat stopped the travel for the day, released the slaves to allow them to move and stretch their limbs. His performers were left, relatively speaking, to their devices. Most gathered together underneath the half-assembled circus tent, using the tarps as shade to cover them from the rising sun. While Egypt was giving over to the season, the heat did not yet relent. However, among the number of his performers, he noticed several of them missing. There was Zein, who'd wandered off with someone, surely. Kesi was nowhere to be seen. The Liu sisters were torn between staring at the ringmaster himself and some of the other men in the circus.
All was well, but notably missing and without particular reason was the knife thrower. Zephyra was not a terribly recent recruit to the circus' ranks, but she remained an enigma. She wandered off and kept to herself. Amenemhat did not particularly care where she went off to, but the reasoning as to why mattered to him. Having performers in the circus act as loners and separate from the whole was a detriment to the unity in performance. So, Amenemhat decided that this practice needed to be quelled before it became problematic. He knew there were targets assembled, for Zephyra's benefit as well as for use for archery. There were varied specialties in the circus, and nothing was simply given to one purpose.
I'm sure she's out there, he reasoned. She wouldn't be out with some other performer... if that propensity was in her he wouldn't have the issue. Relations between the circus members was, after all, encouraged so long as they didn't interfere with the show. Amenemhat, as he walked, heard the thunk of a knife sinking into a standing target, the satisfaction that even as the woman remained an enigma, Amenemhat could predict her location was quite amusing to him. The ringmaster arched his eyebrows as he watched her perfected throwing form, as his gaze fell to her body.
The gaze was unabashed, a natural curiosity for a woman he knew very little about. From the toned flesh of her calves to her thighs, then upward along the slender curves of her body before he met her features. This woman was unlike the acrobats of his circus, whose bodies were lithe and designed to bend and stretch. No, this woman seemed closer to a warrior, built for combat and an inkling thought to put that to the test arose in his mind. He needed people who were willing to strike out, to quell the rebellion in his slaves and protect his circus if the need arose.
Let's see if this straggler has ambition and mettle, he thought before he called out to the girl,
"Is throwing knives all you can do, Zephyra? Or is there a warrior in you?"
The smirk cast upon his lips as he pulled a knife out from the target, slinging it to the ground near the woman's feet, effectively returning it to her.
"You speak to no one and practice, practice, practice. At the very least, the ringmaster should know his performer, wouldn't you agree?"
Traveling the desert was a complicated beast. There was the danger of the journey, the necessity of planning, gauging food and supplies against the efficiency of frugality. Spoilage was an issue, as was the consideration of the gluttony of those in his charge. Amenemhat needed to juggle the reality of transporting upwards of seventy people across the desert with the need to keep the slaves in check and his performers satisfied. However, they had perfected this art. Before him, Amenhotep knew what it was to organize such a command. There were carriages that packed in the slaves, shackled to long benches and watched by several of his watchful eyes. There were the beasts in the next, massive and heavy creatures that were pacified by Hamidi and the other beast masters in his employ.
Everything needed to be in balance, but... there was also the quiet moments in travel. Amenemhat stopped the travel for the day, released the slaves to allow them to move and stretch their limbs. His performers were left, relatively speaking, to their devices. Most gathered together underneath the half-assembled circus tent, using the tarps as shade to cover them from the rising sun. While Egypt was giving over to the season, the heat did not yet relent. However, among the number of his performers, he noticed several of them missing. There was Zein, who'd wandered off with someone, surely. Kesi was nowhere to be seen. The Liu sisters were torn between staring at the ringmaster himself and some of the other men in the circus.
All was well, but notably missing and without particular reason was the knife thrower. Zephyra was not a terribly recent recruit to the circus' ranks, but she remained an enigma. She wandered off and kept to herself. Amenemhat did not particularly care where she went off to, but the reasoning as to why mattered to him. Having performers in the circus act as loners and separate from the whole was a detriment to the unity in performance. So, Amenemhat decided that this practice needed to be quelled before it became problematic. He knew there were targets assembled, for Zephyra's benefit as well as for use for archery. There were varied specialties in the circus, and nothing was simply given to one purpose.
I'm sure she's out there, he reasoned. She wouldn't be out with some other performer... if that propensity was in her he wouldn't have the issue. Relations between the circus members was, after all, encouraged so long as they didn't interfere with the show. Amenemhat, as he walked, heard the thunk of a knife sinking into a standing target, the satisfaction that even as the woman remained an enigma, Amenemhat could predict her location was quite amusing to him. The ringmaster arched his eyebrows as he watched her perfected throwing form, as his gaze fell to her body.
The gaze was unabashed, a natural curiosity for a woman he knew very little about. From the toned flesh of her calves to her thighs, then upward along the slender curves of her body before he met her features. This woman was unlike the acrobats of his circus, whose bodies were lithe and designed to bend and stretch. No, this woman seemed closer to a warrior, built for combat and an inkling thought to put that to the test arose in his mind. He needed people who were willing to strike out, to quell the rebellion in his slaves and protect his circus if the need arose.
Let's see if this straggler has ambition and mettle, he thought before he called out to the girl,
"Is throwing knives all you can do, Zephyra? Or is there a warrior in you?"
The smirk cast upon his lips as he pulled a knife out from the target, slinging it to the ground near the woman's feet, effectively returning it to her.
"You speak to no one and practice, practice, practice. At the very least, the ringmaster should know his performer, wouldn't you agree?"
There were parts of the circus Zephyra absolutely adored and other parts she despised, rather like the way she felt about life in general. Traveling, unfortunately, fell closer on the spectrum toward despise. While she did not have as much responsibility during it that many others had, there was something about it that wasn’t quite enjoyable. Heat, sand, the company of numerous moving bodies were all factors that played into almost all the days she’d spent within her newfound home and therefore couldn’t be the reason she hated traveling. There was something else, something she hadn’t completely put her finger on yet even after years of doing it. She’d traveled on her own before, so why was the circus different? Alas, she feared she’d never know. She wasn’t sure it actually mattered, for the likelihood of being able to change it was relatively slim. The only good part of traveling was getting to spend some quality time with her camel, Amsu. He was a stubborn creature, one that didn’t seem to like her too terribly much. He was her best friend.
Conversations between herself and her fellow members were few and far between on the countless journeys she’d taken with them. Pleasantries were easy to come by, and even minor conversations could occur, but nothing substantial. When she’d first joined the circus there had been attempts by some to forge a friendship. Zephyra wished she would have done better at returning those attempts. She had tried, but her past had gotten in the way. She had let it get in the way.
