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The city was big, far too big for a quiet boy from the desert. Not that Mwenye was a child, not for several years past, but the press and bustle and impatience of so many strangers certainly made him feel awkwardly inexperienced. He had followed the voices into Egypt, not knowing where they were sending him, or why. Egypt was strange, but he'd thought he'd gotten used to the people here. Shameless, impulsive, and over-fond of opium they might be, but Mwenye found nothing inherently shameful in that; they were people of the water, not of the desert, and they continued the traditions of their own ancestors. For the rest, he found kindness and patience in roughly the same ratio with derision and attempts to take advantage of his poor language skills as he might have expected a perfect stranger to find among the Beodin; it was after all that people were simply people, under their differences.
The difference between a small, quiet farming settlement, and a city, was far more significant than the difference between Beodin and Egyptian. The fact he didn't fit in didn't bother him terribly; he wasn't making an effort to, after all. The fact he couldn't make out what the ancestors were telling him over the din of the marketplace was far more worrying than the possibility of being fleeced, and the few times he'd stepped out onto a quieter side-street had convinced him that the ancestors didn't know their way around Alexandria either.
The young prophet found himself on the docks, eventually, and stopped to stare, clutching his camel's lead-rope. The sea itself was not a new sight, he'd been to the Port of the West before, but the bustle and ships and everything else was quite beyond his experience. Ancestors, please tell me my journey does not take me beyond the sea. Getting on board one of the big Greek ships was so far beyond what was already very much beyond his comfort zone. He did not feel a shove in that direction, at least, and so after a while of watching he turned and made his way down another street. He was starting to feel some hope that there was no specific thing he was supposed to do, so much as he was traveling simply to learn; much less stressful, since it was much harder to fail at it. Knowing more of the lands and people beyond the desert did not seem immediately useful, but it was also something not commonly studied, and not immediately useful did not mean never useful. Knowledge did not add weight to a pack and rarely went bad, so there was no real reason not to collect as much of it as one could.
He would, however, be quite happy to go home soon, if that was acceptable to his ancestors.
Mwenye looked around a street he hadn't been on before. He wasn't terribly concerned that he'd gotten lost; he was fairly sure this was still a business district, and honestly, he'd been lost for hours. As soon as someone told him where he was supposed to be going, he was sure he could ask for directions. He stopped for a moment and considered what to do if he wasn't given any instructions. Eventually he should probably find food, and then try to make his way back out of the city and find somewhere to camp for the night. He smelled food faintly; someone on this street might be preparing to sell supper to the sailors and dock workers who he guessed might be finishing their day's work in relatively soon. Alcohol, a whiff of opium smoke... This was probably not the best place for him. Indoor shops, he'd learned, held more expensive wares than market street stalls, and the owners more likely to demand coin rather than barter. Which left him with the question of how to get to somewhere better, without too many wrong turns and side paths.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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The city was big, far too big for a quiet boy from the desert. Not that Mwenye was a child, not for several years past, but the press and bustle and impatience of so many strangers certainly made him feel awkwardly inexperienced. He had followed the voices into Egypt, not knowing where they were sending him, or why. Egypt was strange, but he'd thought he'd gotten used to the people here. Shameless, impulsive, and over-fond of opium they might be, but Mwenye found nothing inherently shameful in that; they were people of the water, not of the desert, and they continued the traditions of their own ancestors. For the rest, he found kindness and patience in roughly the same ratio with derision and attempts to take advantage of his poor language skills as he might have expected a perfect stranger to find among the Beodin; it was after all that people were simply people, under their differences.
The difference between a small, quiet farming settlement, and a city, was far more significant than the difference between Beodin and Egyptian. The fact he didn't fit in didn't bother him terribly; he wasn't making an effort to, after all. The fact he couldn't make out what the ancestors were telling him over the din of the marketplace was far more worrying than the possibility of being fleeced, and the few times he'd stepped out onto a quieter side-street had convinced him that the ancestors didn't know their way around Alexandria either.
The young prophet found himself on the docks, eventually, and stopped to stare, clutching his camel's lead-rope. The sea itself was not a new sight, he'd been to the Port of the West before, but the bustle and ships and everything else was quite beyond his experience. Ancestors, please tell me my journey does not take me beyond the sea. Getting on board one of the big Greek ships was so far beyond what was already very much beyond his comfort zone. He did not feel a shove in that direction, at least, and so after a while of watching he turned and made his way down another street. He was starting to feel some hope that there was no specific thing he was supposed to do, so much as he was traveling simply to learn; much less stressful, since it was much harder to fail at it. Knowing more of the lands and people beyond the desert did not seem immediately useful, but it was also something not commonly studied, and not immediately useful did not mean never useful. Knowledge did not add weight to a pack and rarely went bad, so there was no real reason not to collect as much of it as one could.
He would, however, be quite happy to go home soon, if that was acceptable to his ancestors.
