lugalkusiga.

           “Ì-zu-a. Kal-ĝu géme Kāl-me.”

Kāl is engulfed by a sense of wholeness; to be so appreciated – ( even adoured, perhaps? She cannot violate him by speaking well of herself on his behalf ) her purpose is utterly fulfilled in that. She has served him better than she could have hoped, and to hear such words!! The blush that comes upon her cheeks is so deep it looks almost like blood smeared upon her visage.

magnialexii.

           “——You’re a very handsome creature. ”

                A superb Galatea carved from the mountains themselves, dressed in the warm sand, and her sword just as earthly and modest, Muu could do little to hide his admiration. Her scar, dug into her flesh, only made her far more fearsome; nothing he hadn’t already seen before. Perhaps he might cross swords with this Amazon ( all good sport ). Luxury nearly the point of decadence, he thought Remano was beautiful and still does, but this city – grand Aššur –  was the truer oasis in the golden sands and dust with flora he’d never beheld before in all his travels.  

                “ I’m afraid I’ve arrived ahead of my party. Are you the gatekeeper? ” Her stoicism answered for her and Muu only nodded and added with empty cheer. “ Oh, I suppose not. ” He’d left his litter behind. the journey was painful for a big man in a ^tiny box, roasting as the sun rose to high noon – and now he waited for the noble entourage to catch up at the walls, filling the silence. “ You’ve a name, perhaps? Me, I’m Muu of the Alexii. ”

Brow quirks a non-committal response, a slow inclination of the head acknowledging his praise and accepting it as it was, no movement from her post initiated at his approach — she had hailed, and he had come, such was proper decorum and now he withstood the bulk of her stare — a warm, silvery thing that pierces like a knife. ❛Twas an occasion of mutual appraisal, it would seem; the appreciation in his gaze as he looks upon her blade is un-mistaken. Gold can lie, as can pearls and smiles and pleasures of the flesh — but scars and steel do not lie. ( He is kindred with her warrior ilk — a pleasing notion. )

The façade the smooth-tiled roofs and expertly trimmed streets create — a land of wealth; a land of abundance; a land of equanimity — deludes residents and visitors alike, blinding them to the inner turmoil of the State and the mælstrom of the latter Hierarchy. The nobles play their Game of Power and the people toil along their frivolous paths, either oblivious or un-caring. She, however, hadn’t the luxury of selective in-awareness, as her status demanded that she partake in the Game. Her Sworn was an impetuous, vain man, capable of little else than complimenting his own reflection ( — yet by some Blessing of the Originals he possessed enough wisdom to attempt to strike a rapport with foreign Empires, to gain allies ), though of this she mutters no word nor allows any tincture of ill-sentiment to grace her visage. She recites the formalities —— ( they turn to ash upon her tongue ).

                ❛ I am Kālǐnn, Patū-Kīnatü, Mouthpiece for His Greatness;
                                    you are welcomed here, Mū of the Alexï. ❜

Sprigs of spring burrs mellifluous speech, top-notes smooth and richly enunciated, her reply mirrored in his own language and heady with foreign descent. Her statement is a song and a song is her statement, no less delicate than it is fierce, enforced with rich under-tones that fortify the sweet clipping of words not born from her country. Lyre-tessitura confirms the femininity of the armour-clad warrior, lips as soft as any other demure maidens’ — eyes as hard as honed steel. Her presence was no coincidence, nor happening of Fate, but anticipation of a noble entourage — her bow is curt ( how does her fumble-fingered Master presume to make an ally of such a strong-willed people? ), and the succeeding statement is brusque and breathy;

                         ❛ Aššur is your home until you desire to leave. ❜

Her pronunciation is awkward and disjointed, yet no less beautiful ( as is all in this domain! Golden sand, whimsical architecture, vibrant flora — textiles of rich fabrics and people of rich inheritance! Beauty has transformed the landscape ). She turns with a flourish, extending an arm towards her guest while her mere motion signals the opening of the thick, oak-wood gates behind her, a grand happening as hinges spit dust and men cry their labour as they open the colossal inner-gates for the Servant and the Visitor.