Most of her life had revolved around enforcing punishments and collecting on loans for Andras. The things that man had made her do to others and had done to her were things she wished never to speak of. In what she had done to others she’d had to be strong and cruel. In what he had done to her she’d had to take it silently for fear of even stronger retribution. That life had been hard, a lack of love and kindness throughout that shaped her as a person. Habits, once formed, were incredibly hard to break, and the habit of being quiet and sticking to herself still hadn’t left her. Neither had the desire to steal and fight. The latter she controlled better, the former one she let loose to her heart’s content. In a fight or filching an item off an unsuspecting bystander she felt powerful. Outside of it, and throwing her knives, she felt like nothing.
Once the circus stopped for the day and her tent was set up, she’d wandered over to the targets to practice. The repetitive motion of throwing the knives, pulling them from the target, and doing it all over again brought some kind of peace to her too frequently turbulent mind. Though the target had her focus, she was keenly aware of Amenemhat as he approached. His gaze upon her heated her cheeks. It was not that she was unused to it from others, but her admiration, respect, and healthy fear of the man stirred up self-consciousness.
As the last knife left her fingers and hit the center of the target, her eyes shifted to the man. They met his eyes briefly before lowering to the ground. “I can fight with my knives too, ringmaster. My skills in fighting without them are lessened, but I can hold my own that way as well.” The woman stooped to pick up the knife he’d returned to her, hiding the grimace that flashed onto her face. “I am sorry if my practice displeases you. I find the company of my knives easier to master than the company of others. Still, whatever you need from me, whatever you would ask or have me to, I will do without hesitation.” Her gaze flicked back to his before lowering once more.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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There were parts of the circus Zephyra absolutely adored and other parts she despised, rather like the way she felt about life in general. Traveling, unfortunately, fell closer on the spectrum toward despise. While she did not have as much responsibility during it that many others had, there was something about it that wasn’t quite enjoyable. Heat, sand, the company of numerous moving bodies were all factors that played into almost all the days she’d spent within her newfound home and therefore couldn’t be the reason she hated traveling. There was something else, something she hadn’t completely put her finger on yet even after years of doing it. She’d traveled on her own before, so why was the circus different? Alas, she feared she’d never know. She wasn’t sure it actually mattered, for the likelihood of being able to change it was relatively slim. The only good part of traveling was getting to spend some quality time with her camel, Amsu. He was a stubborn creature, one that didn’t seem to like her too terribly much. He was her best friend.
Conversations between herself and her fellow members were few and far between on the countless journeys she’d taken with them. Pleasantries were easy to come by, and even minor conversations could occur, but nothing substantial. When she’d first joined the circus there had been attempts by some to forge a friendship. Zephyra wished she would have done better at returning those attempts. She had tried, but her past had gotten in the way. She had let it get in the way.
Most of her life had revolved around enforcing punishments and collecting on loans for Andras. The things that man had made her do to others and had done to her were things she wished never to speak of. In what she had done to others she’d had to be strong and cruel. In what he had done to her she’d had to take it silently for fear of even stronger retribution. That life had been hard, a lack of love and kindness throughout that shaped her as a person. Habits, once formed, were incredibly hard to break, and the habit of being quiet and sticking to herself still hadn’t left her. Neither had the desire to steal and fight. The latter she controlled better, the former one she let loose to her heart’s content. In a fight or filching an item off an unsuspecting bystander she felt powerful. Outside of it, and throwing her knives, she felt like nothing.
Once the circus stopped for the day and her tent was set up, she’d wandered over to the targets to practice. The repetitive motion of throwing the knives, pulling them from the target, and doing it all over again brought some kind of peace to her too frequently turbulent mind. Though the target had her focus, she was keenly aware of Amenemhat as he approached. His gaze upon her heated her cheeks. It was not that she was unused to it from others, but her admiration, respect, and healthy fear of the man stirred up self-consciousness.
As the last knife left her fingers and hit the center of the target, her eyes shifted to the man. They met his eyes briefly before lowering to the ground. “I can fight with my knives too, ringmaster. My skills in fighting without them are lessened, but I can hold my own that way as well.” The woman stooped to pick up the knife he’d returned to her, hiding the grimace that flashed onto her face. “I am sorry if my practice displeases you. I find the company of my knives easier to master than the company of others. Still, whatever you need from me, whatever you would ask or have me to, I will do without hesitation.” Her gaze flicked back to his before lowering once more.
There were parts of the circus Zephyra absolutely adored and other parts she despised, rather like the way she felt about life in general. Traveling, unfortunately, fell closer on the spectrum toward despise. While she did not have as much responsibility during it that many others had, there was something about it that wasn’t quite enjoyable. Heat, sand, the company of numerous moving bodies were all factors that played into almost all the days she’d spent within her newfound home and therefore couldn’t be the reason she hated traveling. There was something else, something she hadn’t completely put her finger on yet even after years of doing it. She’d traveled on her own before, so why was the circus different? Alas, she feared she’d never know. She wasn’t sure it actually mattered, for the likelihood of being able to change it was relatively slim. The only good part of traveling was getting to spend some quality time with her camel, Amsu. He was a stubborn creature, one that didn’t seem to like her too terribly much. He was her best friend.
Conversations between herself and her fellow members were few and far between on the countless journeys she’d taken with them. Pleasantries were easy to come by, and even minor conversations could occur, but nothing substantial. When she’d first joined the circus there had been attempts by some to forge a friendship. Zephyra wished she would have done better at returning those attempts. She had tried, but her past had gotten in the way. She had let it get in the way.
Most of her life had revolved around enforcing punishments and collecting on loans for Andras. The things that man had made her do to others and had done to her were things she wished never to speak of. In what she had done to others she’d had to be strong and cruel. In what he had done to her she’d had to take it silently for fear of even stronger retribution. That life had been hard, a lack of love and kindness throughout that shaped her as a person. Habits, once formed, were incredibly hard to break, and the habit of being quiet and sticking to herself still hadn’t left her. Neither had the desire to steal and fight. The latter she controlled better, the former one she let loose to her heart’s content. In a fight or filching an item off an unsuspecting bystander she felt powerful. Outside of it, and throwing her knives, she felt like nothing.
Once the circus stopped for the day and her tent was set up, she’d wandered over to the targets to practice. The repetitive motion of throwing the knives, pulling them from the target, and doing it all over again brought some kind of peace to her too frequently turbulent mind. Though the target had her focus, she was keenly aware of Amenemhat as he approached. His gaze upon her heated her cheeks. It was not that she was unused to it from others, but her admiration, respect, and healthy fear of the man stirred up self-consciousness.
As the last knife left her fingers and hit the center of the target, her eyes shifted to the man. They met his eyes briefly before lowering to the ground. “I can fight with my knives too, ringmaster. My skills in fighting without them are lessened, but I can hold my own that way as well.” The woman stooped to pick up the knife he’d returned to her, hiding the grimace that flashed onto her face. “I am sorry if my practice displeases you. I find the company of my knives easier to master than the company of others. Still, whatever you need from me, whatever you would ask or have me to, I will do without hesitation.” Her gaze flicked back to his before lowering once more.
