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Delia was not the star of the circus—and that hardly bothered her. There was the circus, as the lowest members knew it and then there was the inner circle, and Delia didn’t need fame to feel wanted; not when she was working to better the circus, working to protect the circus. But that did not mean she practiced any less than any other performer. In fact, today she was practicing through lunch, even though the person spotting her had left.
She was sure she’d not catch on fire in the fifteen minutes it took everyone to come back. She’d never caught herself on fire before, even when she’d first started training under Somgi. Now, fourteen years later, was definitely not the time to start.
Unlike a lot of the performers, Delia wore full clothing, as she was more uncomfortable with showing off her abdomen. It was a point of argument between her and the ringmaster—she adored Amenemhat. He had done well with the circus, quickly brought them to the top, but until she hurt herself, she wouldn’t change her choice of performance-wear.
Today’s outfit was a thin, sheer dress with a belt around the waist. See-through, but still enough coverage for her to justify wearing it. What she didn’t see coming though, was as she twirled with a fan that was burning hot… Was the potential for the fan to get stuck in the fabric. Before she knew what was happening, fire was seeking flesh, and her first instinct was not to stop, drop and roll. Her first instinct was to stand there, and let the fire bubble her flesh, eat her alive. Just like the flames had eaten her parents, her husband…
And then her instinct was to drop to the ground, and roll. Delia dropped, with the practiced ease of a dancer, though she did not roll. The fire had been contained to her front, so she lay there, on the ground, fingers digging into the dirt.
Easily contained, she rolled onto her back and found herself staring into the eyes of a slave girl, who had left her work to watch the performance since nobody was around to fuss at her. Delia studied the girl, panting. She held up an arm, ignoring the tickle of pain that jolted through her body, and raised herself up with the slave’s help.
“Back to your task,” she murmured the order, softly. “No need to get in trouble on my account.” The girl scurried away, and left Delia standing, half-naked, her dress half-gone, the sheer fabric burned to the burn that occupied her abdomen. Every movement hurt, but she wasn’t going to stand there and let everyone gape at her. She didn’t bother grabbing her fan as she left, leaving it—somebody would put it up.
She weaved her way to the tent that housed the doctor—who was out—oh well, all she was here for was salve and bandages. Taking what she needed, she headed back to her tent and had a slave collect clean water for her to clean herself up with.
In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to clean the burns, and ordered the same slave that had brought her water to do so. Her dress was stripped from her, and pulled from where it had fused with her skin. Her tent was closed, and she had pressed one of her many pillows across her face, to muffle her cries. The slave worked slowly, carefully cleaning the burns, applying the salve, and then urging Delia to sit upright.
Which was more painful than she thought it’d be. The bandages were wrapped tightly around her midsection, cover most of her stomach, and she stretched when the slave was done, trying to get used to the biting pain. The slave left without a word, even as Delia murmured her thanks to the retreating slave’s back.
When she felt that enough time had passed, and she could walk around like nothing had happened, she redressed. This time she chose loose pants, and a loose shirt. She couldn’t really hide it—and she shouldn’t, not from Nem at least, but she wasn’t ready for the conversation that would surely come up.
The same argument they’d been having: an argument about Delia’s disregard of Nem’s preferred ‘uniform’ for performers. Except this time she was out of excuses—though she’d certainly try to find a new excuse.
The last excuse had been: ‘I’ve never injured myself.’
So, Delia headed towards the cages, content to hide with Hamidi and the cats. Surely word had traveled, slaves gossiped just like everyone else. And anyone who knew Delia knew that her favorite hiding place was with the big cats (or perhaps, specifically, with Hamidi).
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Delia was not the star of the circus—and that hardly bothered her. There was the circus, as the lowest members knew it and then there was the inner circle, and Delia didn’t need fame to feel wanted; not when she was working to better the circus, working to protect the circus. But that did not mean she practiced any less than any other performer. In fact, today she was practicing through lunch, even though the person spotting her had left.
She was sure she’d not catch on fire in the fifteen minutes it took everyone to come back. She’d never caught herself on fire before, even when she’d first started training under Somgi. Now, fourteen years later, was definitely not the time to start.
Unlike a lot of the performers, Delia wore full clothing, as she was more uncomfortable with showing off her abdomen. It was a point of argument between her and the ringmaster—she adored Amenemhat. He had done well with the circus, quickly brought them to the top, but until she hurt herself, she wouldn’t change her choice of performance-wear.
