Siddig checks left and right before moving casually towards the dropped goods. Desna smiles, he thinks as he steps over and snatches up a bundle of silk nonchalantly. Not looking back, he continues on his way as if all is absolutely as it should be, and turns down the next side street.
Khepri finds an open spot to begin his forms, getting a good sweat going before too long. He pays no attention to any new comers as he immerses himself completely in his practice.
Not one to let opportunity pass him by Siddig scans over the fallen goods for what might not be missed. Pause is given him by the most of the goods consisting of large rolls of fabric weighing enough to need two or more to manhandle them about. While he could attempt to drag one away... he figures that it would be hard to miss such a theft given the bright light and number of observers.
More likely as a potential is a smaller bag of swatches spilled near the wagon's head. It's small enough to be concealed beneath robes and from the splay of color looks to be samples of the better fabrics aboard the wagon train.
__________
Moving amongst the groups of slaves, Kif finds that her approach is met with appraising gaze... but the guardsmen are used to having potential clients browsing the wares before sale or auction. They give her a neutral nod of acknowledgement that serves to advise her that they are aware of her... and she guesses that their interest would be heightened if she did anything worthy of closer suspicion.
Among the laborers she finds that the most of them are local Keleshites or Garundi, a mixture of those born to the work and those that perhaps could not pay debts that the Pactmasters to the East were owed. Their condition is similarly mixed... from the solid bulk of those that have already worked at field or forge; and the softer skin of those that lived with paved stone beneath their feet. The remainder of the skin waxes from the black of Mwangi to a rarity of lighter skin of those far from home.
There are no Avistani among the laborers... and from the brief glance shown the gladiators she doesn't spy many females and definitely none of Avistani heritage.
When she moves to look over the house slaves, she finds the guards more attentive - and at the first enclosure she approaches a pair of men - one Mwangi and one Kelesh rise and begin to approach her.
When she moves to look over the house slaves, she finds the guards more attentive - and at the first enclosure she approaches a pair of men - one Mwangi and one Kelesh rise and begin to approach her.
Kif continues her measured pace toward the slave pen, ignoring the guards' approach. It's not until they actually get in her way that she acknowledges their presence. "Can I help you?" she asks flatly.
Interested in keeping his solitude, Khepri finds his practice uninterrupted as respectful acolytes and paladins both leave him to his forms.
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As Farah performs for change... she spies in at least two of the locations persons that stand out as... odd. Both wear a hooded cloak in brown and have their faces hidden. They move at staccato pace, sometimes stepping quickly and at times also pausing at stall or store... but never seeming to buy anything.
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The Mwangi stands silent as the Kelesh man moves to stand before Kif as she approaches. Given that her demeanour is less than sanguine he responds as flatly "I doubt it... You here to buy or looking on behalf of your master?". No hands have gone to weapons and there is no naked aggression, but they are wary.
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For his trouble Siddig easily lifts the bag of swatches that he spied and withdraws from the tumult surrounding the fallen wagon. Making good his escape he moves out of easy range and through the gate.
Kif feels her body tense with anger at the man's assumptions. Let them think what they like of you, she counsels herself. You hardly look like you're buying slaves for your own pampered household, do you? "I'm shopping for a new ladies' maid," she replies insolently. "My last proved her incompetence at hairdressing." She runs fingers through her short, ragged hair as she begins to move around the interposing bodies. "People are allowed to view the wares, are they not? Before they're all prettied up and their faults painted over on the block?"
~
The Black Blade's many-tiered voice is little more than a soft whisper in her ear.
"I do." The dancer replies, her voice lost in the market sounds. "What do you make of them?"
It replies flatly.
"Then let us welcome it." Farah finishes her routine with a flourish, dismissing her Dancing Lights. She collects her meagre earnings, pouring the coppers into a small pouch before melding into the crowd.
She moves purposefully, moving through the crowd in a lazy arc as she closes in on the hooded figure, hoping to get a glance of its face.
Twelve feet. A monkey screeches in the distance, rattling the wooden bars of its cage.
Nine feet. A small whirlwind whips about her, jingling the dancer's bells upon her waist.
Close now. Almost close enough to touch. A pot-bellied merchant moves before her, obscuring her view, straining beneath the weight of a tremendous ceramic vase. His brow gleams in the sun-light, drips of perspiration running down to his greying mustache. Farah cranes her neck to look past him, trying to keep sight of the man beyond...
Kif's boldness is rewarded with a grunted nod from the Kelesh as the Mwangi also makes way for her to walk towards the gathered slaves - which are within a ramshackle structure so as to be shielded from the sun. As you walk towards the Kelesh rambles "Sure enough you can take a look... just being careful. You have any specifics in mind?" talking as easily as though they were discussing what cut of meat to serve at dinner.
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Farah is able to move through the crowd of people though not without some forcing of her way. When a burly merchant that smells strongly of stale fish blocks her view a moment, she loses track of her quarry within the mill of people.
Farah heaves out a sigh as her eyes fruitlessly scan the crowd. Nothing.
She readjusts her veil, her curiosity unsatisfied. It looks like this would be a mystery for another day. Her stomach growls, reminding her of how little she had to eat since the morn.