Already, in the short moments he'd spent with Zephyra, it was apparent that she was not a particularly shy or awkward girl. He could see the faint flush that set upon her features. The scrutiny of his gaze, after all, was not a subtle thing. He assessed her, admired her, and if he were in a different mindset, he'd push the envelope with her in a far more pleasurable way. However, he didn't. Amenemhat was, as he always was, working. A calculating figure, it was only those within his inner circle that truly knew the man. To the rest of his circus, he was content to be an enigma.
The air of mystery serves a purpose, he reassured himself.
However, in this moment, he was occupied elsewhere. His mind was not on the inner circle, or the rest of his performers who languished on the outside. No, he was drawn, inexorably, to the potential within this particular girl. She was a Greek, one that escaped to Egypt of all places, a world that was inherently hostile to her. Why take the risk of coming to a place always at war with one's sovereign? Why live a life separated from one's faith and all that they knew? There had to be more beneath the surface with this girl who kept her feelings and past so deeply buried.
But, all in its due time. Just as Amenemhat did not confide in his people who lay in the periphery of his inner circle, he did not ask for them to confide in him. They were employees, performers, and nothing more. So, the man listened to his charge, tilting his head ever so slightly at the admission of her diminished skill fighting with her fists. Nem, who was well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, found it curious to be so invested in one's weapons. But, he let the matter slide. He shook his head at her apology, a chuckle escaping his lips before he corrected her,
"Your practice is fine. It is better for me for everyone to be so invested in their craft, Zephyra."
He began simply, intent on correcting the misunderstanding before he addressed her following words. The idea of loyalty, unsolicited but appreciated, was one that drew his eye. Was it possible, below the facade of detachment, that this girl was looking for somewhere to belong? The circus attracted a variety of personality types and the inclinations and needs of each person were as such as well. But, there was a need to belong in most people that, perhaps, was hidden to the casual onlooker.
"But, for the moment, I will ask something of you. Your throwing exercises are a proper warm up, I'm sure? I have an opponent for you to face," he told her. Soliciting people into fights was not something new to him. The circus did not hire security or additional muscle unless the need was tantamount, and so, each member was expected to know something sabout self-defense. It was a fun diversion, watching men and women under the same banner beat the shit out of each other.
A hand rose up to the side of Amenemhat's neck. With a slow twisting motion, he cracked the bones in his neck, then his knuckles and began to stretch the muscled length of his body. He offered the woman a grin and a wink before he told her,
"Me. Let's see what you're made of, knife-thrower."
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Already, in the short moments he'd spent with Zephyra, it was apparent that she was not a particularly shy or awkward girl. He could see the faint flush that set upon her features. The scrutiny of his gaze, after all, was not a subtle thing. He assessed her, admired her, and if he were in a different mindset, he'd push the envelope with her in a far more pleasurable way. However, he didn't. Amenemhat was, as he always was, working. A calculating figure, it was only those within his inner circle that truly knew the man. To the rest of his circus, he was content to be an enigma.
The air of mystery serves a purpose, he reassured himself.
However, in this moment, he was occupied elsewhere. His mind was not on the inner circle, or the rest of his performers who languished on the outside. No, he was drawn, inexorably, to the potential within this particular girl. She was a Greek, one that escaped to Egypt of all places, a world that was inherently hostile to her. Why take the risk of coming to a place always at war with one's sovereign? Why live a life separated from one's faith and all that they knew? There had to be more beneath the surface with this girl who kept her feelings and past so deeply buried.
But, all in its due time. Just as Amenemhat did not confide in his people who lay in the periphery of his inner circle, he did not ask for them to confide in him. They were employees, performers, and nothing more. So, the man listened to his charge, tilting his head ever so slightly at the admission of her diminished skill fighting with her fists. Nem, who was well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, found it curious to be so invested in one's weapons. But, he let the matter slide. He shook his head at her apology, a chuckle escaping his lips before he corrected her,
"Your practice is fine. It is better for me for everyone to be so invested in their craft, Zephyra."
He began simply, intent on correcting the misunderstanding before he addressed her following words. The idea of loyalty, unsolicited but appreciated, was one that drew his eye. Was it possible, below the facade of detachment, that this girl was looking for somewhere to belong? The circus attracted a variety of personality types and the inclinations and needs of each person were as such as well. But, there was a need to belong in most people that, perhaps, was hidden to the casual onlooker.
"But, for the moment, I will ask something of you. Your throwing exercises are a proper warm up, I'm sure? I have an opponent for you to face," he told her. Soliciting people into fights was not something new to him. The circus did not hire security or additional muscle unless the need was tantamount, and so, each member was expected to know something sabout self-defense. It was a fun diversion, watching men and women under the same banner beat the shit out of each other.
A hand rose up to the side of Amenemhat's neck. With a slow twisting motion, he cracked the bones in his neck, then his knuckles and began to stretch the muscled length of his body. He offered the woman a grin and a wink before he told her,
"Me. Let's see what you're made of, knife-thrower."
Already, in the short moments he'd spent with Zephyra, it was apparent that she was not a particularly shy or awkward girl. He could see the faint flush that set upon her features. The scrutiny of his gaze, after all, was not a subtle thing. He assessed her, admired her, and if he were in a different mindset, he'd push the envelope with her in a far more pleasurable way. However, he didn't. Amenemhat was, as he always was, working. A calculating figure, it was only those within his inner circle that truly knew the man. To the rest of his circus, he was content to be an enigma.
The air of mystery serves a purpose, he reassured himself.
However, in this moment, he was occupied elsewhere. His mind was not on the inner circle, or the rest of his performers who languished on the outside. No, he was drawn, inexorably, to the potential within this particular girl. She was a Greek, one that escaped to Egypt of all places, a world that was inherently hostile to her. Why take the risk of coming to a place always at war with one's sovereign? Why live a life separated from one's faith and all that they knew? There had to be more beneath the surface with this girl who kept her feelings and past so deeply buried.
But, all in its due time. Just as Amenemhat did not confide in his people who lay in the periphery of his inner circle, he did not ask for them to confide in him. They were employees, performers, and nothing more. So, the man listened to his charge, tilting his head ever so slightly at the admission of her diminished skill fighting with her fists. Nem, who was well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, found it curious to be so invested in one's weapons. But, he let the matter slide. He shook his head at her apology, a chuckle escaping his lips before he corrected her,
"Your practice is fine. It is better for me for everyone to be so invested in their craft, Zephyra."
He began simply, intent on correcting the misunderstanding before he addressed her following words. The idea of loyalty, unsolicited but appreciated, was one that drew his eye. Was it possible, below the facade of detachment, that this girl was looking for somewhere to belong? The circus attracted a variety of personality types and the inclinations and needs of each person were as such as well. But, there was a need to belong in most people that, perhaps, was hidden to the casual onlooker.
