. (sharaf) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-10-03 23:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | adward sharaf, petra fortis |
thunderhead and the abyss (petra)
There had been little peace.
Oh, she wasn't one for shouting above and beyond desert wind, this Petra he'd managed to pick up somewhere along the way. She was perfectly content to walk behind him and laugh, just loud enough for him to hear. When he turned? She would deny it. They were quite the traveling pair, and there was nothing about the travel that made him feel better about his decision to have her along. Something in him said that this was going to be a mistake, and he didn't doubt it for a second, even if he had no evidence of that as yet. Petra was going to find a way to make him regret it if it killed her.
Hey, maybe it would kill her.
The only reason he'd felt even slightly relaxed was the wagon they came upon not far from Urt Ivis. Traders, with camels pulling the wagon, who had lost an axle to the desert. Half of one hour and a great deal of sweat later, the axle was replaced and the wagon was on its way again. Sharaf had agreed to let the wagon travel with them despite the absence of a tracker among the traders. Who could say what would possess them to make such a journey on their own? But even if they'd replace the axle on their own, more than likely they would have missed Urt Ivis entirely. They seemed not to know or care, and he did not attempt to tell them. He simply corrected their course by starting to walk, with an invitation for them to follow after if they chose.
"The fall is young but hot," one trader said.
"No one will want peppers in this heat," another said.
"The peppers were your idea," the first exclaimed. "Now you say they will not sell? They had better sell, iv, or so help me-"
None of them seem to think that speaking this way in a temple was probably a poor idea. Sharaf had little enough belief in the gods, but many of the people assembled in this temple did, and it seemed rather rude to disrespect them. He got his point across by holding a finger to his lips, up and down, indicating that they ought to shut the hell up before someone shut them up.
They got, Sharaf though, the message.
So now here he was, offering the traders a spare map of the city and advising them against going down too far. There were good people and fine homes close to the mining operations, but there were more liars and theives by far. Some of them would simply kill you. The rest would make you wish that you were dead. These traders couldn't have been older than twenty-two. They nodded and smiled and thanked him. Offered him a drink, which he was sorely tempted to take. But in the end they were too stupid to listen. Sharaf thought about turning them in to the local chapter leader, but the last time he'd tried to do something like that, the chapter leader had kicked him out. Nobody knew stupidity when they saw it. And certainly, nobody was in the mood to fix it.
During all of this, she was watching.
There must have been training that alchemists had. ob often managed to do the same thing. Look without looking. Seeming to weigh you and break you down into your base components without even trying. Sharaf had no use for the arts they practiced and even less use for the looks that they learned in their little school. As soon as he began to look cross, there was Petra with a smile or a wave of her fingers, as if she knew she was agitating him and would not be cowed by his anger. This was what ultimately made the walk into the temple miserable as sin. There were a thousand things he could have done to make her regret coming along. Goose her, maybe. Didn't matter. She was going to stay because she was a hateful creature.
Near the entrance to the city, he'd traded his flowing cloak for the peacoat of choice. It was buttoned to his collarbone in the style of the times, with his wide belt settled over it, and the tonfa knocking against his hips when his step was too long. The single glove he wore marked him for what he was without showing the brand, which was for most an unsettling sight. Perhaps even an unseemly sight. Sharaf was obvious about it from the moment they entered Urt Ivis, crossing that long bridge into the temple's building proper. Five sharp tugs on the glove to emphasize it, arm extended, lips twitching into a smile. No one was meeting his eyes. And certainly no one was coming close enough to knock into his pack.
"Where are we going?" Petra asked him, just as politely as you please.
"The Chapter House," Sharaf told her. "I want to drop off my gear. And find out if anybody's heard anything about this Wajih fellow."
The Chapter House was more than just a place to rest one's head. Or a place where you could gather information. No one was allowed in unless they were tracker, suspect or companion to a tracker. That meant the atmosphere was quite different there. It was not considered rude if your brand went uncovered. No one would stare at you as though you were a monster when it was readily apparent. And no one would pretend that you were normal to your face when you tried to lead them through the wilderness and into safety. Petra was not going to like being whistled at any more than Sharaf was going to like men whistling at her. But it was their choice, since Sharaf did not want to pay for an inn and he did not trust that Wajih would be hospitable to them.
At least, not until Sharaf loosened his tongue. Harm to a living creature was a bad thing, but sometimes unavoidable. Death from violence could be prevented. And in any case, death from violence was too simple an exit for many of these creatures and cretins.