Mwenye looked around a street he hadn't been on before. He wasn't terribly concerned that he'd gotten lost; he was fairly sure this was still a business district, and honestly, he'd been lost for hours. As soon as someone told him where he was supposed to be going, he was sure he could ask for directions. He stopped for a moment and considered what to do if he wasn't given any instructions. Eventually he should probably find food, and then try to make his way back out of the city and find somewhere to camp for the night. He smelled food faintly; someone on this street might be preparing to sell supper to the sailors and dock workers who he guessed might be finishing their day's work in relatively soon. Alcohol, a whiff of opium smoke... This was probably not the best place for him. Indoor shops, he'd learned, held more expensive wares than market street stalls, and the owners more likely to demand coin rather than barter. Which left him with the question of how to get to somewhere better, without too many wrong turns and side paths.
The city was big, far too big for a quiet boy from the desert. Not that Mwenye was a child, not for several years past, but the press and bustle and impatience of so many strangers certainly made him feel awkwardly inexperienced. He had followed the voices into Egypt, not knowing where they were sending him, or why. Egypt was strange, but he'd thought he'd gotten used to the people here. Shameless, impulsive, and over-fond of opium they might be, but Mwenye found nothing inherently shameful in that; they were people of the water, not of the desert, and they continued the traditions of their own ancestors. For the rest, he found kindness and patience in roughly the same ratio with derision and attempts to take advantage of his poor language skills as he might have expected a perfect stranger to find among the Beodin; it was after all that people were simply people, under their differences.
The difference between a small, quiet farming settlement, and a city, was far more significant than the difference between Beodin and Egyptian. The fact he didn't fit in didn't bother him terribly; he wasn't making an effort to, after all. The fact he couldn't make out what the ancestors were telling him over the din of the marketplace was far more worrying than the possibility of being fleeced, and the few times he'd stepped out onto a quieter side-street had convinced him that the ancestors didn't know their way around Alexandria either.
The young prophet found himself on the docks, eventually, and stopped to stare, clutching his camel's lead-rope. The sea itself was not a new sight, he'd been to the Port of the West before, but the bustle and ships and everything else was quite beyond his experience. Ancestors, please tell me my journey does not take me beyond the sea. Getting on board one of the big Greek ships was so far beyond what was already very much beyond his comfort zone. He did not feel a shove in that direction, at least, and so after a while of watching he turned and made his way down another street. He was starting to feel some hope that there was no specific thing he was supposed to do, so much as he was traveling simply to learn; much less stressful, since it was much harder to fail at it. Knowing more of the lands and people beyond the desert did not seem immediately useful, but it was also something not commonly studied, and not immediately useful did not mean never useful. Knowledge did not add weight to a pack and rarely went bad, so there was no real reason not to collect as much of it as one could.
He would, however, be quite happy to go home soon, if that was acceptable to his ancestors.
Mwenye looked around a street he hadn't been on before. He wasn't terribly concerned that he'd gotten lost; he was fairly sure this was still a business district, and honestly, he'd been lost for hours. As soon as someone told him where he was supposed to be going, he was sure he could ask for directions. He stopped for a moment and considered what to do if he wasn't given any instructions. Eventually he should probably find food, and then try to make his way back out of the city and find somewhere to camp for the night. He smelled food faintly; someone on this street might be preparing to sell supper to the sailors and dock workers who he guessed might be finishing their day's work in relatively soon. Alcohol, a whiff of opium smoke... This was probably not the best place for him. Indoor shops, he'd learned, held more expensive wares than market street stalls, and the owners more likely to demand coin rather than barter. Which left him with the question of how to get to somewhere better, without too many wrong turns and side paths.
It had been a long day and Deshra was completely over it. If she had her way, she would just go back to her room and sleep, but that was not to be. It was her job to entertain the men of Alexandria and she was expected to earn her keep. Normally there wasn’t any lack of men seeking pleasure in the port city of Alexandria. Men from all over the world came here to sell their goods and trade and after days if not weeks aboard ships were always looking for a bit of refreshment. Yet for some reason, today was different. Business had been very slow, and with the brothel owner getting increasingly unhappy with the lack of customers, Deshra had been sent out to bring in customers off the street.
While normally, Deshra would be proud to be distinguished for her exotic red hair, which had been expertly arranged to frame her face with a main, and shined and scented with sweet oils, today it meant that she was picked as the woman most likely to be able to bring in customers for the brothel. So Deshra was sent out to stand in the street, clad only in a translucent linen shift dress, that revealed just enough of her figure for the customers to get a glimpse of what lay in store for them.
As Deshra wandered back and forth along the road outside her establishment, she tried to think of a clever way to get out of this predicament. With the brothel owner only a few steps away, it would be obvious if she weren’t trying hard enough to bring someone in. Suddenly, she glimpsed the answer to all her problems. It was a man, obviously from Bedoa by the tone of his skin, and even more obviously lost. The Bedoans never seemed to be all that interested in frequenting the brothel. From what she’d heard, their gods didn’t approve of such things. If she tried to bring him in, then she could appear to be trying without actually having to work, and if she was really good, she might be able to embarrass the man into giving her some money anyway.