"But, for the moment, I will ask something of you. Your throwing exercises are a proper warm up, I'm sure? I have an opponent for you to face," he told her. Soliciting people into fights was not something new to him. The circus did not hire security or additional muscle unless the need was tantamount, and so, each member was expected to know something sabout self-defense. It was a fun diversion, watching men and women under the same banner beat the shit out of each other.
A hand rose up to the side of Amenemhat's neck. With a slow twisting motion, he cracked the bones in his neck, then his knuckles and began to stretch the muscled length of his body. He offered the woman a grin and a wink before he told her,
"Me. Let's see what you're made of, knife-thrower."
It was subtle, the change in her posture when Amenemhat made it clear he wasn’t upset with her practicing, but it was there, a minute relaxation. He was her leader, he was her master, he was the new equivalent to Andras in terms of hierarchy. Though the man treated her better than Andras ever had, or did when their paths crossed for more than a few seconds outside of showtime, it was hard not to feel the need to please him. He controlled her life even though he did not own her. His was the word that kept her in the circus, his was the word she willingly followed with rarely a moment of hesitation. It stemmed from her past.
“My investment in what I do is feasibly the only thing everyone here knows about me.” A pained expression flashed on her face, gone a second later. Others couldn’t know her past, but there were things about her she could share, and should share with those who had been friendly. She couldn’t break through the wall in her mind to do so. “I like to think my archery and thieving skills are just as well practiced, even if others don’t see them as much.” Those words only left her mouth as she was trying desperately to remind the man of her other useful talents, reasons to keep her just in case he was beginning to think her too boring and useless to keep around for much longer.
There was something comforting about him asking her for something. It meant that, even if he was unsure of keeping her as she sometimes feared, he at least would test her before throwing her out. His request of her even seemed reasonable, or reasonable enough until he revealed who he wanted her to fight.
“You?” she dumbly repeated. “You want me to fight you?” Her eyes widened at the thought, and she looked over him as if looking at him truly for the first time. The build of his body was not unlike others she had engaged with in fights before, but it had been quite some time since she had fought an opponent. She practiced by herself in her tent, and an imaginary foe was not the same as a flesh and blood human being. And to fight the man who employed her? It was uncomfortable to think about. Still...
“I… I shall do as you ask.” There was a pause in her words, yet she sent the knife in her hand back to the target with a quick flick of her wrist. It left all the knives she’d brought in the board. If Amenemhat wished to fight with weapons she’d retrieve a few, but if she could avoid objects that could accidentally seriously injure the man, that was her goal. She hadn’t lied when she said her fighting skills were diminished without weapons, but it was a risk she was willing to take. Plus, if he wanted to see her, it was probably best he saw what she was weakest at in terms of fighting. And while diminished, she was still talented. Her hands reached up to tighten her ponytail, and then she was ready.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
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It was subtle, the change in her posture when Amenemhat made it clear he wasn’t upset with her practicing, but it was there, a minute relaxation. He was her leader, he was her master, he was the new equivalent to Andras in terms of hierarchy. Though the man treated her better than Andras ever had, or did when their paths crossed for more than a few seconds outside of showtime, it was hard not to feel the need to please him. He controlled her life even though he did not own her. His was the word that kept her in the circus, his was the word she willingly followed with rarely a moment of hesitation. It stemmed from her past.
“My investment in what I do is feasibly the only thing everyone here knows about me.” A pained expression flashed on her face, gone a second later. Others couldn’t know her past, but there were things about her she could share, and should share with those who had been friendly. She couldn’t break through the wall in her mind to do so. “I like to think my archery and thieving skills are just as well practiced, even if others don’t see them as much.” Those words only left her mouth as she was trying desperately to remind the man of her other useful talents, reasons to keep her just in case he was beginning to think her too boring and useless to keep around for much longer.
There was something comforting about him asking her for something. It meant that, even if he was unsure of keeping her as she sometimes feared, he at least would test her before throwing her out. His request of her even seemed reasonable, or reasonable enough until he revealed who he wanted her to fight.
“You?” she dumbly repeated. “You want me to fight you?” Her eyes widened at the thought, and she looked over him as if looking at him truly for the first time. The build of his body was not unlike others she had engaged with in fights before, but it had been quite some time since she had fought an opponent. She practiced by herself in her tent, and an imaginary foe was not the same as a flesh and blood human being. And to fight the man who employed her? It was uncomfortable to think about. Still...
“I… I shall do as you ask.” There was a pause in her words, yet she sent the knife in her hand back to the target with a quick flick of her wrist. It left all the knives she’d brought in the board. If Amenemhat wished to fight with weapons she’d retrieve a few, but if she could avoid objects that could accidentally seriously injure the man, that was her goal. She hadn’t lied when she said her fighting skills were diminished without weapons, but it was a risk she was willing to take. Plus, if he wanted to see her, it was probably best he saw what she was weakest at in terms of fighting. And while diminished, she was still talented. Her hands reached up to tighten her ponytail, and then she was ready.
It was subtle, the change in her posture when Amenemhat made it clear he wasn’t upset with her practicing, but it was there, a minute relaxation. He was her leader, he was her master, he was the new equivalent to Andras in terms of hierarchy. Though the man treated her better than Andras ever had, or did when their paths crossed for more than a few seconds outside of showtime, it was hard not to feel the need to please him. He controlled her life even though he did not own her. His was the word that kept her in the circus, his was the word she willingly followed with rarely a moment of hesitation. It stemmed from her past.
“My investment in what I do is feasibly the only thing everyone here knows about me.” A pained expression flashed on her face, gone a second later. Others couldn’t know her past, but there were things about her she could share, and should share with those who had been friendly. She couldn’t break through the wall in her mind to do so. “I like to think my archery and thieving skills are just as well practiced, even if others don’t see them as much.” Those words only left her mouth as she was trying desperately to remind the man of her other useful talents, reasons to keep her just in case he was beginning to think her too boring and useless to keep around for much longer.
There was something comforting about him asking her for something. It meant that, even if he was unsure of keeping her as she sometimes feared, he at least would test her before throwing her out. His request of her even seemed reasonable, or reasonable enough until he revealed who he wanted her to fight.
“You?” she dumbly repeated. “You want me to fight you?” Her eyes widened at the thought, and she looked over him as if looking at him truly for the first time. The build of his body was not unlike others she had engaged with in fights before, but it had been quite some time since she had fought an opponent. She practiced by herself in her tent, and an imaginary foe was not the same as a flesh and blood human being. And to fight the man who employed her? It was uncomfortable to think about. Still...
