In the winter, the markets are quite busy late morning. The sun has been up long enough to warm the air and the sand, but it has not gotten quite as hot as it will be, in the late afternoon. Teiran walks through pushing, wandering, talking bodies as stiffly as she can. Trying to look sharp, and hard, and not in the way of cracked glass or broken stone.
She’s busy trying to emulate something that that used to be normal, busy trying to remember what it was like to just be a soldier. Things had been easier, before Raum—there had been her duty, and that had been all, none of these things fighting for space inside her like desert winds, crushing her, threatening to erupt from her skin.
Teiran is too busy trying to remake her life into what it used to be, to notice the merchant leering at her with dark, shadowed eyes. He sidles up to her like a dog, dirty with years on the streets. He sidles up to her like a serpent, and slips the dagger out of the sheath on her left side before she has a chance to stop him. Her sapphire eyes narrow, hard as the gem in the mouth of the snake which makes up the pommel of her weapon.
“A mighty fine weapon you’ve got, darling,” he says, words grating against her skin like coarse grains of sand, burying themselves deep into her flesh. “You be willing to part with it? I’ll give you a good deal,” she might laugh, if it were in her to know how. Teiran steps closer to him, grasping the dagger, “I wouldn’t sell this to you, even if you weren’t a thieving rat. Drop it.”
Any humor the merchant might have had bleeds from him like beer from the kegs in taverns on cold, lonely nights. “Is that so?” he asks, stepping closing, bumping his chest up against hers. Her skin crawls. A crowd is beginning to draw. “How about this pretty little piece ‘round your neck, then?” the merchant drawls, almost wickedly. He is a good foot taller than her, if not more.
She can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows what he’s doing before he does it, but he still stupid for trying. “Will you sell this to me?” he clasps down around the silver collar, at the same time everything in her body goes cold, cold, cold. In a matter of seconds, there is a second dagger at his neck, wavy blade biting against the flesh there.
“If you do not let go of me and my dagger, I will kill you,” there is no warmth to her voice, no humanity, there is nothing in her but the weapon that had been created nearly seven years ago. There are many eyes watching them now, but she doesn’t see them, doesn’t hear the shock and concern in their voices. The merchant tries to laugh, but her dagger is pressed too tightly to his throat. She sees the moment his stupidity finally gives way to reason, or fear. Teiran doesn’t care which.
He releases her, and her other weapon, and takes a few steps away. “And if I ever see you treat anyone like this again, there won’t be a warning next time,” she sheaths the first dagger, then glances at the second, “Oh and this one? It won’t miss.” Then she walks away.
Sound and sensation return to her slowly. The burning cold and the strange, echoing emptiness fade. The crowd parts; she knows what they think of her, it is the same things they have always thought of her. Pity, fear. Some call her a monster. She has never cared, but now there are so many cracks in her that she isn’t sure what she feels. Their mutterings and whispers follow her down the street.
"Speaking."
She’s busy trying to emulate something that that used to be normal, busy trying to remember what it was like to just be a soldier. Things had been easier, before Raum—there had been her duty, and that had been all, none of these things fighting for space inside her like desert winds, crushing her, threatening to erupt from her skin.
Teiran is too busy trying to remake her life into what it used to be, to notice the merchant leering at her with dark, shadowed eyes. He sidles up to her like a dog, dirty with years on the streets. He sidles up to her like a serpent, and slips the dagger out of the sheath on her left side before she has a chance to stop him. Her sapphire eyes narrow, hard as the gem in the mouth of the snake which makes up the pommel of her weapon.
“A mighty fine weapon you’ve got, darling,” he says, words grating against her skin like coarse grains of sand, burying themselves deep into her flesh. “You be willing to part with it? I’ll give you a good deal,” she might laugh, if it were in her to know how. Teiran steps closer to him, grasping the dagger, “I wouldn’t sell this to you, even if you weren’t a thieving rat. Drop it.”
Any humor the merchant might have had bleeds from him like beer from the kegs in taverns on cold, lonely nights. “Is that so?” he asks, stepping closing, bumping his chest up against hers. Her skin crawls. A crowd is beginning to draw. “How about this pretty little piece ‘round your neck, then?” the merchant drawls, almost wickedly. He is a good foot taller than her, if not more.
She can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows what he’s doing before he does it, but he still stupid for trying. “Will you sell this to me?” he clasps down around the silver collar, at the same time everything in her body goes cold, cold, cold. In a matter of seconds, there is a second dagger at his neck, wavy blade biting against the flesh there.
“If you do not let go of me and my dagger, I will kill you,” there is no warmth to her voice, no humanity, there is nothing in her but the weapon that had been created nearly seven years ago. There are many eyes watching them now, but she doesn’t see them, doesn’t hear the shock and concern in their voices. The merchant tries to laugh, but her dagger is pressed too tightly to his throat. She sees the moment his stupidity finally gives way to reason, or fear. Teiran doesn’t care which.
He releases her, and her other weapon, and takes a few steps away. “And if I ever see you treat anyone like this again, there won’t be a warning next time,” she sheaths the first dagger, then glances at the second, “Oh and this one? It won’t miss.” Then she walks away.
Sound and sensation return to her slowly. The burning cold and the strange, echoing emptiness fade. The crowd parts; she knows what they think of her, it is the same things they have always thought of her. Pity, fear. Some call her a monster. She has never cared, but now there are so many cracks in her that she isn’t sure what she feels. Their mutterings and whispers follow her down the street.