With her target in mind, Deshra sauntered her way over to the man and laid a hand on his shoulder seductively. She then looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Hello honey, are you looking for a good time?” She smiled as she looked up at him, then cast her eyes back down to the ground as if she thought she had perhaps been too bold. Deshra had been exactly as bold as she meant to be, every move calculated to draw in a man’s attention and hold it until she decided to release him.
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It had been a long day and Deshra was completely over it. If she had her way, she would just go back to her room and sleep, but that was not to be. It was her job to entertain the men of Alexandria and she was expected to earn her keep. Normally there wasn’t any lack of men seeking pleasure in the port city of Alexandria. Men from all over the world came here to sell their goods and trade and after days if not weeks aboard ships were always looking for a bit of refreshment. Yet for some reason, today was different. Business had been very slow, and with the brothel owner getting increasingly unhappy with the lack of customers, Deshra had been sent out to bring in customers off the street.
While normally, Deshra would be proud to be distinguished for her exotic red hair, which had been expertly arranged to frame her face with a main, and shined and scented with sweet oils, today it meant that she was picked as the woman most likely to be able to bring in customers for the brothel. So Deshra was sent out to stand in the street, clad only in a translucent linen shift dress, that revealed just enough of her figure for the customers to get a glimpse of what lay in store for them.
As Deshra wandered back and forth along the road outside her establishment, she tried to think of a clever way to get out of this predicament. With the brothel owner only a few steps away, it would be obvious if she weren’t trying hard enough to bring someone in. Suddenly, she glimpsed the answer to all her problems. It was a man, obviously from Bedoa by the tone of his skin, and even more obviously lost. The Bedoans never seemed to be all that interested in frequenting the brothel. From what she’d heard, their gods didn’t approve of such things. If she tried to bring him in, then she could appear to be trying without actually having to work, and if she was really good, she might be able to embarrass the man into giving her some money anyway.
With her target in mind, Deshra sauntered her way over to the man and laid a hand on his shoulder seductively. She then looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Hello honey, are you looking for a good time?” She smiled as she looked up at him, then cast her eyes back down to the ground as if she thought she had perhaps been too bold. Deshra had been exactly as bold as she meant to be, every move calculated to draw in a man’s attention and hold it until she decided to release him.
It had been a long day and Deshra was completely over it. If she had her way, she would just go back to her room and sleep, but that was not to be. It was her job to entertain the men of Alexandria and she was expected to earn her keep. Normally there wasn’t any lack of men seeking pleasure in the port city of Alexandria. Men from all over the world came here to sell their goods and trade and after days if not weeks aboard ships were always looking for a bit of refreshment. Yet for some reason, today was different. Business had been very slow, and with the brothel owner getting increasingly unhappy with the lack of customers, Deshra had been sent out to bring in customers off the street.
While normally, Deshra would be proud to be distinguished for her exotic red hair, which had been expertly arranged to frame her face with a main, and shined and scented with sweet oils, today it meant that she was picked as the woman most likely to be able to bring in customers for the brothel. So Deshra was sent out to stand in the street, clad only in a translucent linen shift dress, that revealed just enough of her figure for the customers to get a glimpse of what lay in store for them.
As Deshra wandered back and forth along the road outside her establishment, she tried to think of a clever way to get out of this predicament. With the brothel owner only a few steps away, it would be obvious if she weren’t trying hard enough to bring someone in. Suddenly, she glimpsed the answer to all her problems. It was a man, obviously from Bedoa by the tone of his skin, and even more obviously lost. The Bedoans never seemed to be all that interested in frequenting the brothel. From what she’d heard, their gods didn’t approve of such things. If she tried to bring him in, then she could appear to be trying without actually having to work, and if she was really good, she might be able to embarrass the man into giving her some money anyway.
With her target in mind, Deshra sauntered her way over to the man and laid a hand on his shoulder seductively. She then looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Hello honey, are you looking for a good time?” She smiled as she looked up at him, then cast her eyes back down to the ground as if she thought she had perhaps been too bold. Deshra had been exactly as bold as she meant to be, every move calculated to draw in a man’s attention and hold it until she decided to release him.
Mwenye gave the young woman who approached him a friendly smile. He was a bit confused by the slang, but he appreciated that someone had noticed he looked lost and was offering to help him find what he was looking for. It would probably help if he knew what he was looking for.
"I am looking for a place to buy food, for trade," he explained. It was an important short-term goal, even if he was still unsure about the bigger picture. "For trade, not coin," he repeated firmly. He had a little bit of coin, but he had a feeling that he needed to keep it for something specific. What that was, once again he had no clue.
The woman didn't look Egyptian; he guessed that might be why she was more sympathetic to an out-of-place stranger than most. He wondered where in the world people had spots on their skin, but thought it might be a rude question; it might not actually be normal where she was from, either, which might even be why she was here. Mwenye was perfectly familiar with the tradition of driving away tribe members who were disfigured in even trivial-seeming ways, though the Zaire had not done so in many years.
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Mwenye gave the young woman who approached him a friendly smile. He was a bit confused by the slang, but he appreciated that someone had noticed he looked lost and was offering to help him find what he was looking for. It would probably help if he knew what he was looking for.
