Kif the Marked's page

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."

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.

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?"

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.

After making passage through the Eastern gates of the city, the Pens loom before Kif as a chaotic swirl of structure and squalor both. Sadly she notes that often the stables and facilities constructed for beasts of burden generally outweigh the comfort of those made for traded flesh. The two are segregated,and the stables blur away as her attention shifts to the human cargo.

Each of the slaver 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. Below them though and in most cases well guarded by competent seeming guards are a different sort of symbol. Garbed in poorly kept clothing and huddled into what fading shade they can muster are chained humans - black mwangi, tanned Kelesh and even a few fairer skinned specimens. Many have had their spirits broken and sit sallow eyed and despondent... those that yet have heart are occasioned by bruised faces, symbols of the opression faced by them.

Not all of the slave pens are downcast though, beyond the laborers are some cargos of gladiatorial slaves destined for distant fighting pits, or house slaves that are better groomed and kept so as to not reduce what price they might fetch.

Kif begins with the lowliest groups of slaves, striding along the edge of the pens, making no effort to disguise from the guards her interest in the unfortunates within. She tries to catch a glimpse of the captives' faces, even those that are turned to the ground in despair, paying particular attention to the few whose skin tone marks their Avistani heritage, particularly if they are human women. After finishing her circuit of the laborers, she gives the gladiators only a cursory glance before turning to the house slaves, with the same preferences as before, though with more avid curiosity and a more searching gaze.

Though she seems to be looking for one type in particular, she makes note of any slaves that are unbroken enough to meet her gaze. She has given Gemal the command to defend her from any unwanted attention, counting on his warning growl to alert her to any guards who might approach.

The other canines within the kennel keen and whine, but do not bother Kif overly... and she is able to liberate both herself and Gemal easily. The few people that she passes upon the backstreets do not look upon her with any degree of surprise, and she blends somewhat into the colorful background that Solku presents.

She passes by houses, warehouses and businesses of relative repute - real estate within the near distance of the Lambent considered higher class within the walls. At the Eagle Eye she notes a couple of patrons with what appear to be hefty hangovers being pushed and cajoled towards the compound of the Condor Company by a hefty and scarred Kelesh man. A sour looking dwarven man smirks from within the bar's confines. Neither pays her any particular mind.

Scars, Kif muses as she makes her way along the streets, they are as much a status symbol here as jewelry or gold braid might be in a town with a less violent history. She amuses herself for a while imagining princesses in the city of Katapesh trying to outshine each other by the prominence of their scars rather than embroidery and jewelry, but as she passes through the eastern gate, her expression sobers.

Even after so much time has passed, her stomach still twists itself into anticipatory knots every time she approaches a group of slaves, either in the Pens or in a caravan in the wilderness. While her reason tells her that she could not possibly know any of the unfortunates, her heart nevertheless beats a little faster in her chest as she prepares to overlook the stock. She has changed so much: Is it not foolish of her t think that anyone she once knew might not be as unrecognizeable as she? She frowns, covering her nerves with a forbidding countenance, as she walks up to the Pens, Gemal wagging his long tail innocently at her side.

Not sure what the security situation is, or if there are open-air pens or huts to enclose the sentient merchandise, but her intent is to take a look over any human slaves being held there without actually interacting with any of them. Whatever makes that happen.

Kif finds Khaled meet her lingering glance, though he proffers but a slight smirk before turning from it. She moves into the now swiftly heating air outside to skirt the wall of the Breakstride to it's adjoining kennel. The entrance is covered by waxed canvas hung freely, which when pushed aside sees her within. Apart from Gemal, she sees a half dozen other canines - ranging from a pedigreed terrier to a pair of mutts of indiscriminate birth.

The dogs are kept ostensibly to a stall apiece, though the ropes that adorn their collars allow a fair degree of flexibility of motion. All of the occupants greet her with the yip and happy pant of an animal becalmed.

Kif smiles at the dogs' welcome, already more comfortable in their company than among the human inhabitants of Solku. She drops to her knees to rub Gemal's long muzzle before loosing him from his restraints. "I know, I know," she croons to the thoroughly unfussed canine. "It's barbaric keeping you shackled out here like a slave. A sevenday, perhaps less, and we will head back to the fort where we can live like civilized people, eh? Yes, you glutton, I have your breakfast," she laughs, as he eagerly sniffs out the pocket where she secreted the meatballs. "Come outside first. I haven't enough for everyone," she explains in a stage whisper, glancing at the other inmates of the kennel. "No, I'm sorry," she tells the other dogs as they push back through the canvas curtain. "Perhaps when your companions have finished paying homage to the lady in the sun, they'll give a thought to their responsibilities in this world."