❛ I shall be your — escort, your tenure in Aššur. His Greatness will not see you until the rest of your entourage arrives and has rested — desire you refreshment or change of clothing? ❜

She is persuasive in movement, coaxing him through the gates towards the Gardens, all regality and quick to occupy his attention —————— the gates creak shut behind them.

Summer winds course across an arid scene, dust swirling through the air, hazing the horizon into a thin line; mountains etch a massive display upon that sea of sky, blotting out the sun and imposing a stalwart, un-changeable shadow. Though the desert reigns supreme ( it always has, here ), the city beholden to this un-forgiving place seems quite the opposite. Magnificent infrastructures blot against the sky, sparkling and pristine whilst laden river-beds pour through open gate; effulgent fauna pours over garden walls over-looking preened denizens who about the wide, mud-brick paved roads. Truly a sight to behold even in a place so rich is a stately woman, clad in armour as if it were pearls, with streaks of vibrant gold and red crusted along the hilt of dangerously-curved blade.

     ❛ Ṭaḫû. ❜

steelboned.

             ❝  —a face in these barren wastes! Tell
                                        me, do you know these lands well?   ❞

mesukku | starter call.

Winds caress the fields and rustle the rings of iron meticulously braided into tresses of mahogany, a chiming of gentle clinks resounding o❛er the dried landscape. She stands not alone, a peculiar thing; eyne blink a curious rhythm, peering at the woman who so spoke unto her. Words do not broach from her throat —— she remains stoic, un-moving and un-responsive, awaiting some further cause to remain stationary. ( Otherwise, her feet would carry her on-wards, hearkening only to the itch of Wandering. )

rmnant.

     ❛ gotta wonder how sitting around helps anyone. ❜

          arms CROSS, irritation stemming from a  L A C K  
                  of immediate PURPOSE ; only growing as his fingers tap
                          an idle tune across a forearm swathed in cloth  &&  leather. 

        ❛ –––– – ya stuck here too? ❜

Were the meaning behind what he said to eclipse upon her consciousness, surely it would spell the destruction of whatever infinitesimal thread of spiritual support held her afloat within the sea of misery that constituted her every day affairs. A brow quirks aloft, semblance a plane of curiosity as head cants e❜er so-slightly to the side, peering at the idle boy, the surceasance of muscle’s ripple enforced by a stalk-still conformation of her stout frame; it is, perhaps, ironic how he mentions ❛ sitting around ❜ in such an indignant timbre, and she ( all wrapped in iron and war-heralding armaments ) was all but active, rather lazy in her lax seat on a nearby bench —— comfortable to do absolutely nothing.

In place of reply, she simply stares, wondering whether he would venture further comment or recede into the silence to which she was so accustomed.

First it is a jolt of shock, then a searing of flame which scorches her insides with its fervent burning – a fever upon a worn pommel, hands blistered from exertion as the comely itinerant straightens a bowed back ( metal grinds and hisses a protest which durst not be uttered by the Silent Mercenary, for she’s a given mission to accomplish, either by her survival or death ) and rondels are set agleam by her fortitude. A mess of men lay about the ground, severed limbs and cleft bodies, the blood-soaked earth turning to mud beneath her feet and drawing her into it with wet sucks and violent grip.

What has she to do but breathe? A solemn inhale, preparation made for the next on-slaught of adversaries, only for eyne to widen and behold a man whose stance proves him a true warrior – perhaps a smile then imbues itself upon blood-crusted lips, aching fingers and battered body wishing for naught but to relax; she willfully does so as she gazes upon him, sheathing blade and head faltering forward in exhausted cant, eye-lids fluttering a rapid rhythm. ( Best to die to one as noble in posture as he. )

destinedtopacify.

An inclination of the head ensues as given thanks, the mug taken from her hands. It was not so uncommon to bear witness to such spectacles —— it was one thing to learn how to fight, it was another to learn how to fight to win. Many were too precipitated to prove themselves once they were handed their first blade, and consequently the lack of practice showed. The armour alone was questionable. Unfavourable for one thing, but also disproportionate to their physical constitution.

 ❛ How long has it been since we last placed bets ? ❜ He might have chuckled once, in tandem to this enunciation. Instead his tone was eerily bereft of any such warmth, a trait to which she had likely grown accustomed to.