“I… I shall do as you ask.” There was a pause in her words, yet she sent the knife in her hand back to the target with a quick flick of her wrist. It left all the knives she’d brought in the board. If Amenemhat wished to fight with weapons she’d retrieve a few, but if she could avoid objects that could accidentally seriously injure the man, that was her goal. She hadn’t lied when she said her fighting skills were diminished without weapons, but it was a risk she was willing to take. Plus, if he wanted to see her, it was probably best he saw what she was weakest at in terms of fighting. And while diminished, she was still talented. Her hands reached up to tighten her ponytail, and then she was ready.
"My investment in what I do is feasibly the only thing everyone here knows about me."
A prison of your own making, girl. Come out of your shell and you'll find a family.
As the years between Somgi's death passed, leaving his legacy in the dust, the Tempest of Set grew and grew. Nearing the strength of both reputation and profit it'd possessed in the days of Amenhotep of Momoborah, the worries of the circus did not exist from within. Unified, or as unified as it could be, there was a sense of order within the Tempest of Set that served to be the vehicle through which chaos reigned. But, there was no mettle in cowardice, there was no merit in peace. Amenemhat of the Tempest of Set saw no reason for the circus he ruled over to be easy. Violence gave over to catharsis, the pleasure of blood seeping from wounds and falling onto heated sands was one that he needed to relish in more often.
"You'll show me everything you have to offer and more, won't you, Zephyra? Anything that can be used to draw yourself nearer is an asset."
The words, while they could be spun to seem flirtatious, carried none of the intonation. He'd issued his challenge, one that wasn't meant to be ignored. Rather, it wouldn't be ignored lest she find herself exposed to the ire the ringmaster. But, she didn't seem against the idea. Rather, she seemed completely at a loss for words. Dumbfounded as she seemed to look him over as if sizing up the threat that he could pose. Amenemhat was no waif. A body honed over and over again over the course of more than a decade in the circus, he exposed himself, even as a young boy, to the arduous training that the adult acrobats were expected. He'd run through blazing sands, pitted himself against enforcers again and again, then as he grew...
He remembered the strength of the beasts as they pulled at their reigns, intent on throwing him far away and feasting upon his entrails. He'd never been alone, but nonetheless, the beast master's job was no trifle and Nem relished in learning everything that he could about the circus that he was destined to rule. Scars littered not only his shoulders and back from... other indulgences, but along his legs, indentations in his chiseled body not quite visible but felt in the midst of countless cuts, scrapes and bruises that had healed over in the years.
"Of course you will," he agreed. Nem lowered to the ground, letting sand sift between his fingertips. Violence was a form of his worship to the God of Chaos, and the woman's bewilderment at the situation only served to enhance his amusement of it all. Of course, harming the girl permanently wasn't his prerogative. She was an asset, to be twisted to his machinations, but in his mind, welcoming her to his family, especially as a warrior and not merely a pawn, was the proper course of action. If words did not willingly fall from her lips, then blood could, instead.
He waited for her to be ready, for her position to be grounded in the sand before he advanced. His approach was cautious, for there was no purpose in bolting through the sand. He stepped from side to side, one hand raised in a guard as the other positioned itself, nearly fully extended with a hand open. He didn't figure her to approach him, not out of intimidation, but out of awkwardness. She was uncomfortable, but within the next few moments, he'd seek to have pain act as her liberation from doubt. A hand lashed out, intent upon striking her with the back of it... But...
Did she even raise a guard? What's she doing?
Meek, submissive, even? This wasn't the woman he wanted on his payroll. There were lithe acrobats who could serve as waifish or even demure in seeming. This woman was stockier, built like a fighter and she spat in his face by refusing to comply. He raised a leg, intent next upon hitting her square in the abdomen. He pushed his full weight in the motion, intent upon securing purchase on her before landing squarely on the sand once again. He shook his head in disgust, bronze eyes looking over the Greek woman before he said,
"This isn't a game. Come at me, Greek, show me you're worth keeping around."
There was a veneer of calm about his words, but the anger sought to broil to the surface, an explosive temper that he kept so firmly under wraps wanting to bubble and unleash itself upon the fighter who seemed to lack the will to fight.
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"My investment in what I do is feasibly the only thing everyone here knows about me."
A prison of your own making, girl. Come out of your shell and you'll find a family.
As the years between Somgi's death passed, leaving his legacy in the dust, the Tempest of Set grew and grew. Nearing the strength of both reputation and profit it'd possessed in the days of Amenhotep of Momoborah, the worries of the circus did not exist from within. Unified, or as unified as it could be, there was a sense of order within the Tempest of Set that served to be the vehicle through which chaos reigned. But, there was no mettle in cowardice, there was no merit in peace. Amenemhat of the Tempest of Set saw no reason for the circus he ruled over to be easy. Violence gave over to catharsis, the pleasure of blood seeping from wounds and falling onto heated sands was one that he needed to relish in more often.
"You'll show me everything you have to offer and more, won't you, Zephyra? Anything that can be used to draw yourself nearer is an asset."
The words, while they could be spun to seem flirtatious, carried none of the intonation. He'd issued his challenge, one that wasn't meant to be ignored. Rather, it wouldn't be ignored lest she find herself exposed to the ire the ringmaster. But, she didn't seem against the idea. Rather, she seemed completely at a loss for words. Dumbfounded as she seemed to look him over as if sizing up the threat that he could pose. Amenemhat was no waif. A body honed over and over again over the course of more than a decade in the circus, he exposed himself, even as a young boy, to the arduous training that the adult acrobats were expected. He'd run through blazing sands, pitted himself against enforcers again and again, then as he grew...
He remembered the strength of the beasts as they pulled at their reigns, intent on throwing him far away and feasting upon his entrails. He'd never been alone, but nonetheless, the beast master's job was no trifle and Nem relished in learning everything that he could about the circus that he was destined to rule. Scars littered not only his shoulders and back from... other indulgences, but along his legs, indentations in his chiseled body not quite visible but felt in the midst of countless cuts, scrapes and bruises that had healed over in the years.
"Of course you will," he agreed. Nem lowered to the ground, letting sand sift between his fingertips. Violence was a form of his worship to the God of Chaos, and the woman's bewilderment at the situation only served to enhance his amusement of it all. Of course, harming the girl permanently wasn't his prerogative. She was an asset, to be twisted to his machinations, but in his mind, welcoming her to his family, especially as a warrior and not merely a pawn, was the proper course of action. If words did not willingly fall from her lips, then blood could, instead.
He waited for her to be ready, for her position to be grounded in the sand before he advanced. His approach was cautious, for there was no purpose in bolting through the sand. He stepped from side to side, one hand raised in a guard as the other positioned itself, nearly fully extended with a hand open. He didn't figure her to approach him, not out of intimidation, but out of awkwardness. She was uncomfortable, but within the next few moments, he'd seek to have pain act as her liberation from doubt. A hand lashed out, intent upon striking her with the back of it... But...
Did she even raise a guard? What's she doing?