"I am looking for a place to buy food, for trade," he explained. It was an important short-term goal, even if he was still unsure about the bigger picture. "For trade, not coin," he repeated firmly. He had a little bit of coin, but he had a feeling that he needed to keep it for something specific. What that was, once again he had no clue.
The woman didn't look Egyptian; he guessed that might be why she was more sympathetic to an out-of-place stranger than most. He wondered where in the world people had spots on their skin, but thought it might be a rude question; it might not actually be normal where she was from, either, which might even be why she was here. Mwenye was perfectly familiar with the tradition of driving away tribe members who were disfigured in even trivial-seeming ways, though the Zaire had not done so in many years.
Mwenye gave the young woman who approached him a friendly smile. He was a bit confused by the slang, but he appreciated that someone had noticed he looked lost and was offering to help him find what he was looking for. It would probably help if he knew what he was looking for.
"I am looking for a place to buy food, for trade," he explained. It was an important short-term goal, even if he was still unsure about the bigger picture. "For trade, not coin," he repeated firmly. He had a little bit of coin, but he had a feeling that he needed to keep it for something specific. What that was, once again he had no clue.
The woman didn't look Egyptian; he guessed that might be why she was more sympathetic to an out-of-place stranger than most. He wondered where in the world people had spots on their skin, but thought it might be a rude question; it might not actually be normal where she was from, either, which might even be why she was here. Mwenye was perfectly familiar with the tradition of driving away tribe members who were disfigured in even trivial-seeming ways, though the Zaire had not done so in many years.
When the man she approached gave her a friendly smile, Deshra for a moment thought that she might have succeeded in seducing this foreigner. That would have been some trick, she had always heard that it was difficult to get a Bedoan to come into a brothel. Deshra had already begun to gloat internally about this challenging accomplishment when the man opened his mouth to speak again, and it immediately became clear that he hadn’t even begun to understand what she had been suggesting. Well, that she was just going to have to solve. The man clearly didn’t understand Coptic very well, but she was sure that he could understand body language just as well as any man. It just so happened that she was fluent.
Deshra approached the man closer and placed a hand on his shoulder, familiarly. She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear. “I would be up for a trade.” She then pulled back away from him and looked him and his goods over skeptically. “For the right price, of course.” She wasn’t sure what the man actually had to trade, but in some ways that hardly mattered. For Deshra, the payment was purely in having a few moments of amusement in seducing a man who was difficult to pursue, but she knew her owner wouldn’t see it that way. Giving away her wares for too cheap a price would only devalue her as a commodity.
At this point though, Deshra saw the whole interaction as a challenge of her skillfulness in seduction. She had thought that she had succeeded at first, but now, she knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied until he at the very least understood what she was trying to imply. It would be such a blow to her ego if he didn’t at least want to sleep with her.
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When the man she approached gave her a friendly smile, Deshra for a moment thought that she might have succeeded in seducing this foreigner. That would have been some trick, she had always heard that it was difficult to get a Bedoan to come into a brothel. Deshra had already begun to gloat internally about this challenging accomplishment when the man opened his mouth to speak again, and it immediately became clear that he hadn’t even begun to understand what she had been suggesting. Well, that she was just going to have to solve. The man clearly didn’t understand Coptic very well, but she was sure that he could understand body language just as well as any man. It just so happened that she was fluent.
Deshra approached the man closer and placed a hand on his shoulder, familiarly. She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear. “I would be up for a trade.” She then pulled back away from him and looked him and his goods over skeptically. “For the right price, of course.” She wasn’t sure what the man actually had to trade, but in some ways that hardly mattered. For Deshra, the payment was purely in having a few moments of amusement in seducing a man who was difficult to pursue, but she knew her owner wouldn’t see it that way. Giving away her wares for too cheap a price would only devalue her as a commodity.
At this point though, Deshra saw the whole interaction as a challenge of her skillfulness in seduction. She had thought that she had succeeded at first, but now, she knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied until he at the very least understood what she was trying to imply. It would be such a blow to her ego if he didn’t at least want to sleep with her.
When the man she approached gave her a friendly smile, Deshra for a moment thought that she might have succeeded in seducing this foreigner. That would have been some trick, she had always heard that it was difficult to get a Bedoan to come into a brothel. Deshra had already begun to gloat internally about this challenging accomplishment when the man opened his mouth to speak again, and it immediately became clear that he hadn’t even begun to understand what she had been suggesting. Well, that she was just going to have to solve. The man clearly didn’t understand Coptic very well, but she was sure that he could understand body language just as well as any man. It just so happened that she was fluent.
Deshra approached the man closer and placed a hand on his shoulder, familiarly. She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear. “I would be up for a trade.” She then pulled back away from him and looked him and his goods over skeptically. “For the right price, of course.” She wasn’t sure what the man actually had to trade, but in some ways that hardly mattered. For Deshra, the payment was purely in having a few moments of amusement in seducing a man who was difficult to pursue, but she knew her owner wouldn’t see it that way. Giving away her wares for too cheap a price would only devalue her as a commodity.
