Solo Marked

[Colt]

12th of fall, 513 a.v
early afternoon

A steady wind wove its whistling way through the colored canvas of Endrykas, tugging at clothes and flags and hair as it went. Syna reigned unhindered from above, warming the breeze so that it didn’t chill, just cooled. Birds fluttered between the carved poles, chattering at each other over some prize or another. Shahar glanced upwards at every one, half-expecting the familiar slate-gray feathers to be in their midst before remembering again and again that she had not come with him on this trip.

It was with pleasure that the hunter made his way back to the Amethyst Clan, though this time he was on foot. The pavilions were spaced openly, more so than the other Clans, and it was easy for him to remember where he was. He could breathe in the Amethyst Clan, and it put him at ease far better than the other districts.

Wind Skins was a larger pavilion, at least by Shahar’s standards. He approached from the front, which provided ample view of the entrance and its hangings of paintings and sketches, or examples of tattoos put into stretched pigskin. Inside was dim, but not dark; the walls seemed to have a bit of sheerness to them, allowing the light of the outside to bathe the inside, marbled as it was by the coloring of the walls. The hunter slowed as the reached the mouth of the tent, eyes lingering on the multitudes of designs hung about. There were so many, and they were so complex; Shahar wondered with alarm if he was supposed to draw his own, or if someone else would choose it for him, and what exactly it would entail.

“You here to get your windmarks, love?”

Shahar jumped at the unexpected voice, catching sight of the woman leaning lightly against a support beam. She was not young, but neither was she old. Her face was angular and her skin smooth, exposed arms proudly displaying a lizard-thing tattooed onto her left shoulder. Her eyes were playful in a way that Shahar was unsure how to react to, so he awkwardly looked down as he signed yes.

“I thought so,” she said. “Come inside.”

[Colt]

Shahar ducked a small bit when he stepped into the pavilion, though the entrance was more than wide enough for an easy passage. The interior was larger than he’d imagined, filled with pillow-mattresses and blankets for sitting or laying upon. There were a few people sprawled here and there, each tended to by what Shahar assumed to be a tattooist hunched over their skin, but beyond that he could not perceive was it was they were doing.

She led him to one of the back walls, where a low table was strewn with various pieces of chalk and slate. The woman settled herself gracefully onto one of the cushions, gesturing for Shahar to do the same, and pulled some of the drawing materials towards her side of the table.

“My name is Jarorra,” she said as he took a seat. “Now, what exactly are you looking for?”

Shahar blinked at her. Hadn’t it been made clear that he was here for windmarks? He gestured to her tattoos, then to his own body.

“Yes, I know you want a tattoo,” Jarorra said, arching an eyebrow. “Else you wouldn’t be here. But what kind of tattoo?”

There were kinds of tattoos? Shahar fidgeted, suddenly worried. He didn’t know anything about tattoos, not nearly enough to differentiate between kinds. Jarorra, sensing his discomfort, softened the slight sarcasm of her gaze.

“This would be your first, wouldn’t it?”

Yes, he admitted.

She sighed and put down the slate and chalk. “Alright then. Let’s talk about you.”

Him? Why?

“Because your windmark must be yours. Unique to you, and to you alone.”

Alright…

“Who are you?”

What an absurd question. I am me.

A sigh. “You’re not giving me much to work with.”

… I’m sorry?

“Alright then, what do you do for a living?”

I hunt.

“Ah, an Emerald?”

No.

She gave him a slightly exasperated look. “Then what are you?”

… human? What else would he possibly be?

“Love, I can’t do much with those kinds of answers.”

Then give me different kinds of questions. Really, this woman was quite strange.

She leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment. “Very well,” she said, opening them. “Where do you spend most of your time?”

His answer was unhesitant. Grasslands.

“Doing what?”

Many things. Her expression caused him to quickly elaborate. Hunt. Track. Look closely, and watch. Sometimes just sit and listen.

That answer seemed to satisfy her. She picked up the chalk and slate again, teasing a line into existence as she continued. “You enjoy listening?”

Yes.

“To what?”

Wind. Birds. Grass.

“Why?”

They say much, and they use little. Unlike Drykas.

She paused in her sketching. “And why is that?”