Meek, submissive, even? This wasn't the woman he wanted on his payroll. There were lithe acrobats who could serve as waifish or even demure in seeming. This woman was stockier, built like a fighter and she spat in his face by refusing to comply. He raised a leg, intent next upon hitting her square in the abdomen. He pushed his full weight in the motion, intent upon securing purchase on her before landing squarely on the sand once again. He shook his head in disgust, bronze eyes looking over the Greek woman before he said,
"This isn't a game. Come at me, Greek, show me you're worth keeping around."
There was a veneer of calm about his words, but the anger sought to broil to the surface, an explosive temper that he kept so firmly under wraps wanting to bubble and unleash itself upon the fighter who seemed to lack the will to fight.
"My investment in what I do is feasibly the only thing everyone here knows about me."
A prison of your own making, girl. Come out of your shell and you'll find a family.
As the years between Somgi's death passed, leaving his legacy in the dust, the Tempest of Set grew and grew. Nearing the strength of both reputation and profit it'd possessed in the days of Amenhotep of Momoborah, the worries of the circus did not exist from within. Unified, or as unified as it could be, there was a sense of order within the Tempest of Set that served to be the vehicle through which chaos reigned. But, there was no mettle in cowardice, there was no merit in peace. Amenemhat of the Tempest of Set saw no reason for the circus he ruled over to be easy. Violence gave over to catharsis, the pleasure of blood seeping from wounds and falling onto heated sands was one that he needed to relish in more often.
"You'll show me everything you have to offer and more, won't you, Zephyra? Anything that can be used to draw yourself nearer is an asset."
The words, while they could be spun to seem flirtatious, carried none of the intonation. He'd issued his challenge, one that wasn't meant to be ignored. Rather, it wouldn't be ignored lest she find herself exposed to the ire the ringmaster. But, she didn't seem against the idea. Rather, she seemed completely at a loss for words. Dumbfounded as she seemed to look him over as if sizing up the threat that he could pose. Amenemhat was no waif. A body honed over and over again over the course of more than a decade in the circus, he exposed himself, even as a young boy, to the arduous training that the adult acrobats were expected. He'd run through blazing sands, pitted himself against enforcers again and again, then as he grew...
He remembered the strength of the beasts as they pulled at their reigns, intent on throwing him far away and feasting upon his entrails. He'd never been alone, but nonetheless, the beast master's job was no trifle and Nem relished in learning everything that he could about the circus that he was destined to rule. Scars littered not only his shoulders and back from... other indulgences, but along his legs, indentations in his chiseled body not quite visible but felt in the midst of countless cuts, scrapes and bruises that had healed over in the years.
"Of course you will," he agreed. Nem lowered to the ground, letting sand sift between his fingertips. Violence was a form of his worship to the God of Chaos, and the woman's bewilderment at the situation only served to enhance his amusement of it all. Of course, harming the girl permanently wasn't his prerogative. She was an asset, to be twisted to his machinations, but in his mind, welcoming her to his family, especially as a warrior and not merely a pawn, was the proper course of action. If words did not willingly fall from her lips, then blood could, instead.
He waited for her to be ready, for her position to be grounded in the sand before he advanced. His approach was cautious, for there was no purpose in bolting through the sand. He stepped from side to side, one hand raised in a guard as the other positioned itself, nearly fully extended with a hand open. He didn't figure her to approach him, not out of intimidation, but out of awkwardness. She was uncomfortable, but within the next few moments, he'd seek to have pain act as her liberation from doubt. A hand lashed out, intent upon striking her with the back of it... But...
Did she even raise a guard? What's she doing?
Meek, submissive, even? This wasn't the woman he wanted on his payroll. There were lithe acrobats who could serve as waifish or even demure in seeming. This woman was stockier, built like a fighter and she spat in his face by refusing to comply. He raised a leg, intent next upon hitting her square in the abdomen. He pushed his full weight in the motion, intent upon securing purchase on her before landing squarely on the sand once again. He shook his head in disgust, bronze eyes looking over the Greek woman before he said,
"This isn't a game. Come at me, Greek, show me you're worth keeping around."
There was a veneer of calm about his words, but the anger sought to broil to the surface, an explosive temper that he kept so firmly under wraps wanting to bubble and unleash itself upon the fighter who seemed to lack the will to fight.
Amenemhat’s words seemed to be exactly what Zephyra needed. There was no mistake on her part to think that his tone was off and he’d indeed meant to flirt with her, and thankfully so as she had no desire to embarrass herself indulging in fantasies she knew other women in the circus held dear. Amenemhat was too much her master for her to ever wish for that, and while Zephyra wasn’t entirely certain of their relationship, she had heard murmurs that Amenemhat and Kesi were together. Zephyra didn’t fancy waking up to an angry Kesi with a blade one night if she so much as looked at Amenemhat the wrong way. Kesi was too unpredictable.
His words made her want to show him everything just to fully cement to him she belonged in the circus. Nearer to Amenemhat in his mind, professionally, would keep her where she wanted to be. It might even help her advance, if that was possible. It was a glimmer of hope. She would not fail him. “My only wish is to prove myself worthy of remaining part of this great circus, ringmaster.”
Zephyra took a deep breath and readied herself. For having lived years in Egypt, the shifting of the sand beneath her feet no longer threw her like it had when she’d first arrived. Fighting was different here, but in a way she liked it more. It was challenging. One of the ways she countered it was to let her opponent strike first, and she carefully watched Amenemhat as he approached. All she had to do was watch for an opening and strike herself, blocking what he threw at her in the meantime. Search for weaknesses and strengths. Remember her own. Be prepared to move as well as hold ground. Don’t let the sand trip her up… she knew what to do, yet when he drew close, it all left her mind. Her eyes unfocused and filled with fear as her memories took over.
It was not Amenemhat that she saw approaching her in that moment. It was not Amenemhat’s hand that was poised to connect with her cheek. Her mind and vision warped this master into the one that haunted her steps and darkened her dreams: Andras. She was no longer in Egypt, no longer a knife thrower in the circus, but was instead her teenage self, having just returned empty-handed to the moneylender’s vast home. To come back with half of what he demanded was to warrant punishment, and to come back with nothing at all meant only pain awaited the young woman. It wasn’t an option to not return.
The sting of flesh meeting her face was exactly what she deserved for failing. She took it silently, braced for more and fighting back the welling of tears in her eyes that stemmed from feelings of inadequacy and terror. Who was she if she could not do her job? What reason did he have to let her keep on living? It was only right for him to discipline her. If she was so lucky, he’d leave her able to walk so that she could do better again the next day.
But where was the shouting that always accompanied it? Where were the words reminding her that she was nothing? That her everything came from what Andras taught and gave her? Something wasn’t right. His leg connected with her middle, sending her sprawling back onto her rear with a pained gasp for air. Her fingers grasped at the ground only to find sand, and Andras’ leg was once again Amenemhat’s as she was thrown back into the present. A new kind of horror filled her, and an embarrassment she’d not soon forget.