At this point though, Deshra saw the whole interaction as a challenge of her skillfulness in seduction. She had thought that she had succeeded at first, but now, she knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied until he at the very least understood what she was trying to imply. It would be such a blow to her ego if he didn’t at least want to sleep with her.
Mwenye frowned, and stiffened a bit as the woman came close enough to touch him, uncomfortable but trying very hard not to be rude. Egyptian women - and the expectations of dress and behaviour placed on them - were very different than those among the tribes of the desert. The Zaire prophet was generally a tolerant sort, easily accepting that different people had different ancestors, different traditions. So long as someone's behaviour didn't actively cause harm to others in front of him, he was determined to ignore it; it was none of his business whether their ancestors would be proud or shamed of them, or whether they chose to offend their neighbours or otherwise ruin their own lives.
Something about her phrasing seemed odd, and he wasn't sure whether it was an issue of translation, or just that he was so disoriented and off balance that he was looking for problems where there weren't any. "Sorry. Not good understanding. You have food for trade? Or asking pay for taking me to a merchant?" He could tell his grammar was off again - he'd had enough practice on this trip to be sure he could make himself understood, and his vocabulary was perfectly adequate for trading or asking directions, but he was still far from fluent.
The camel grunted and flicked her ears, annoyed at something - or nothing, being a camel after all - and the beodin gave her an exasperated look. "Oh, mind your manners silly girl," he muttered in his own language. "Shuh. Stand quietly." He reached up and rubbed her jaw reassuringly. "Good girl."
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Mwenye frowned, and stiffened a bit as the woman came close enough to touch him, uncomfortable but trying very hard not to be rude. Egyptian women - and the expectations of dress and behaviour placed on them - were very different than those among the tribes of the desert. The Zaire prophet was generally a tolerant sort, easily accepting that different people had different ancestors, different traditions. So long as someone's behaviour didn't actively cause harm to others in front of him, he was determined to ignore it; it was none of his business whether their ancestors would be proud or shamed of them, or whether they chose to offend their neighbours or otherwise ruin their own lives.
Something about her phrasing seemed odd, and he wasn't sure whether it was an issue of translation, or just that he was so disoriented and off balance that he was looking for problems where there weren't any. "Sorry. Not good understanding. You have food for trade? Or asking pay for taking me to a merchant?" He could tell his grammar was off again - he'd had enough practice on this trip to be sure he could make himself understood, and his vocabulary was perfectly adequate for trading or asking directions, but he was still far from fluent.
The camel grunted and flicked her ears, annoyed at something - or nothing, being a camel after all - and the beodin gave her an exasperated look. "Oh, mind your manners silly girl," he muttered in his own language. "Shuh. Stand quietly." He reached up and rubbed her jaw reassuringly. "Good girl."
Mwenye frowned, and stiffened a bit as the woman came close enough to touch him, uncomfortable but trying very hard not to be rude. Egyptian women - and the expectations of dress and behaviour placed on them - were very different than those among the tribes of the desert. The Zaire prophet was generally a tolerant sort, easily accepting that different people had different ancestors, different traditions. So long as someone's behaviour didn't actively cause harm to others in front of him, he was determined to ignore it; it was none of his business whether their ancestors would be proud or shamed of them, or whether they chose to offend their neighbours or otherwise ruin their own lives.
Something about her phrasing seemed odd, and he wasn't sure whether it was an issue of translation, or just that he was so disoriented and off balance that he was looking for problems where there weren't any. "Sorry. Not good understanding. You have food for trade? Or asking pay for taking me to a merchant?" He could tell his grammar was off again - he'd had enough practice on this trip to be sure he could make himself understood, and his vocabulary was perfectly adequate for trading or asking directions, but he was still far from fluent.
The camel grunted and flicked her ears, annoyed at something - or nothing, being a camel after all - and the beodin gave her an exasperated look. "Oh, mind your manners silly girl," he muttered in his own language. "Shuh. Stand quietly." He reached up and rubbed her jaw reassuringly. "Good girl."
Apparently this Bedoan wasn’t as quickly won over as Deshra had hoped. In fact, it seemed that he seemed completely incapable of understanding what she was even implying. She’d heard that Bedoans were repressed, but surely they still understood what flirting looked like. She was by no means a bad looking woman, perhaps it would take all her talents to cross the language barrier, but if anyone could do it. She knew she could.
While Deshra might have been rolling her eyes on the inside that the man seemed so oblivious to her advances, she didn’t let that show on her face. Instead, she smiled sweetly at the man. “Oh no, I have something much better than food or a merchant.” Then she realized that she would have to spell it out much more clearly to this man who didn’t seem to know the language. She smirked at him. “It’s me I’m selling. My company, or more if you want.” Deshra pulled at the neck of her sheer shift so that it fell off her shoulder exposing the freckles on her neck and the top of her breast. She wasn’t above letting people take a few looks for free. It usually served to drive business.