Keen gaze reflects a modicum of pity for the under-prepared adversaries and their war-mongering efforts which were sure to end in naught but broken wrists and mangled pride; ❛tis the fact that the stage of such a disparaging quarrel is that of a tavern —— establishments of they and their ilk prone to witnessing drunken acts of gallantry —— and not that of a battle-field christened by the blood of the in-experienced which leads to her dis-approving gaze, likened to the frown of a disappointed parent. The one who had over-extended their wrist —— a gaze alike a smoldering flame ( it glints, warped emotions rolling inwards and decimating themselves in an endless tumult of nothingness ) looks upon he, experience marring her visage with a scowl. Though he had made a mistake and damaged his wrist, the ill-fitting armour covered that new weak-point, and the other boy lacked the control required to knock the blade from a weakened grasp.

A chink follows after a swift movement, silent as stone, dropping the entirety of her coin into her companion’s out-stretched hand, motioning to the recently self-immolated boy ( though nary proffering himself forth upon the doorstep of death he had surely hurt himself in such a manner it was practically embarrassing for any and all experienced on-lookers ), noting him to be the one upon which she placed the worth of her livelihood. In-experienced he may be, but natheless she’d a notion that in-experience was what would assure his triumph.

kxrei.

      ‘ you look as though you are confused.
                 perhaps i could be of some assistance. ’

Perhaps the vacant stare that graces her visage alike an etching into a cliff-face is reason enough to assume her dis-orientation, and for the fact that she raises no protest it can be discerned that she’d not the ability to refute the ( over-whelmingly obvious ) observation. What assistance can this man offer a wandering soul? Starless gaze peers at him with newly alit curiosity, re-placing forgone dubeity.

caeruuleus.

                                 ❝  ah —– are you injured? ❞

                  SYMPATHY     IS  BUT A SIMPLE WHISPER. THOUGH
                  he’s offered no    assistance   ( verbally ),     it is HEAVILY
                  implied. if she REQUESTED aid, she would RECEIVE it.
                  ANGELIC hymns are softer  ( and   less   audible )    than
                  DEMONIC howls.    nonetheless,    he’ll contend with his
                  dilemmas —- a battle that shall    ONLY   transpire within
                  himself: SILENT and HIDDEN from    all  other ( potential )
                  spectators. 

❛Tis a strange thing, immobilization: muscle protests the strain of nerves, ligaments hardened like stone, impeding thought and movement alike ( the fires of synapses a burden upon her reflexes which attempt to react to instinct on her behalf ); there’s a sickening squelch which slinks through the silence heretofore unbroken, it adds a note of apprehension to the air, thick with revulsion and dismay. Two fingers are lodged within a hole in her side, blood seeping from ❛twixt the gaps of her fingers as they scrape at the insides, sinew shriveling away, or screaming in protest and tightening the fabric of her being into ropes of agony. Teeth bare into flesh, brows dip in consternation, fingers push deeper in determination, and blood screams crimson as it drips down her side in angry streaks, plopping to the ground in defeated blobs.

It’s the call of a voice which stirs her from her pain-laden stupor, body collapsed against a wall painted with her life’s blood, fingers knuckle-deep in the wound, vision hazy and eye-lids heavy; a gaze flickers through a series of blinks, confusion borne as she cannot place herself, where she is – only the burning in her side, and the wet sound of dying. ( She hopes he’s here to end her. )

abrideoffire.

               ❛ That is as close as I’ll have you come, my lady. He is not quite so fond of those he does not know. ❜ yet her black purrs beneath the brush of digits, and though he appeared singularly focused on her ministrations, an eye of red would remain steady upon their visitor. this dragon mother in her turn would, too, bring focus to this woman, silvern crown to incline. ❛ To whom do I owe the honor? ❜

_mesukku.

