M
malina
Guest
Original poster
@Vellum
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Taj-ul-Mamlaka. The jewel of the Serkit Shahnate, an empire which stretched over thousands of miles of land; whose reach claimed all from the shores of the sea to the deserts of the undying. For being the Shah's personal stronghold, however, Rami al-Sayyad found it to be quite underwhelming. It still had its fair share of street rats and he'd caught more than one picking at his jewelry despite his arrival only two days ago. Of course, he hadn't actually entered the inner city just yet - his hunting partner had yet to arrive. His light pockets reminded him of his dire situation; inns weren't cheap. If his fellow Hashashin, Emre al-Sayyad, did not arrive in another day or two, Rami would have to either sleep in the streets or sell some of his accessories. Which he was loath to do - he held the jewels to his heart like a lover. Even if some of the "rubies" were just mere garnets.
Rami walked along the bazaar with far more swagger than his coin allowed him to own. At least the selections here were good. Fruits from all over, exotic furs, perfumes, sweetmeats - and this was only the outskirts of Taj-ul-Mamlaka. His height let him tower over the crowd, letting him inspect even the more busier stalls.
"Lady with the jewels! Bashir here has opal rings for half-price! Why don't you come take a look?"
Rami smiled deviously. He'd often used his appearance to better his haggling skills. Perhaps there would be a ring or two that his handful of denars could afford.
As he inspected the goods, he couldn't help but notice the merchant open and shut his mouth intermittently. It was his height that bothered people so - or so it usually went. Sometimes, Rami would use their "rudeness" and make a scene to embarrass them further. It would usually end up in slashed prices, unless the seller was more experienced with con-artists such as himself.
"This ring," Rami slipped it on his index finger, "where was it from?"
"Ah, my lady has a good eye for quality!" The merchant was back in his element. "The silver was made in the far reaches of Khersan, while the opal comes from the mines of Sehlmai. See here - that hint of purple just peeking its head through that lovely red colour. Very rare - it's a seasonal thing."
"So it's authentic, then?"
"Of course, of course! Bashir only stocks the most valued gems, all for the market's lowest prices! For a lovely face like yourself, I'd be willing to shave off a few denars off the final price."
"Which is?"
"Sixty denars."
Rami turned his hand to the sun, admiring the way the ring glinted. The opal was truly beautiful and he wished that the sun would set for him to compare the two. However, the price-tag was beyond his budget by two or three handfuls. Rami made a great show of sighing and pouting before slipping the ring off back onto the hopeful merchant's table. He made no response; his interest seemed extinguished now that he knew Rami could not afford it. Clearly, this was no novice.
"If you sell Bashir one of your lovely headpieces, I am sure your ladyship would have enough to buy the ring," he added on hopefully.
Rami's eyes tightened before his hands flew up to his turban. He'd affixed a great many jewels onto the cloth, many of which had cost over two hundred rupees, let alone denars. Who did this merchant think he was fooling? Rami was no naive servant girl; he knew the market prices no matter how pretty a ring was.
"I think not," he snapped. "Good day."
"Bashir is here every day!" The merchant called out hopefully to his retreating back before going back to calling out the women in the street.
____________________________________________________________________________
When midday hit the streets of Taj-ul-Mamlaka, Rami had bought himself a piece of flatbread, over-cooked lamb, and a small bottle of wine for lunch. Sat underneath a tree, he watched the traders flow in and out of the city gates. Were any of them Emre al-Sayyad, perhaps? He flipped the few coins he had remaining as he ate. The shade felt good after a long morning of browsing the stalls.
"Emre..." he muttered.
His mentor had warned him of this particular Hashashin. Supposedly, Emre was an elf. His kind were already rare enough in the Shahnate - what kind of elf would join an organization meant for hunting down his own kind? Sure, elves weren't ghuls nor djinn nor nasnas. But they were monsters yet, weren't they? Some of his friends had sworn that they'd seen elves sell human bones - gnawed on at the ends. At the very least, Rami thought, they were supernatural. And this one elf was supernaturally late.
"How long am I going to have to wait?"
Rami threw the empty bottle aside, earning him a glare as it crunched underneath a trading caravan's wheel. His mentor hadn't told him much else beyond the fact that Emre was short. A fact, considering their races' height, that was virtually useless. He'd already mistaken two elves and one child for Emre already - they hadn't responded well.
"At least tell me what clothes he's wearing."
At times like these, Rami almost regretted leaving the Oracles in the first place. For all their faults, they at least had order. He'd never had to wait two minutes for clients to come and go. His meals were served at exactly midday, not a second more or less. But the Hashashins? His mentor had been a very, "go-at-his-own-pace," kinda man. He'd tell Rami to ready their horses by dusk and come the next morning, telling him of the wonderful sleep he'd had. Asking him if he'd be willing to analyze what his dreams had meant. And when Rami had reproached him, his mentor had merely pulled the "building patience" card. He had almost quit right then and there.