Deshra tried not to grow impatient that the man had shown more care and attention to his camel than to her. She briefly wondered if he was even interested in women at all, but she quickly pushed that thought from her own mind as she stepped closer to him, trying to bring his attention back her way. “If you like what you see, it’s only a few coins to see more. And a few more to touch.” She smiled slyly at him. She wasn’t sure how much more explicit she could be. If he didn’t understand her now he was either stupid or uninterested and possibly some combination of both. Either way, he wasn’t worth any more of her time if he wasn’t going to take the bait.
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Apparently this Bedoan wasn’t as quickly won over as Deshra had hoped. In fact, it seemed that he seemed completely incapable of understanding what she was even implying. She’d heard that Bedoans were repressed, but surely they still understood what flirting looked like. She was by no means a bad looking woman, perhaps it would take all her talents to cross the language barrier, but if anyone could do it. She knew she could.
While Deshra might have been rolling her eyes on the inside that the man seemed so oblivious to her advances, she didn’t let that show on her face. Instead, she smiled sweetly at the man. “Oh no, I have something much better than food or a merchant.” Then she realized that she would have to spell it out much more clearly to this man who didn’t seem to know the language. She smirked at him. “It’s me I’m selling. My company, or more if you want.” Deshra pulled at the neck of her sheer shift so that it fell off her shoulder exposing the freckles on her neck and the top of her breast. She wasn’t above letting people take a few looks for free. It usually served to drive business.
Deshra tried not to grow impatient that the man had shown more care and attention to his camel than to her. She briefly wondered if he was even interested in women at all, but she quickly pushed that thought from her own mind as she stepped closer to him, trying to bring his attention back her way. “If you like what you see, it’s only a few coins to see more. And a few more to touch.” She smiled slyly at him. She wasn’t sure how much more explicit she could be. If he didn’t understand her now he was either stupid or uninterested and possibly some combination of both. Either way, he wasn’t worth any more of her time if he wasn’t going to take the bait.
Apparently this Bedoan wasn’t as quickly won over as Deshra had hoped. In fact, it seemed that he seemed completely incapable of understanding what she was even implying. She’d heard that Bedoans were repressed, but surely they still understood what flirting looked like. She was by no means a bad looking woman, perhaps it would take all her talents to cross the language barrier, but if anyone could do it. She knew she could.
While Deshra might have been rolling her eyes on the inside that the man seemed so oblivious to her advances, she didn’t let that show on her face. Instead, she smiled sweetly at the man. “Oh no, I have something much better than food or a merchant.” Then she realized that she would have to spell it out much more clearly to this man who didn’t seem to know the language. She smirked at him. “It’s me I’m selling. My company, or more if you want.” Deshra pulled at the neck of her sheer shift so that it fell off her shoulder exposing the freckles on her neck and the top of her breast. She wasn’t above letting people take a few looks for free. It usually served to drive business.
Deshra tried not to grow impatient that the man had shown more care and attention to his camel than to her. She briefly wondered if he was even interested in women at all, but she quickly pushed that thought from her own mind as she stepped closer to him, trying to bring his attention back her way. “If you like what you see, it’s only a few coins to see more. And a few more to touch.” She smiled slyly at him. She wasn’t sure how much more explicit she could be. If he didn’t understand her now he was either stupid or uninterested and possibly some combination of both. Either way, he wasn’t worth any more of her time if he wasn’t going to take the bait.
Confusion, the sort that so easily became frustration, crossed his face when she declared she wasn't going to help him find food, then something that was almost comprehension, though no eagerness, which morphed quickly back to the frustrated sort of confusion and she clarified further and he realized that he had not just been the target of the strangest marriage proposal ever. Probably. "You will make someone a terrible wife," he informed her bluntly. At least, he assumed she wasn't yet married. That would certainly be worse, so let's hope not. He sighed and rubbed his face, muttering in his own language, "Ancestors preserve us, I'm far too tired to deal with this." The things he needed to deal with hardly ever waited for him to be well rested, though, so deal with it he would.
Egyptians don't have a sense of modesty, he reminded himself. There's no point feeling embarrassed, and certainly not on her behalf. He was quite used to Egyptians - and married women among his own people, for that matter - baring their breasts to the world; it was the fact she'd had them covered before that made him uncomfortable. Which, he realized, as he glanced away to find that nobody around them was reacting to the display, was an artifact of his own culture. Here, there probably weren't sharp lines on which women covered up and who didn't, and a woman taking off her shirt on the street was no more outrageous than a man doing so.
He avoided looking at her chest as he returned his gaze to her face, not so much out of manners per se as out of the fact that he really wasn't interested. He'd seen a lot of breasts in his relatively short life, and most of those had been being used to feed a baby. They weren't inherently sexual to his mind. Besides, those strange spots probably covered her all over. Mwenye was not a man who was attracted to the exotic.
"I am not looking for a wife," he told her firmly. "Or.. I am sorry, I do not know the word." He didn't know the concept, for that matter. He was pretty sure she was heavily implying something beyond the straightforward yet incomprehensible transaction of paying her to touch her breasts, but exactly how much he wasn't going to guess. It didn't matter, since he wasn't interested anyway.