As much as she hated to concede it, the blade was right. She was too hungry and too tired to be chasing phantoms.
Kif's boldness is rewarded with a grunted nod from the Kelesh as the Mwangi also makes way for her to walk towards the gathered slaves - which are within a ramshackle structure so as to be shielded from the sun. As you walk towards the Kelesh rambles "Sure enough you can take a look... just being careful. You have any specifics in mind?" talking as easily as though they were discussing what cut of meat to serve at dinner.
Stepping under the edge of the shelter, Kif waits a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. They may sing the praises of the sun every morning, she muses, but everyone is glad enough of the shade when they can find it. "Specific enough that I'll know it if I see it," she replies curtly, then softens a bit. "Are there any Avistani?" She scans the assemblage to see how many are collected and what categories they may fall into.
Erasmes waves away the hookah. "Why, I have visited the City of Brass, sadiq. Now it is time to greet the Dawnflower. Come along, Sajjad."
Erasmes jingles as he walks, bright colours and gaudy silks turning eyes wherever he walks. He makes his way to the Citadel to wash his face, chattering conversationally to his companion. "My purse grows lighter by the day, Sajjad, and with the roads closed, well..." he strokes his beard. "Let us just say it will have to be Okeno all over again. You remember what to do."
He rolls up his silk sleeves, revealing several garish brass bracelets, and begins to fill several glass vials from his haversack before making his way into the temple for his morning prayer. Still shaky from his dream, he lingers briefly in the threshhold of the door, prostrating himself before the goddess three times before hastily making his way back toward the street.
Smiling to himself, Sidding throws the bag over his shoulder and continues nonchalantly onward toward the Pens.
The Kelesh man follows Kif within the shelter shrugging "Don't know for certain... ain't had too much of an eye for race meself" the Mwangi remaining out the front as she browses. There are maybe twenty slaves in the building. They are not restrained by chain and at Kif's entrance look up towards her with the meek and slightly sad eyes of people with broken spirits. All of the slaves bar a few boys are women, and the racial split favors white skin above black. Among the press she spies a few features that she thinks could be Avistani... but would need the girl separated from the others to know for certain.
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Moving through the city gates and into the Pens, Siddig sees them plain as a chaotic swirl of structure and squalor both. The trade of human flesh is mostly segregated from that to house beasts of burden - and activity swirls through both sides of the facilities with lazied intent.
Each of the slaver and stockment trade guilds is noted with posted colours - signs of Abadarian scales, piles of coin and castles flitter with the wind; images graven onto rich colors of scarlet, emerald and gold. Private guardsmen are prevalent and merchants move to and fro within the Pens itself.
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Farah gives up the chase and is returned to her own thoughts and devices as food and drink are sought. Street vendors are the easiest means to acquire it and though shade becomes ever scarce as the sun moves towards the middle of the sky, the lee of the larger buildings provides enough succor for enjoyment without too much discomfort.
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The den of iniquity that Erasmes resides is still somewhat quiet as he departs. The streets between there and temple are more busy with the passing of carts and people milling to and fro. Arriving at the Citadel he sees that the most of the square is empty - acolytes attending to matters within and devotees much thinner upon the ground now that the Dawn's prayer is already a memory. The Citadel's main hall is open and unguarded except for some priests amicably discussing the finer points of sermon and worship just outside the doorway.
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Khepri's lone training is gradually swelled with the arrival of devotees of the temple, swelling to a dozen or more, but there is still a languidity to the training as they clearly await the arrival of more. Eventually a messenger boy arrives with a note handed to one of the older Paladins. He reads it and a pensive frown begins to form upon his face.
Seeing the messenger and the reaction of what the note says, Khepri makes his way over to the older paladin. Once he gets there he introduces himself and says, "I couldn't help but notice that whatever that note says is not good news. Is there anything I can do to help?"
The man (who you know to be Adar Bilyadin) looks to Khepri and gently shakes his head "I do not think so... Marjan will not be sending her guards to train today. No matter, we will proceed without them."
The Kelesh man follows Kif within the shelter shrugging "Don't know for certain... ain't had too much of an eye for race meself" the Mwangi remaining out the front as she browses. There are maybe twenty slaves in the building. They are not restrained by chain and at Kif's entrance look up towards her with the meek and slightly sad eyes of people with broken spirits. All of the slaves bar a few boys are women, and the racial split favors white skin above black. Among the press she spies a few features that she thinks could be Avistani... but would need the girl separated from the others to know for certain.
Kif hesitates. "Her," she points to the girl in question. "Could I ask her a question? Or you could ask for me, if I'm not trusted to speak to the merchandise," she concludes sardonically. "Ask where she was born."
Khepri nods at Adar's words, "Very well let's begin with who we have."
Inside however Khepri is conflicted. Instinctively he wants to investigate why she won't be coming, but knows the guard should be able to handle whatever is going on, Still maybe I should wander about after the training session just in case
Siddig covers his face with the long end of his turban, to better hide his disgust. Such an unfortunate fate, these damned wretches have to endure. At least the livestock are blissfully ignorant of their slavery; the people know all too well of their bonds.
He continues walking through the Pens, eyes and ears open for opportunities to make some quick coins, all the while fighting off dismay and distaste.