Fascination brims upon the lashes of warrior eyne, irises alight with love as she gazes upon the mighty beast for her very own. Dragons, they to whom she devoted prayer and hope, the Creators and forces of Nature which promoted life – a weary back nearly cripples beneath the weight of her grief in that very moment. ( What cruel test of Fate was this, to allow her the sight of a dragon, when one most beloved could no longer see with mortal eyne at all? )

As beseeched, no forward movement is thereafter made, and she durst not further intrude upon the solace of this place – and so she reaches into a tanned satchel, removing from it a tribute for the Black which laid its head across the Queen’s lap; a chunk of meat, freshly acquired and clean in scent, a gift for the One whose crimson eye stared at her something critical. Outward it is stretched ( a foolish thing to do! ), proffered forth by leathern-clad hands as the itinerant kneels to the ground before them both, extending the only thing she had to offer, and placing it upon the ground in ceremonious flare. Crimson dusts her cheeks and chin declines in bashful reproach, for meeting her should be no honour; embarrassed is she, to have the gall to prostrate herself before two figures so venerated! Mute tongue cannot voice response, and by no wish of disrespect does she not reply – umber brows knit together as apologetic gaze flickers towards that of the Mother of Dragons’ – an earnest plea within steely hues. She had come to pay respects, no more. ( In of itself a horrific lie – she desired to see a dragon, to have hope stoked within the cooling hearth of her heart. )

nrro.

        IT IS a HARSH morning, ergo his temperament 
        is fraught with the sanguineous yells & shouts
        owned by the night prior ; demons left rotting
        before the ever-present witness under title of 
        the m o o n. all his fervent fury seems lost to
        the pensive gaze he has fixed on his blade, his
        mental gears turning at a pace not measured. 
                             said voltaic anger is brought forth 
                             once more in the face of a stranger, 
                             whose footsteps had been lost to 
                             sounds yet raging in his mind. he
                             did not take kindly to the element
                             of SURPRISE, this day or others.
            ❛ who the HELL are you? ❜

Gentleness becomes the incertitude of her approach, footfalls silent ( she no more than a passing apparition, a mere shadow on the wall in her passage ), curiosity flickering within matte eyne that glance towards mangled corpses and smatters of gore, unperturbed by the sight. More oft than not, she was the perpetrator, the one performing such heinous acts of destruction – though to the end of these creatures she bears no sympathy, as they deserved naught to remember their existence – and steely gaze fixates on each remnant, to assure that they were indeed expired, afore moving on.

Upon the form of a man her gaze resides, peering without shyness at him and his posture, blinking only once at his barked query, retreating a pace. No reply ruptures forth from the prim of her lips as they press into a rigid line, pursed as head inclines forard in a slight bow. The very last intention harboured within her breast was to spurn conflict.

istrasa.

     silvern emblazoned one’s breast, whereby invoking an arrant eye and hence a poise of marble finesse truly illustrious and elicited just. oft little a woman bore sword in intrepid quintessence, chiefly glome — aye, the princess gawked thusly and fawned of brimming resolute and the sod of glome seemingly TREMBLED, ungit brooded psyche’s beauty wherefore unbeknowst, albeit istra herself favored the bellona twofold and mayhap envied the autonomy of stride. light caught stygian flesh and a breath blessed the air in MARVEL, an approach thence sought via sandaled footfall.

          ‘    women are not usually taken as soldiers in glome,
                  not even our allies do so. for what reason have you taken a breastplate?   ‘

       nativity wrought her bones. foolishness!      ‘ i mean NO offense, we simply do not have that freedom. have you come to stop the prodding people? i cannot cure their fever.. oh — but i LONG to. i hope you think no ill of me. ‘     a ponder enlivened she, ‘ i fear you do not think my tongue be loose, but i ——— the fox, my grandfather, has rumored of amazonian women who bear WAR — the achaens are so wonderful. you must be from the greeklands? ‘

From whence she hailed is not the province of Glome, nor any of the lands of the area proper; a Stranger in a Strange Land, her origins lie beyond the fringes of their territories, far from their grasp, dwelling within the embrace of a sunken moon and waters abysmal. There’s naught whispered amongst the trees ( for they gossip alike the pansies, the endless rustle of leaves their whispers, the breeze the rumors about which they scurry about on their branches ) and her approach is solemn and silent, antiquity and sullen reserve borne within her gait.