As much as he'd have liked to however, Rami was honour-bound to stay with the Hashashins until his death. It was a favour he owed to a friend he had wronged. Rami considered himself lucky that this was all that had been asked of him after all that he'd done. He shook his head. Memories landed on him like flies on a camel's ass - if it wasn't his wrongdoings, it was the days he'd spent training to become an Oracle. He still remembered the first time he was coached to dance. He'd questioned how this helped them divine their deities' messages from the stars.
"Organizations need funding," they'd replied. "Now, again. You want to please your customers, do you not?"
Rami frowned at the bandages covering his feet. The years spent at the Oracles' temples had not been kind to his body.
"Sir, please! Anything you can spare - Bethelem graces the generous."
Rami smiled. It seemed that beggars throughout the Shahnate employed the same tricks. Snatch a child, take off a hand or two - sympathy was a powerful seller. He watched as the trader doled out a few denars before shaking his head.
"Aren't you merchants supposed to smarter than that?"
The man looked up, his brow furrowed. The children snatched the coins out of his hand before disappearing into the nearby alley.
"Yes, scram, you weasels!" His cheeks flushed, whether it was from wine or the sun was unknown.
"They're children!" The trader walked over, signalling to his brethren to carry on without him. The caravan rolled on dutifully, the mules heaving to pull great loads of spices.
"They're weasels. The denars you just gave them," Rami scoffed, "just went into the pockets of whoever's been pimping them out."
The man's eyes hardened. "You don't have children of your own, do you?"
Rami let out a peal of laughter. What he would give to reveal the truth to this man.
"You can give me some coins too, if you're just going to throw them away like -"
His cheek smarted something awful - an all too familiar feeling for Rami.
"You have quite the remarkable tongue for a woman. By Bethelem, did your father never teach you the virtues of a woman?" He tucked his hand back into his sleeve. "Beauty fades. You may find yourself a crone not before long - I suggest you start showing proper respect."
Grabbing his batan, Rami ripped it open to reveal his bare torso. Were the clothes he were wearing not enough? Had the Oracles disfigured him to this point?
"I'm a man, idiot."
__________________________________________________________________
Taj-ul-Mamlaka. The jewel of the Serkit Shahnate, an empire which stretched over thousands of miles of land; whose reach claimed all from the shores of the sea to the deserts of the undying. For being the Shah's personal stronghold, however, Rami al-Sayyad found it to be quite underwhelming. It still had its fair share of street rats and he'd caught more than one picking at his jewelry despite his arrival only two days ago. Of course, he hadn't actually entered the inner city just yet - his hunting partner had yet to arrive. His light pockets reminded him of his dire situation; inns weren't cheap. If his fellow Hashashin, Emre al-Sayyad, did not arrive in another day or two, Rami would have to either sleep in the streets or sell some of his accessories. Which he was loath to do - he held the jewels to his heart like a lover. Even if some of the "rubies" were just mere garnets.
Rami walked along the bazaar with far more swagger than his coin allowed him to own. At least the selections here were good. Fruits from all over, exotic furs, perfumes, sweetmeats - and this was only the outskirts of Taj-ul-Mamlaka. His height let him tower over the crowd, letting him inspect even the more busier stalls.
"Lady with the jewels! Bashir here has opal rings for half-price! Why don't you come take a look?"
Rami smiled deviously. He'd often used his appearance to better his haggling skills. Perhaps there would be a ring or two that his handful of denars could afford.
As he inspected the goods, he couldn't help but notice the merchant open and shut his mouth intermittently. It was his height that bothered people so - or so it usually went. Sometimes, Rami would use their "rudeness" and make a scene to embarrass them further. It would usually end up in slashed prices, unless the seller was more experienced with con-artists such as himself.
"This ring," Rami slipped it on his index finger, "where was it from?"
"Ah, my lady has a good eye for quality!" The merchant was back in his element. "The silver was made in the far reaches of Khersan, while the opal comes from the mines of Sehlmai. See here - that hint of purple just peeking its head through that lovely red colour. Very rare - it's a seasonal thing."
"So it's authentic, then?"
"Of course, of course! Bashir only stocks the most valued gems, all for the market's lowest prices! For a lovely face like yourself, I'd be willing to shave off a few denars off the final price."
"Which is?"
"Sixty denars."