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Confusion, the sort that so easily became frustration, crossed his face when she declared she wasn't going to help him find food, then something that was almost comprehension, though no eagerness, which morphed quickly back to the frustrated sort of confusion and she clarified further and he realized that he had not just been the target of the strangest marriage proposal ever. Probably. "You will make someone a terrible wife," he informed her bluntly. At least, he assumed she wasn't yet married. That would certainly be worse, so let's hope not. He sighed and rubbed his face, muttering in his own language, "Ancestors preserve us, I'm far too tired to deal with this." The things he needed to deal with hardly ever waited for him to be well rested, though, so deal with it he would.
Egyptians don't have a sense of modesty, he reminded himself. There's no point feeling embarrassed, and certainly not on her behalf. He was quite used to Egyptians - and married women among his own people, for that matter - baring their breasts to the world; it was the fact she'd had them covered before that made him uncomfortable. Which, he realized, as he glanced away to find that nobody around them was reacting to the display, was an artifact of his own culture. Here, there probably weren't sharp lines on which women covered up and who didn't, and a woman taking off her shirt on the street was no more outrageous than a man doing so.
He avoided looking at her chest as he returned his gaze to her face, not so much out of manners per se as out of the fact that he really wasn't interested. He'd seen a lot of breasts in his relatively short life, and most of those had been being used to feed a baby. They weren't inherently sexual to his mind. Besides, those strange spots probably covered her all over. Mwenye was not a man who was attracted to the exotic.
"I am not looking for a wife," he told her firmly. "Or.. I am sorry, I do not know the word." He didn't know the concept, for that matter. He was pretty sure she was heavily implying something beyond the straightforward yet incomprehensible transaction of paying her to touch her breasts, but exactly how much he wasn't going to guess. It didn't matter, since he wasn't interested anyway.
Confusion, the sort that so easily became frustration, crossed his face when she declared she wasn't going to help him find food, then something that was almost comprehension, though no eagerness, which morphed quickly back to the frustrated sort of confusion and she clarified further and he realized that he had not just been the target of the strangest marriage proposal ever. Probably. "You will make someone a terrible wife," he informed her bluntly. At least, he assumed she wasn't yet married. That would certainly be worse, so let's hope not. He sighed and rubbed his face, muttering in his own language, "Ancestors preserve us, I'm far too tired to deal with this." The things he needed to deal with hardly ever waited for him to be well rested, though, so deal with it he would.
Egyptians don't have a sense of modesty, he reminded himself. There's no point feeling embarrassed, and certainly not on her behalf. He was quite used to Egyptians - and married women among his own people, for that matter - baring their breasts to the world; it was the fact she'd had them covered before that made him uncomfortable. Which, he realized, as he glanced away to find that nobody around them was reacting to the display, was an artifact of his own culture. Here, there probably weren't sharp lines on which women covered up and who didn't, and a woman taking off her shirt on the street was no more outrageous than a man doing so.
He avoided looking at her chest as he returned his gaze to her face, not so much out of manners per se as out of the fact that he really wasn't interested. He'd seen a lot of breasts in his relatively short life, and most of those had been being used to feed a baby. They weren't inherently sexual to his mind. Besides, those strange spots probably covered her all over. Mwenye was not a man who was attracted to the exotic.
"I am not looking for a wife," he told her firmly. "Or.. I am sorry, I do not know the word." He didn't know the concept, for that matter. He was pretty sure she was heavily implying something beyond the straightforward yet incomprehensible transaction of paying her to touch her breasts, but exactly how much he wasn't going to guess. It didn't matter, since he wasn't interested anyway.
Deshra laughed at his assertion that she wouldn’t make anyone a good wife. He was certainly right on that matter. Not that she had any particular desire to be someone's wife. "It's a good thing I am not trying to be anyone's wife." She didn’t have any desire to have to look after some man or run a household. She knew where her strengths lay. She would take care of one need for men, and then she’d do whatever she want, no need to be tied down.
What was entirely incomprehensible to Deshra was the fact that the man didn’t seem to be even the slightest bit interested in what she was selling. Sure the Bedoans were prudes, and she wasn’t convinced that he would have bought it anyway, but she was at least expecting him to have to fight his instincts to refuse her. Instead she was finding this whole interaction extremely irritating.
When he refused her yet again, she couldn’t help but take it as an insult. He didn’t even look at her breasts, it didn’t even seem like he was fighting to keep himself from doing so. That was it, she had had enough of this conversation."Well I suppose then there's nothing else to be said." She turned abruptly on her heel, fuming. She had not intended to go through with the seduction of this man, but the fact that he didn't even seem interested had gotten under her skin. He didn't seem like much of a man if she couldn’t manage to turn him on even a little bit. Perhaps he wasn’t even interested in women. Those men were even worse than women to talk to. None of her normal methods of persuasion worked, with women she might be able to at least play on the jealousy angle.