Today’s outfit was a thin, sheer dress with a belt around the waist. See-through, but still enough coverage for her to justify wearing it. What she didn’t see coming though, was as she twirled with a fan that was burning hot… Was the potential for the fan to get stuck in the fabric. Before she knew what was happening, fire was seeking flesh, and her first instinct was not to stop, drop and roll. Her first instinct was to stand there, and let the fire bubble her flesh, eat her alive. Just like the flames had eaten her parents, her husband…
And then her instinct was to drop to the ground, and roll. Delia dropped, with the practiced ease of a dancer, though she did not roll. The fire had been contained to her front, so she lay there, on the ground, fingers digging into the dirt.
Easily contained, she rolled onto her back and found herself staring into the eyes of a slave girl, who had left her work to watch the performance since nobody was around to fuss at her. Delia studied the girl, panting. She held up an arm, ignoring the tickle of pain that jolted through her body, and raised herself up with the slave’s help.
“Back to your task,” she murmured the order, softly. “No need to get in trouble on my account.” The girl scurried away, and left Delia standing, half-naked, her dress half-gone, the sheer fabric burned to the burn that occupied her abdomen. Every movement hurt, but she wasn’t going to stand there and let everyone gape at her. She didn’t bother grabbing her fan as she left, leaving it—somebody would put it up.
She weaved her way to the tent that housed the doctor—who was out—oh well, all she was here for was salve and bandages. Taking what she needed, she headed back to her tent and had a slave collect clean water for her to clean herself up with.
In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to clean the burns, and ordered the same slave that had brought her water to do so. Her dress was stripped from her, and pulled from where it had fused with her skin. Her tent was closed, and she had pressed one of her many pillows across her face, to muffle her cries. The slave worked slowly, carefully cleaning the burns, applying the salve, and then urging Delia to sit upright.
Which was more painful than she thought it’d be. The bandages were wrapped tightly around her midsection, cover most of her stomach, and she stretched when the slave was done, trying to get used to the biting pain. The slave left without a word, even as Delia murmured her thanks to the retreating slave’s back.
When she felt that enough time had passed, and she could walk around like nothing had happened, she redressed. This time she chose loose pants, and a loose shirt. She couldn’t really hide it—and she shouldn’t, not from Nem at least, but she wasn’t ready for the conversation that would surely come up.
The same argument they’d been having: an argument about Delia’s disregard of Nem’s preferred ‘uniform’ for performers. Except this time she was out of excuses—though she’d certainly try to find a new excuse.
The last excuse had been: ‘I’ve never injured myself.’
So, Delia headed towards the cages, content to hide with Hamidi and the cats. Surely word had traveled, slaves gossiped just like everyone else. And anyone who knew Delia knew that her favorite hiding place was with the big cats (or perhaps, specifically, with Hamidi).
Delia was not the star of the circus—and that hardly bothered her. There was the circus, as the lowest members knew it and then there was the inner circle, and Delia didn’t need fame to feel wanted; not when she was working to better the circus, working to protect the circus. But that did not mean she practiced any less than any other performer. In fact, today she was practicing through lunch, even though the person spotting her had left.
She was sure she’d not catch on fire in the fifteen minutes it took everyone to come back. She’d never caught herself on fire before, even when she’d first started training under Somgi. Now, fourteen years later, was definitely not the time to start.
Unlike a lot of the performers, Delia wore full clothing, as she was more uncomfortable with showing off her abdomen. It was a point of argument between her and the ringmaster—she adored Amenemhat. He had done well with the circus, quickly brought them to the top, but until she hurt herself, she wouldn’t change her choice of performance-wear.
Today’s outfit was a thin, sheer dress with a belt around the waist. See-through, but still enough coverage for her to justify wearing it. What she didn’t see coming though, was as she twirled with a fan that was burning hot… Was the potential for the fan to get stuck in the fabric. Before she knew what was happening, fire was seeking flesh, and her first instinct was not to stop, drop and roll. Her first instinct was to stand there, and let the fire bubble her flesh, eat her alive. Just like the flames had eaten her parents, her husband…
And then her instinct was to drop to the ground, and roll. Delia dropped, with the practiced ease of a dancer, though she did not roll. The fire had been contained to her front, so she lay there, on the ground, fingers digging into the dirt.