Rami turned his hand to the sun, admiring the way the ring glinted. The opal was truly beautiful and he wished that the sun would set for him to compare the two. However, the price-tag was beyond his budget by two or three handfuls. Rami made a great show of sighing and pouting before slipping the ring off back onto the hopeful merchant's table. He made no response; his interest seemed extinguished now that he knew Rami could not afford it. Clearly, this was no novice.
"If you sell Bashir one of your lovely headpieces, I am sure your ladyship would have enough to buy the ring," he added on hopefully.
Rami's eyes tightened before his hands flew up to his turban. He'd affixed a great many jewels onto the cloth, many of which had cost over two hundred rupees, let alone denars. Who did this merchant think he was fooling? Rami was no naive servant girl; he knew the market prices no matter how pretty a ring was.
"I think not," he snapped. "Good day."
"Bashir is here every day!" The merchant called out hopefully to his retreating back before going back to calling out the women in the street.
____________________________________________________________________________
When midday hit the streets of Taj-ul-Mamlaka, Rami had bought himself a piece of flatbread, over-cooked lamb, and a small bottle of wine for lunch. Sat underneath a tree, he watched the traders flow in and out of the city gates. Were any of them Emre al-Sayyad, perhaps? He flipped the few coins he had remaining as he ate. The shade felt good after a long morning of browsing the stalls.
"Emre..." he muttered.
His mentor had warned him of this particular Hashashin. Supposedly, Emre was an elf. His kind were already rare enough in the Shahnate - what kind of elf would join an organization meant for hunting down his own kind? Sure, elves weren't ghuls nor djinn nor nasnas. But they were monsters yet, weren't they? Some of his friends had sworn that they'd seen elves sell human bones - gnawed on at the ends. At the very least, Rami thought, they were supernatural. And this one elf was supernaturally late.
"How long am I going to have to wait?"
Rami threw the empty bottle aside, earning him a glare as it crunched underneath a trading caravan's wheel. His mentor hadn't told him much else beyond the fact that Emre was short. A fact, considering their races' height, that was virtually useless. He'd already mistaken two elves and one child for Emre already - they hadn't responded well.
"At least tell me what clothes he's wearing."
At times like these, Rami almost regretted leaving the Oracles in the first place. For all their faults, they at least had order. He'd never had to wait two minutes for clients to come and go. His meals were served at exactly midday, not a second more or less. But the Hashashins? His mentor had been a very, "go-at-his-own-pace," kinda man. He'd tell Rami to ready their horses by dusk and come the next morning, telling him of the wonderful sleep he'd had. Asking him if he'd be willing to analyze what his dreams had meant. And when Rami had reproached him, his mentor had merely pulled the "building patience" card. He had almost quit right then and there.
As much as he'd have liked to however, Rami was honour-bound to stay with the Hashashins until his death. It was a favour he owed to a friend he had wronged. Rami considered himself lucky that this was all that had been asked of him after all that he'd done. He shook his head. Memories landed on him like flies on a camel's ass - if it wasn't his wrongdoings, it was the days he'd spent training to become an Oracle. He still remembered the first time he was coached to dance. He'd questioned how this helped them divine their deities' messages from the stars.
"Organizations need funding," they'd replied. "Now, again. You want to please your customers, do you not?"
Rami frowned at the bandages covering his feet. The years spent at the Oracles' temples had not been kind to his body.
"Sir, please! Anything you can spare - Bethelem graces the generous."
Rami smiled. It seemed that beggars throughout the Shahnate employed the same tricks. Snatch a child, take off a hand or two - sympathy was a powerful seller. He watched as the trader doled out a few denars before shaking his head.
"Aren't you merchants supposed to smarter than that?"
The man looked up, his brow furrowed. The children snatched the coins out of his hand before disappearing into the nearby alley.
"Yes, scram, you weasels!" His cheeks flushed, whether it was from wine or the sun was unknown.
"They're children!" The trader walked over, signalling to his brethren to carry on without him. The caravan rolled on dutifully, the mules heaving to pull great loads of spices.
"They're weasels. The denars you just gave them," Rami scoffed, "just went into the pockets of whoever's been pimping them out."
The man's eyes hardened. "You don't have children of your own, do you?"
Rami let out a peal of laughter. What he would give to reveal the truth to this man.
"You can give me some coins too, if you're just going to throw them away like -"
His cheek smarted something awful - an all too familiar feeling for Rami.
"You have quite the remarkable tongue for a woman. By Bethelem, did your father never teach you the virtues of a woman?" He tucked his hand back into his sleeve. "Beauty fades. You may find yourself a crone not before long - I suggest you start showing proper respect."
Grabbing his batan, Rami ripped it open to reveal his bare torso. Were the clothes he were wearing not enough? Had the Oracles disfigured him to this point?
"I'm a man, idiot."
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