Open Different, still and always.

[Shara]

timestamp: fall 89th, 512 av Beside her, Aakol loped in the fast paced gait she had, a pace that Shara easily kept with the stride of her long legs. Being a woman of action, and one bred for dance and war no less, she usually carried the war scythe her clan was famous for among the fangs of the Myrians, the scythes they used to represent their love for Dira. It was one of many ways, as if the tattoos or their name in itself that didn't give that impression quite fully. The brindled dog, too, was a testament to the profession of those members that didn't exactly follow the war-bound path of their people or the dance-bound path she, and her sister, were born to follow. A ghost-dog, Aakol was used by those rare individuals that practised the art of communing with the dead. Keeping Aakol had once risen hopes that Shara would join dance and Spiritism, but so far she showed no inclination to do so. She wanted to move, as always, and be as fluid as water and as loose as wind. The dog was a promise that one day she might look to the dead, but it was a promise not made to be binding. Turning her attention from Aakol to her surroundings, Shara focused in clearing her mind. The dog was a distraction, to be sure, and even if a pleasant one she did not like the thought of being caught unawares, even in her unarmed status. Without her scythe, she felt naked and harmless, and that wasn't something any true Myrian should feel. Restless, even more so because of her 'infirmity', Shara went on alert for surprises as she 'took a stroll' through Zeltiva to find something to do. If she were at home, the lack of work would have disturbed her. Someone would have smacked her with a stick for being so lazy and she would have understood. "Aakol, find me something." Shara said to her companion in the Myrian tongue. Aakol merely barked and Shara grinned the feral grin of an amused Myrian. "Well, I will, then." She was nearing the docks now, and against the backdrop of the open sea, she must have been quite a sight. A Myrian woman, tattooed in a stylistically morbid fashion, with bones dangling in her hair and pierced into her skin, standing and facing towards two stone obelisks that had jutted from the waters the day of the Storm. She might have looked incredibly out of place to the right person, especially considering the brindled dog that sat by her legs before running off to frolick in the water splashing into the planks of the docks.

[Arianthe Swansong]

Arianthe had been sitting by one of her docks, cross-legged, writing slowly in her book - her mind wandering dreadfully, and although she tried to concentrate on the poem she had just written, it was useless. It was as thought her mind had been stuffed full of heavy fabric, which made it difficult for her to think, still less rhyme and write coherently.

He drew me through the caprices of an infant's heart
Carried me upon great shoulders made of stone and velvet
Crushed velvet, made so by the tears of a reckless child
Who gave him cause to chide and pull her closer
I wish he'd chide me now.

She shook her head violently and felt the tears rise in her eyes. Good - she still knew how to cry for the ghosts of her past, something which she had seldom been able to do recently. It was then that a harsh jut of water hit her squarely. She half-coughed, half-spluttered, and raised an arm as if to protect herself - poor protection since, as she opened her eyes, she could see the thinly spread droplets of water lacing her eyelashes. Through this fast disappearing veil of water, she noted a ghost-dog and, a moment later, a woman.

If Arianthe was surprised by the strange appearance of the woman who, from what Arianthe had read in books and seen a few years ago at the fur market, could only be Myrian, her face did not betray anything. Maybe the tattoos, the dangling bones, should have been the first thing she noted, instead the fierce and incredibly handsome beauty of the woman struck her. She looked away and turned back to her book, congratulating herself on choosing a spot where she could see anyone, but it was a lot harder to see her unless you deliberately intended to. That said, she could not stay much longer, wet-through. Although her health was not of great concern to her anymore, for the sake of Hexe, she had to avoid a cold or getting a disease of some sort.

[Shara]

The Myrian was unable to miss being stared at. She could feel it in the crawling of her skin that someone, somewhere, was watching her. She could even see the girl out the corner of her eye. A slender girl, pale and pink like a human with light hair. A face easy to forget among the many faces that were similar. She looked at the girl, meeting her eyes with the sharp gaze a warrior woman could summon. In her homeland, blatant staring could be used as an excuse for a challenge but in these savage lands this was not so. They were weak and unfit here and fights to uphold honour were frowned upon. Sometimes she really missed Taloba and her sisters. "Need something?" Her Common was guttural and broken, chewed and spat out. It lacked the finesse of Myrian and the rhythmic quality civilised speakers added to it. Her accent came out though but combined with the words of Common it sounded harsher. "Stare not good. Stare make mad. Mad not good." Her accent gave the words a threatening tone even though Shara meant it only as a warning. She had not brought her scythe out and so felt she didn't come off as intimidating. However, it was easy to forget that the savages of the unclaimed world were often weak in will and body and would see her size as a threat.