Forsooth! The suggestion that the bearing of arms and breastplate was a choice was nigh laughable – were there any humour to be found in the mere insinuation. Nay, it was not a choice, but a birthright. Pre-ordained Fate had been doled upon her before such a time as her birth, and from her had been wrenched all prospect of a life spared from strife and war, and in its place had been fostered a blade and a mantra that for all that happened – she was responsible. Naught which would transpire o❜er the course of her life would be the fault of any other but her alone, and as such neck is craned ❛neath the cumbersome weight of Oath and Duty, supported by the metallic companion about her neck.

Armour had proven to be a reliable friend, and a constant companion where other had made swift departure. ( How she laments their deaths, that she’d failed them so. )

Offense is not taken to any comment made, though to a certain word her approach greets surceasance; ❛tis a breath of truth that indeed, War was borne whereupon she tread ( such was the nature of a mercenary ) though ❛twas no intention of hers to ravage the Earth. She came not in animosity, and no bellicose notion with her step – only that her talents may be of use; a knee is bent and taken to the ground, typical decorum of oaths of fealty, and thereby displays her peaceful nature. ( Do not think ill of her, for she intends no ill upon your people, and if thou should accost her for aid – glad she shall be to provide it, hence her arrival in such a time of strife. )

styxgian.

        Twenty winters in summers that taste like slang. Nineteen days of dying, the eighteen years of trying not to—— a corpse collection; her shoulders whisper their apologies for all the doubt they’ve caused, for mothers know naught but how to eat.

     ( I buried my heart in an apple orchard. I HOPE IT ROTS! )

     ‘ ….. I feel nauseous? ‘

Her memory has long since collapsed, the conduct of the day naught but muscle-memory rather than conscious decision; she no longer pondered on where to allow her feet to tread – they beat into the earth as they would, and she followed, no will of her own denying sole’s wandering.

A glance sideways thrown upon vocalization’s birth, mien a stony face bearing no emotion as a mire to the indifference there displayed. Eyne fall to meet the other’s, a brief contact intimate and probing, curious though reserved – and immediately thereafter she retreats inwards into herself, probing gaze retracted as stare is directed away from the girl, a gesture of respect. ( She’d not intrude where she is unwelcome. )

iriise.

     She was tall. So tall that it was quite an awkward scene; the sounds of the popping & locking & jamming of the belt was nearly unbearable… “A piece is on the floor. Of your belt.”

Marked ascension of brows commences as eyne flicker, lids fluttering as gaze is cast alow to the sight of clasped hands worrying away at a leathern belt. Though cognizant of the presence of another she had been, nary an indication that she had noticed was so much as alluded to in her stance, for she had not shied away nor glanced in their direction, and the bow of her head was the first that she had made.

A stare lingers upon the fall❜n item for the breadth of several seconds, before she stoops to retrieve it, and proffer it to the other – she’d little care for it, and assumed that by garnering her attention that the other wanted it for themselves; with such a notion she’d no qualm.

kyuseiishu.

         nimble digits delicately   weave and sift through thick, dark tresses; for it
         was requested   that he finish the woman’s braid, or at least that is what
         he     had  assumed. countenance does not depict displeasure, but mild
         agitation   will soon arise. braids were not his specialty — not to mention,
         such tasks were tedious ! alas, he sighs whilst in the midst of completion

             ❝ alright, that should be good enough. ❞

To forsake pride and beseech another for aide in a task so menial is humiliating, eyne cast alow, digits threading betwixt each other in bashful fervor, worrying palms against each other as she lingers nervously as his fingers deftly plait her hair – a thing which she had attempted herself to find only swift defeat at the sheer length of the locks. A while she had struggled, unable to reach properly. And he had offered assistance, a kindness she is unaccustomed to, with nary a request in return. Teeth wear an edge along lips battle-worn ( and typically adorned with the pallor of death! blood has stained them crimson ) in her wait, lashes flickering and the bulk of her person shifting after he speaks aloud; a shy gaze sent over her shoulder, brows elevated and a firm line made by the press of lips together.

Brethren of battle recognise each other upon sight, whether or not gore adorns them at the time of encounter; a particular aura exudes from them, and as such, a thankful incline of the head is all that she offers in return – aside from the resolve to follow him and aid him in a similarly physical manner ( whether or not he approved was a matter irrelevant; either way, she would help him ).