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Deshra laughed at his assertion that she wouldn’t make anyone a good wife. He was certainly right on that matter. Not that she had any particular desire to be someone's wife. "It's a good thing I am not trying to be anyone's wife." She didn’t have any desire to have to look after some man or run a household. She knew where her strengths lay. She would take care of one need for men, and then she’d do whatever she want, no need to be tied down.
What was entirely incomprehensible to Deshra was the fact that the man didn’t seem to be even the slightest bit interested in what she was selling. Sure the Bedoans were prudes, and she wasn’t convinced that he would have bought it anyway, but she was at least expecting him to have to fight his instincts to refuse her. Instead she was finding this whole interaction extremely irritating.
When he refused her yet again, she couldn’t help but take it as an insult. He didn’t even look at her breasts, it didn’t even seem like he was fighting to keep himself from doing so. That was it, she had had enough of this conversation."Well I suppose then there's nothing else to be said." She turned abruptly on her heel, fuming. She had not intended to go through with the seduction of this man, but the fact that he didn't even seem interested had gotten under her skin. He didn't seem like much of a man if she couldn’t manage to turn him on even a little bit. Perhaps he wasn’t even interested in women. Those men were even worse than women to talk to. None of her normal methods of persuasion worked, with women she might be able to at least play on the jealousy angle.
Deshra laughed at his assertion that she wouldn’t make anyone a good wife. He was certainly right on that matter. Not that she had any particular desire to be someone's wife. "It's a good thing I am not trying to be anyone's wife." She didn’t have any desire to have to look after some man or run a household. She knew where her strengths lay. She would take care of one need for men, and then she’d do whatever she want, no need to be tied down.
What was entirely incomprehensible to Deshra was the fact that the man didn’t seem to be even the slightest bit interested in what she was selling. Sure the Bedoans were prudes, and she wasn’t convinced that he would have bought it anyway, but she was at least expecting him to have to fight his instincts to refuse her. Instead she was finding this whole interaction extremely irritating.
When he refused her yet again, she couldn’t help but take it as an insult. He didn’t even look at her breasts, it didn’t even seem like he was fighting to keep himself from doing so. That was it, she had had enough of this conversation."Well I suppose then there's nothing else to be said." She turned abruptly on her heel, fuming. She had not intended to go through with the seduction of this man, but the fact that he didn't even seem interested had gotten under her skin. He didn't seem like much of a man if she couldn’t manage to turn him on even a little bit. Perhaps he wasn’t even interested in women. Those men were even worse than women to talk to. None of her normal methods of persuasion worked, with women she might be able to at least play on the jealousy angle.
Married women in Bedoa regularly went topless; breasts had never struck Mwenye as all that interesting or inherently sexual. In Egypt, women of any age regularly displayed an equal lack of body-shyness, and he'd never traveled further; he'd never realized his attitude wasn't universal. He was perfectly capable of noticing when someone had a pretty set, but they weren't any more attention-grabbing than a pretty face. He also didn't understand how what he saw as basic good manners, to the point it was simply normal behaviour, had managed to offend the freckled woman. In truth, though, sorting out the cultural misunderstanding probably wouldn't have changed her mind, since he also hadn't found her all that pretty in the first place.
He thought her retreat was rather more huffy than was normal for a merchant who'd discovered someone she thought was a potential buyer wasn't interested, but since he didn't have a way to figure out why she'd gotten offended, he just sighed, shrugged, and started off again in what he hoped was a promising direction.
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Married women in Bedoa regularly went topless; breasts had never struck Mwenye as all that interesting or inherently sexual. In Egypt, women of any age regularly displayed an equal lack of body-shyness, and he'd never traveled further; he'd never realized his attitude wasn't universal. He was perfectly capable of noticing when someone had a pretty set, but they weren't any more attention-grabbing than a pretty face. He also didn't understand how what he saw as basic good manners, to the point it was simply normal behaviour, had managed to offend the freckled woman. In truth, though, sorting out the cultural misunderstanding probably wouldn't have changed her mind, since he also hadn't found her all that pretty in the first place.
He thought her retreat was rather more huffy than was normal for a merchant who'd discovered someone she thought was a potential buyer wasn't interested, but since he didn't have a way to figure out why she'd gotten offended, he just sighed, shrugged, and started off again in what he hoped was a promising direction.
Married women in Bedoa regularly went topless; breasts had never struck Mwenye as all that interesting or inherently sexual. In Egypt, women of any age regularly displayed an equal lack of body-shyness, and he'd never traveled further; he'd never realized his attitude wasn't universal. He was perfectly capable of noticing when someone had a pretty set, but they weren't any more attention-grabbing than a pretty face. He also didn't understand how what he saw as basic good manners, to the point it was simply normal behaviour, had managed to offend the freckled woman. In truth, though, sorting out the cultural misunderstanding probably wouldn't have changed her mind, since he also hadn't found her all that pretty in the first place.
He thought her retreat was rather more huffy than was normal for a merchant who'd discovered someone she thought was a potential buyer wasn't interested, but since he didn't have a way to figure out why she'd gotten offended, he just sighed, shrugged, and started off again in what he hoped was a promising direction.