Walking out into the sunny street, Kif removes the bread-packet she wrapped the meatballs up in and tosses them, one by one, to the whip-thin dog, who gulps them down eagerly, wagging his tail with enthusiasm. When he has finished, she tosses him the greasy bread for good measure. "There, now, are you satisfied?" she asks him. "There are others more in need than you, handsome one: May you never know their want." She sets off in the direction of the eastern gate and the Pens beyond, taking the long way around to avoid the throng dispersing from the citadel.

Rather than take the main road through town, she'll take the southerly route past the Dawnflower's Pure Rest, the Illuminium, the Eagle Eye, and the Condor Company.

Kif moves into the Breakstride's common to find that the buffet is somewhat decimated, but still bears enough foodstuffs to pick over easily. The servers and Khaled don't pay her much mind, letting her keep to her solace. There is not much in the way of meat on the breakfast table, though Kif does spy some sealed meatballs upon one platter that survived the pre-dawn consumption.

Kif takes a flatbread and deposits several of the meatballs in it before folding it over as a packet to keep in the grease. A bit of her old squeamishness stirs at the sight of the meatballs. She has since eaten half-cooked game field-dressed, but at least she knows what she's eating. With ground meat and heavy seasoning, you never can tell: Dog? Horse? Cat? Geier? She shakes off the question with a shrug; Gemal will neither wonder nor care, as he'll happily scarf up offal from the ground when the hunters have cleaned their quarry if he isn't closely watched.

She ignores the scholar and the caravan guards, giving Khaled a lingering glance as she goes outside to fetch her dog from the Breakstride's kennel. For some reason, the man amuses her; she can't help but feel that he cultivates his long scar as another man might a beard: as a sign of virility, even if he is now reduced to protecting salads and breads instead of merchants' treasures. Aye, if size counts, yours is longer, she taunts him in her mind, but mine are more numerous.

Through the wall, Kif listens to the drone of conversation until the churchgoers depart, leaving behind only the scattered voices of the Breakstride's staff and a few late risers, too lazy or heretical to be drawn to services at the Citadel. Rolling away from the wall and to her feet in a single swift movement, she hooks an arm through the straps of the pack containing all her possessions, kicks her feet into scuffed and stained boots, and is stepping out into the common room while still tugging at the leather at the back of her calves to set her heels in place. With only the barest of nods to the halflings, she picks over what the earlier diners left of breakfast with the quick eye of the experienced scavenger, dipping some bread to eat even as she browses and popping scraps into her pockets for Gemal.

Even through the thick walls of the inn, the sound of the choir in full voice penetrates. Kif's face sours as if it is a screech or caterwaul instead of harmonious music. Despite her best efforts to ignore the canticle, she finds her lips moving as her mind supplies the words to the half-heard hymn sung by the crowd at worship in the square. With a scowl, she turns her voice from whispered song to a muttered oath and glances defensively around the depleted room to see if anyone is looking.

Kif lies still, keeping her breathing slow and deep, until the last of the early risers has left the common room. It's hardly the least comfortable position she's been forced to maintain: no sharp rocks or spiny plants to endure pressed beneath her, and only the threat of an awkward conversation at stake rather than discovery by a pack of gnoll slavers. It's only the enticing aroma of breakfast on the other side of the wall that keeps her from drifting back into slumber in truth rather than merely in guise.

Kif cannot help but be awakened by the noise of those rising around her, but she remains prone and keeps her face turned away, pretending that she is still asleep. She has no desire to field well-meaning questions about attending services at the Lambent Citadel. When the Sarenites have breakfasted and departed for the church, there will be time for her to emerge and pick through the leftovers. The staff are less likely to object to her pocketing tidbits for Gemal, as well, when the other guests have already had their fill.

The Breakstride has a few shared common rooms back-packer style if that's more Kif's kettle of tea? Or taking another step down, Fort Longjaw would have arrangements with some flophouses out next to the pens as well.

After giving it some thought, I'm going to stick with the Breakstride; I don't think she's masochistic enough to rough it quite on that level when she doesn't have to. A shared hostel room will be fine, though; she doesn't have anything she won't be carrying around with her, and the accommodations ought to be similar to the barracks at the fort.