Easily contained, she rolled onto her back and found herself staring into the eyes of a slave girl, who had left her work to watch the performance since nobody was around to fuss at her. Delia studied the girl, panting. She held up an arm, ignoring the tickle of pain that jolted through her body, and raised herself up with the slave’s help.
“Back to your task,” she murmured the order, softly. “No need to get in trouble on my account.” The girl scurried away, and left Delia standing, half-naked, her dress half-gone, the sheer fabric burned to the burn that occupied her abdomen. Every movement hurt, but she wasn’t going to stand there and let everyone gape at her. She didn’t bother grabbing her fan as she left, leaving it—somebody would put it up.
She weaved her way to the tent that housed the doctor—who was out—oh well, all she was here for was salve and bandages. Taking what she needed, she headed back to her tent and had a slave collect clean water for her to clean herself up with.
In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to clean the burns, and ordered the same slave that had brought her water to do so. Her dress was stripped from her, and pulled from where it had fused with her skin. Her tent was closed, and she had pressed one of her many pillows across her face, to muffle her cries. The slave worked slowly, carefully cleaning the burns, applying the salve, and then urging Delia to sit upright.
Which was more painful than she thought it’d be. The bandages were wrapped tightly around her midsection, cover most of her stomach, and she stretched when the slave was done, trying to get used to the biting pain. The slave left without a word, even as Delia murmured her thanks to the retreating slave’s back.
When she felt that enough time had passed, and she could walk around like nothing had happened, she redressed. This time she chose loose pants, and a loose shirt. She couldn’t really hide it—and she shouldn’t, not from Nem at least, but she wasn’t ready for the conversation that would surely come up.
The same argument they’d been having: an argument about Delia’s disregard of Nem’s preferred ‘uniform’ for performers. Except this time she was out of excuses—though she’d certainly try to find a new excuse.
The last excuse had been: ‘I’ve never injured myself.’
So, Delia headed towards the cages, content to hide with Hamidi and the cats. Surely word had traveled, slaves gossiped just like everyone else. And anyone who knew Delia knew that her favorite hiding place was with the big cats (or perhaps, specifically, with Hamidi).
Oh?
The rumour mill did indeed travel quickly. The same slave that Delia banished away was not beneath the task of reporting directly to her superior. As Amenemhat looked over a particularly dull report along with a letter from one of his suppliers, he found at last something that amused him. Cursory tasks were a necessity, and few eyes but his were given the privilege to so this, so he trudged on for a little while longer, plugging the last numbers into the document that made up his ledger before he hid away all of his things in a personal coffer.
Delia was on fire?
There were no loud scream, nor was the massive fuss that came with a grievous injury present... so it led Amenemhat to the assumption that the stubborn Greek den-mother was alive and well. With Rekhmire wandering about doing... Gods only knew what the man did on his off time... it stood to reason that Delia would raid the medical tent and wander off somewhere to treat herself. This was not some medical emergency. No, this was hiding. And the ringmaster could guess with a large degree of certainty as to why. Delia and Amenemhat got on rather well. She complimented some of his faults, and was a staunch loyalist to the circus.
Though, all assets had their faults. Where others obeyed Amenemhat's preferences with only minor hiccups or more commonly, absolute compliance, Delia argued about it for ages. They'd had a back and forth for years about the way she wore too much clothing for performances. She seemed a Greek prude, letting garments and nonsense get in the way of the true delight that her performances had to offer.
Most of my performers are pretty faces and fine bodies. The arrogance is in Delia thinking she's above such conventions, he ruminated. He'd nearly gotten to the medical tent before he saw her cut out of the other end. Not necessarily given to a great depth of stealth, Nem waited for a moment for her to fully turn and chase her destination before he followed, as well. Truly, in the Tempest of Set, there was nowhere to hide from the ringmaster, so he didn't see the point in this little charade. But, he'd humour her if only to have the chance to corner her fully.
He saw her path, to underneath the still-erect circus tents where the animals were kept beneath the shade. A massive tent, the front of it was easy enough to reach, but to catch someone off-guard, Nem had another idea. He threw himself to the ground at the side of the tent, sliding beneath the fabric cover of the tent before shifting back to a standing position. The shadows draped over him, and he could hear the faint murmurings of Delia and Hamidi. How the dark-skinned man fussed over this Greek. It was... something Nem encouraged, but neither of them would forget their place before him.