“Amenemhat…” his name was a whisper that escaped her before she’d had the chance to keep it in. To her recollection, she had never spoken the ringmaster’s name aloud to him. It was always ringmaster or some other term of respect. Zephyra flinched at his words as she regained her breath. In the short span of time since uttering her wish to prove herself worthy she’d already shown she was not, and the ringmaster now doubted her.
That thought sent her back to her feet. “Forgive me. I do not know what came over me.” The lie came out shaky, and in order to try and hide it, she shifted forward, arm and hand extending upward in an attempt to smash his jaw. Not the prettiest or smoothest of moves, but she had to do something.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Amenemhat’s words seemed to be exactly what Zephyra needed. There was no mistake on her part to think that his tone was off and he’d indeed meant to flirt with her, and thankfully so as she had no desire to embarrass herself indulging in fantasies she knew other women in the circus held dear. Amenemhat was too much her master for her to ever wish for that, and while Zephyra wasn’t entirely certain of their relationship, she had heard murmurs that Amenemhat and Kesi were together. Zephyra didn’t fancy waking up to an angry Kesi with a blade one night if she so much as looked at Amenemhat the wrong way. Kesi was too unpredictable.
His words made her want to show him everything just to fully cement to him she belonged in the circus. Nearer to Amenemhat in his mind, professionally, would keep her where she wanted to be. It might even help her advance, if that was possible. It was a glimmer of hope. She would not fail him. “My only wish is to prove myself worthy of remaining part of this great circus, ringmaster.”
Zephyra took a deep breath and readied herself. For having lived years in Egypt, the shifting of the sand beneath her feet no longer threw her like it had when she’d first arrived. Fighting was different here, but in a way she liked it more. It was challenging. One of the ways she countered it was to let her opponent strike first, and she carefully watched Amenemhat as he approached. All she had to do was watch for an opening and strike herself, blocking what he threw at her in the meantime. Search for weaknesses and strengths. Remember her own. Be prepared to move as well as hold ground. Don’t let the sand trip her up… she knew what to do, yet when he drew close, it all left her mind. Her eyes unfocused and filled with fear as her memories took over.
It was not Amenemhat that she saw approaching her in that moment. It was not Amenemhat’s hand that was poised to connect with her cheek. Her mind and vision warped this master into the one that haunted her steps and darkened her dreams: Andras. She was no longer in Egypt, no longer a knife thrower in the circus, but was instead her teenage self, having just returned empty-handed to the moneylender’s vast home. To come back with half of what he demanded was to warrant punishment, and to come back with nothing at all meant only pain awaited the young woman. It wasn’t an option to not return.
The sting of flesh meeting her face was exactly what she deserved for failing. She took it silently, braced for more and fighting back the welling of tears in her eyes that stemmed from feelings of inadequacy and terror. Who was she if she could not do her job? What reason did he have to let her keep on living? It was only right for him to discipline her. If she was so lucky, he’d leave her able to walk so that she could do better again the next day.
But where was the shouting that always accompanied it? Where were the words reminding her that she was nothing? That her everything came from what Andras taught and gave her? Something wasn’t right. His leg connected with her middle, sending her sprawling back onto her rear with a pained gasp for air. Her fingers grasped at the ground only to find sand, and Andras’ leg was once again Amenemhat’s as she was thrown back into the present. A new kind of horror filled her, and an embarrassment she’d not soon forget.
“Amenemhat…” his name was a whisper that escaped her before she’d had the chance to keep it in. To her recollection, she had never spoken the ringmaster’s name aloud to him. It was always ringmaster or some other term of respect. Zephyra flinched at his words as she regained her breath. In the short span of time since uttering her wish to prove herself worthy she’d already shown she was not, and the ringmaster now doubted her.
That thought sent her back to her feet. “Forgive me. I do not know what came over me.” The lie came out shaky, and in order to try and hide it, she shifted forward, arm and hand extending upward in an attempt to smash his jaw. Not the prettiest or smoothest of moves, but she had to do something.
Amenemhat’s words seemed to be exactly what Zephyra needed. There was no mistake on her part to think that his tone was off and he’d indeed meant to flirt with her, and thankfully so as she had no desire to embarrass herself indulging in fantasies she knew other women in the circus held dear. Amenemhat was too much her master for her to ever wish for that, and while Zephyra wasn’t entirely certain of their relationship, she had heard murmurs that Amenemhat and Kesi were together. Zephyra didn’t fancy waking up to an angry Kesi with a blade one night if she so much as looked at Amenemhat the wrong way. Kesi was too unpredictable.
His words made her want to show him everything just to fully cement to him she belonged in the circus. Nearer to Amenemhat in his mind, professionally, would keep her where she wanted to be. It might even help her advance, if that was possible. It was a glimmer of hope. She would not fail him. “My only wish is to prove myself worthy of remaining part of this great circus, ringmaster.”
Zephyra took a deep breath and readied herself. For having lived years in Egypt, the shifting of the sand beneath her feet no longer threw her like it had when she’d first arrived. Fighting was different here, but in a way she liked it more. It was challenging. One of the ways she countered it was to let her opponent strike first, and she carefully watched Amenemhat as he approached. All she had to do was watch for an opening and strike herself, blocking what he threw at her in the meantime. Search for weaknesses and strengths. Remember her own. Be prepared to move as well as hold ground. Don’t let the sand trip her up… she knew what to do, yet when he drew close, it all left her mind. Her eyes unfocused and filled with fear as her memories took over.
It was not Amenemhat that she saw approaching her in that moment. It was not Amenemhat’s hand that was poised to connect with her cheek. Her mind and vision warped this master into the one that haunted her steps and darkened her dreams: Andras. She was no longer in Egypt, no longer a knife thrower in the circus, but was instead her teenage self, having just returned empty-handed to the moneylender’s vast home. To come back with half of what he demanded was to warrant punishment, and to come back with nothing at all meant only pain awaited the young woman. It wasn’t an option to not return.
The sting of flesh meeting her face was exactly what she deserved for failing. She took it silently, braced for more and fighting back the welling of tears in her eyes that stemmed from feelings of inadequacy and terror. Who was she if she could not do her job? What reason did he have to let her keep on living? It was only right for him to discipline her. If she was so lucky, he’d leave her able to walk so that she could do better again the next day.
But where was the shouting that always accompanied it? Where were the words reminding her that she was nothing? That her everything came from what Andras taught and gave her? Something wasn’t right. His leg connected with her middle, sending her sprawling back onto her rear with a pained gasp for air. Her fingers grasped at the ground only to find sand, and Andras’ leg was once again Amenemhat’s as she was thrown back into the present. A new kind of horror filled her, and an embarrassment she’d not soon forget.