Drykas are opposite. They talk and talk and talk, but do not say much at all.

She laughed, then, crows’ feet around her eyes crinkling merrily. “Yes, I understand what you mean. How does this look to you?”

[Colt]

The image on the slate she offered him was roughly triangular in its entirety, though almost wing-like in the way it branched to the sides.

“You are abstract,” she explained, “so you seem like you need an abstract windmark.”

Well that made no sense to Shahar, but he didn’t spare it too much thought. She had done this before, so she knew how it was supposed to work, and the design was nice to look at even if it didn’t really depict anything. But then again, a hyena’s stripes didn’t depict anything either, and Shahar had caught himself admiring patterns once or twice. And this windmark, it was to be his own pattern, wasn’t it? Like a cheetah’s spots proved it a cheetah, his marks would prove him a Drykas. And like a cheetah, his mark would be his own, shared by no one else.

Was that what she had meant when she asked ‘who he was?’

Shahar reached a hand towards the slate, fingers hovering just above the chalk. He ghosted along the lines, exploring them, testing them. Yes, he decided. Yes.

Jarorra nodded, a hint of pride in her smile. “Good, very good. Where would you like it?”

Back. That was where all proper markings went on the wildkin, and so it was where his would be as well.

The woman hmmed and looked at the design, tilting it and glancing from the slate to Shahar and back. “It will have to be large,” she said, “so it will take some time. The design itself isn’t particularly complex, though, so I don’t imagine it’ll be difficult to make the lines. And I do have an apprentice that is more than capable of filling in, so if we work alongside each other we might be able to have it finished today.”

Today? That sounded like a long time, longer than Shahar had anticipated, but Jarorra was already on her feet before he could question her. “This way,” she said.

Shahar warily stood and followed. The artist gestured to a thing that was not quite a large pillow, but was not really anything else, either, and the hunter obediently lay on his stomach. He tensed when she put a wet cloth to his back, and she placed a warm hand on his spine reassuringly.

“Easy,” she said, even though the physical contact granted him no such calmness. “I can’t do this if you’re tense the entire time.”

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Shahar dragged in a deep breath and forced himself to accept the presence of her hand. She did not speak, did not move, but simply stayed there, waiting for him to be ready. His muscles loosened as he exhaled, almost melting into the mattress beneath him. She kept the hand still as she began to clean his back with the other one, wiping away the dirt and grime of years spent in the outside. And still he refused to lock up.

“It will hurt, at first,” she murmured, as if Shahar was a skittish colt to be soothed by soft words. “But it will be bearable. After awhile it will be easy to ignore.”

He focused on the steady movement of the washing-cloth, accepting the fact that it was not dangerous, that Jarorra would not harm him even if he could not see her. She seemed to sense how much trust he was handing over to her by lying still, and so she continued to talk as she put the cloth away, though she still kept her stationary hand rooted to his back.

“A hundred mizas should be right,” she almost whispered. “But that will be taken care of afterwards. It is simple, and it only has one color, so you won’t have to spend a fortune on ink.”

He listened to her words, but listened even more to her voice. It was lilting, farther instilling the sense of calm that Shahar was trying so desperately to hang on to. She continued to talk about tattoos, and his mind wandered away from his fear, even as he heard the sound of wood against wood as she opened her toolbox and set the things she needed around her. It was alright. Yes, it would be alright. She dipped a three-pronged thing into a vial of black and bend over his skin, poised to begin.

This was what would make him Drykas, once and for all.

- End -

ooc :

I ballparked the price and time for this tattoo. Also didn't feel like writing the entire rest of the day, so I'm ending it here, but once Jarorra's done the lines then an apprentice will join her to help fill it in, effectively halving the remaining time.

100 gold mizas have been deducted from Shahar's ledger.

[Praetorian]

Shahar

Observation	+2 XP
Rhetoric	+1 XP

• Shahar's Windmarks Design
• Jarorra: The Woman With A Thousand Questions

Notes :

I don't know if Shahar means to come off as snarky, but I love it. I love it so much that I'm still grinning.

Not too much to award here, I'm afraid, but it got the job done!

Have any questions, comments, or concerns? Think I missed something? Feel free to message me.