"Hamidi, get out," he commanded, a firmness in his voice as those bronzed orbs slid from Bedoan to Greek. He at last caught Delia's gaze, and offered the woman the widest of smiles before he added,
"But not you, Delia. You stay here with me and tell me exactly why there are bandages around your abdomen, won't you?"
He was almost tempted to bat his eyes at her, just to showcase the sarcasm that layered into his words. He was enjoying this a little bit too much for his own good. A chance to knock people down a peg was far too sweet to pass up. Especially when their little hypocrisies and justifications of the past came crumbling down in front of their very eyes.
"I'm sure it's a rousing tale."
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Oh?
The rumour mill did indeed travel quickly. The same slave that Delia banished away was not beneath the task of reporting directly to her superior. As Amenemhat looked over a particularly dull report along with a letter from one of his suppliers, he found at last something that amused him. Cursory tasks were a necessity, and few eyes but his were given the privilege to so this, so he trudged on for a little while longer, plugging the last numbers into the document that made up his ledger before he hid away all of his things in a personal coffer.
Delia was on fire?
There were no loud scream, nor was the massive fuss that came with a grievous injury present... so it led Amenemhat to the assumption that the stubborn Greek den-mother was alive and well. With Rekhmire wandering about doing... Gods only knew what the man did on his off time... it stood to reason that Delia would raid the medical tent and wander off somewhere to treat herself. This was not some medical emergency. No, this was hiding. And the ringmaster could guess with a large degree of certainty as to why. Delia and Amenemhat got on rather well. She complimented some of his faults, and was a staunch loyalist to the circus.
Though, all assets had their faults. Where others obeyed Amenemhat's preferences with only minor hiccups or more commonly, absolute compliance, Delia argued about it for ages. They'd had a back and forth for years about the way she wore too much clothing for performances. She seemed a Greek prude, letting garments and nonsense get in the way of the true delight that her performances had to offer.
Most of my performers are pretty faces and fine bodies. The arrogance is in Delia thinking she's above such conventions, he ruminated. He'd nearly gotten to the medical tent before he saw her cut out of the other end. Not necessarily given to a great depth of stealth, Nem waited for a moment for her to fully turn and chase her destination before he followed, as well. Truly, in the Tempest of Set, there was nowhere to hide from the ringmaster, so he didn't see the point in this little charade. But, he'd humour her if only to have the chance to corner her fully.
He saw her path, to underneath the still-erect circus tents where the animals were kept beneath the shade. A massive tent, the front of it was easy enough to reach, but to catch someone off-guard, Nem had another idea. He threw himself to the ground at the side of the tent, sliding beneath the fabric cover of the tent before shifting back to a standing position. The shadows draped over him, and he could hear the faint murmurings of Delia and Hamidi. How the dark-skinned man fussed over this Greek. It was... something Nem encouraged, but neither of them would forget their place before him.
"Hamidi, get out," he commanded, a firmness in his voice as those bronzed orbs slid from Bedoan to Greek. He at last caught Delia's gaze, and offered the woman the widest of smiles before he added,
"But not you, Delia. You stay here with me and tell me exactly why there are bandages around your abdomen, won't you?"
He was almost tempted to bat his eyes at her, just to showcase the sarcasm that layered into his words. He was enjoying this a little bit too much for his own good. A chance to knock people down a peg was far too sweet to pass up. Especially when their little hypocrisies and justifications of the past came crumbling down in front of their very eyes.
"I'm sure it's a rousing tale."
Oh?
The rumour mill did indeed travel quickly. The same slave that Delia banished away was not beneath the task of reporting directly to her superior. As Amenemhat looked over a particularly dull report along with a letter from one of his suppliers, he found at last something that amused him. Cursory tasks were a necessity, and few eyes but his were given the privilege to so this, so he trudged on for a little while longer, plugging the last numbers into the document that made up his ledger before he hid away all of his things in a personal coffer.
Delia was on fire?
There were no loud scream, nor was the massive fuss that came with a grievous injury present... so it led Amenemhat to the assumption that the stubborn Greek den-mother was alive and well. With Rekhmire wandering about doing... Gods only knew what the man did on his off time... it stood to reason that Delia would raid the medical tent and wander off somewhere to treat herself. This was not some medical emergency. No, this was hiding. And the ringmaster could guess with a large degree of certainty as to why. Delia and Amenemhat got on rather well. She complimented some of his faults, and was a staunch loyalist to the circus.