“Amenemhat…” his name was a whisper that escaped her before she’d had the chance to keep it in. To her recollection, she had never spoken the ringmaster’s name aloud to him. It was always ringmaster or some other term of respect. Zephyra flinched at his words as she regained her breath. In the short span of time since uttering her wish to prove herself worthy she’d already shown she was not, and the ringmaster now doubted her.
That thought sent her back to her feet. “Forgive me. I do not know what came over me.” The lie came out shaky, and in order to try and hide it, she shifted forward, arm and hand extending upward in an attempt to smash his jaw. Not the prettiest or smoothest of moves, but she had to do something.
Amenemhat held a respect for power in all of its forms.
There was always physical strength, which he sought to extend to every corner of the circus through the practice regimen he enacted. Amenemhat considered himself rather strict, enforcing that everyone on his payroll needed the proper strength for their roles. There was mental fortitude, next, which was considerably more difficult to encourage. Mental strength, after all, would serve to give those within his circus the desire to have a voice. Unacceptable. Those within were tools to be hoarded and fixed to his machinations. They need only the strength he desired them to have. Nevertheless, those that possessed it found themselves valued and even respected for it.
Whether or not Zephyra was one of those people... remained in contention.
"My only wish is to prove myself worthy of remaining part of this great circus, ringmaster."
It was a good wish, an aspiration that he held full control over. Giving themselves over to dreams the ringmaster could not grant to his performers was folly, in his mind. Fix your aspirations to my horizon and I can make you anything you want to be.
It was only fitting that once she said those words, she began to ready herself. But, it was some kind of joke. She didn't do anything, instead letting herself be hit. She scarcely even seemed to react to it. Lost in her own little world, Amenemhat's concern waned, his fists clenching just a shade tighter until he kicked her back in the same engagement. She fell straight to the ground, leaving Nem stunned by just how much of a pushover she was being. He didn't enjoy beating on the weak. He had his overseers to do that for him.
Then, she whispered out his name. Rather than calling him by his title, she seemed to recognize the name. She heeded his words and then, she brushed up a shaky lie as an excuse. He wouldn't venture deeper into this just yet, but he recognized it for what it was. Her voice spoke to embarrassed dismissal, an effort to move past the flicker of weakness. The ringmaster shrugged his shoulders as she rose to her feet, then... she moved to the attack.
Fair is fair, he thought as he raised an arm, intent on striking her elbow with an open palm to re-direct the blow. As he did, he shifted his weight, a blow aimed for the woman's hip before he took half a step back to create distance between them.
"What's distracting you, knife thrower?" he asked. There was no mockery in his tone, even as he brought himself forward once more, a fist intent on meeting the woman's rib cage.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Amenemhat held a respect for power in all of its forms.
There was always physical strength, which he sought to extend to every corner of the circus through the practice regimen he enacted. Amenemhat considered himself rather strict, enforcing that everyone on his payroll needed the proper strength for their roles. There was mental fortitude, next, which was considerably more difficult to encourage. Mental strength, after all, would serve to give those within his circus the desire to have a voice. Unacceptable. Those within were tools to be hoarded and fixed to his machinations. They need only the strength he desired them to have. Nevertheless, those that possessed it found themselves valued and even respected for it.
Whether or not Zephyra was one of those people... remained in contention.
"My only wish is to prove myself worthy of remaining part of this great circus, ringmaster."
It was a good wish, an aspiration that he held full control over. Giving themselves over to dreams the ringmaster could not grant to his performers was folly, in his mind. Fix your aspirations to my horizon and I can make you anything you want to be.
It was only fitting that once she said those words, she began to ready herself. But, it was some kind of joke. She didn't do anything, instead letting herself be hit. She scarcely even seemed to react to it. Lost in her own little world, Amenemhat's concern waned, his fists clenching just a shade tighter until he kicked her back in the same engagement. She fell straight to the ground, leaving Nem stunned by just how much of a pushover she was being. He didn't enjoy beating on the weak. He had his overseers to do that for him.
Then, she whispered out his name. Rather than calling him by his title, she seemed to recognize the name. She heeded his words and then, she brushed up a shaky lie as an excuse. He wouldn't venture deeper into this just yet, but he recognized it for what it was. Her voice spoke to embarrassed dismissal, an effort to move past the flicker of weakness. The ringmaster shrugged his shoulders as she rose to her feet, then... she moved to the attack.
Fair is fair, he thought as he raised an arm, intent on striking her elbow with an open palm to re-direct the blow. As he did, he shifted his weight, a blow aimed for the woman's hip before he took half a step back to create distance between them.
"What's distracting you, knife thrower?" he asked. There was no mockery in his tone, even as he brought himself forward once more, a fist intent on meeting the woman's rib cage.
Amenemhat held a respect for power in all of its forms.
There was always physical strength, which he sought to extend to every corner of the circus through the practice regimen he enacted. Amenemhat considered himself rather strict, enforcing that everyone on his payroll needed the proper strength for their roles. There was mental fortitude, next, which was considerably more difficult to encourage. Mental strength, after all, would serve to give those within his circus the desire to have a voice. Unacceptable. Those within were tools to be hoarded and fixed to his machinations. They need only the strength he desired them to have. Nevertheless, those that possessed it found themselves valued and even respected for it.
Whether or not Zephyra was one of those people... remained in contention.
"My only wish is to prove myself worthy of remaining part of this great circus, ringmaster."
It was a good wish, an aspiration that he held full control over. Giving themselves over to dreams the ringmaster could not grant to his performers was folly, in his mind. Fix your aspirations to my horizon and I can make you anything you want to be.
It was only fitting that once she said those words, she began to ready herself. But, it was some kind of joke. She didn't do anything, instead letting herself be hit. She scarcely even seemed to react to it. Lost in her own little world, Amenemhat's concern waned, his fists clenching just a shade tighter until he kicked her back in the same engagement. She fell straight to the ground, leaving Nem stunned by just how much of a pushover she was being. He didn't enjoy beating on the weak. He had his overseers to do that for him.
Then, she whispered out his name. Rather than calling him by his title, she seemed to recognize the name. She heeded his words and then, she brushed up a shaky lie as an excuse. He wouldn't venture deeper into this just yet, but he recognized it for what it was. Her voice spoke to embarrassed dismissal, an effort to move past the flicker of weakness. The ringmaster shrugged his shoulders as she rose to her feet, then... she moved to the attack.
Fair is fair, he thought as he raised an arm, intent on striking her elbow with an open palm to re-direct the blow. As he did, he shifted his weight, a blow aimed for the woman's hip before he took half a step back to create distance between them.
"What's distracting you, knife thrower?" he asked. There was no mockery in his tone, even as he brought himself forward once more, a fist intent on meeting the woman's rib cage.