Though, all assets had their faults. Where others obeyed Amenemhat's preferences with only minor hiccups or more commonly, absolute compliance, Delia argued about it for ages. They'd had a back and forth for years about the way she wore too much clothing for performances. She seemed a Greek prude, letting garments and nonsense get in the way of the true delight that her performances had to offer.
Most of my performers are pretty faces and fine bodies. The arrogance is in Delia thinking she's above such conventions, he ruminated. He'd nearly gotten to the medical tent before he saw her cut out of the other end. Not necessarily given to a great depth of stealth, Nem waited for a moment for her to fully turn and chase her destination before he followed, as well. Truly, in the Tempest of Set, there was nowhere to hide from the ringmaster, so he didn't see the point in this little charade. But, he'd humour her if only to have the chance to corner her fully.
He saw her path, to underneath the still-erect circus tents where the animals were kept beneath the shade. A massive tent, the front of it was easy enough to reach, but to catch someone off-guard, Nem had another idea. He threw himself to the ground at the side of the tent, sliding beneath the fabric cover of the tent before shifting back to a standing position. The shadows draped over him, and he could hear the faint murmurings of Delia and Hamidi. How the dark-skinned man fussed over this Greek. It was... something Nem encouraged, but neither of them would forget their place before him.
"Hamidi, get out," he commanded, a firmness in his voice as those bronzed orbs slid from Bedoan to Greek. He at last caught Delia's gaze, and offered the woman the widest of smiles before he added,
"But not you, Delia. You stay here with me and tell me exactly why there are bandages around your abdomen, won't you?"
He was almost tempted to bat his eyes at her, just to showcase the sarcasm that layered into his words. He was enjoying this a little bit too much for his own good. A chance to knock people down a peg was far too sweet to pass up. Especially when their little hypocrisies and justifications of the past came crumbling down in front of their very eyes.
"I'm sure it's a rousing tale."
“Hamidi, get out,”
It was not a request, but an order. As the Bedoan left, Delia settled back onto the hay bale she had been resting on, staring at the ringmaster. His smile reminded her of a hyena, and she scrunched her nose, spouting back: “I dunno. Why don’t you tell me, Nem? Surely that’s why you’re here.” A bold move, to flash an innocent smile and demand he answer her question instead.
Every statement, every promise of ‘I’ve never hurt myself because of my clothes’ that had been used in the past was now useless. A falsity. Crumbling at her feet. She had no way to defend herself against the next words out of his mouth; she was certain he was going to tell her where she stood in his circus, and what she’d wear, and when she’d wear it.
She kicked her feet though, features neutral as she studied him, waiting as if she really had no idea why she was there with him. “Rumors travel fast, who told you?” She inquired, tapping her fingers against the nearest animal cage fearlessly.
She might joke and laugh when others messed with the big cats, but Delia held very little fear towards them. Probably because she’d been hiding out in this tent for years, chatting up the cat tamer when there was nothing else that caught her eye.
Of course, she was aware of the rumors that the circus was flooded with, she simply… did not care. Hamidi was her friend, she knew the truth and the cat tamer knew the truth. There was nothing more to it. “Was it my most favorite slave girl?” She pouted, tutting quietly, assuming the answer was true. It really was a shame—she’d worked hard to teach that one…
Ah, well. Not everyone could change where they belonged in the circus.
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“Hamidi, get out,”
It was not a request, but an order. As the Bedoan left, Delia settled back onto the hay bale she had been resting on, staring at the ringmaster. His smile reminded her of a hyena, and she scrunched her nose, spouting back: “I dunno. Why don’t you tell me, Nem? Surely that’s why you’re here.” A bold move, to flash an innocent smile and demand he answer her question instead.
Every statement, every promise of ‘I’ve never hurt myself because of my clothes’ that had been used in the past was now useless. A falsity. Crumbling at her feet. She had no way to defend herself against the next words out of his mouth; she was certain he was going to tell her where she stood in his circus, and what she’d wear, and when she’d wear it.
She kicked her feet though, features neutral as she studied him, waiting as if she really had no idea why she was there with him. “Rumors travel fast, who told you?” She inquired, tapping her fingers against the nearest animal cage fearlessly.
She might joke and laugh when others messed with the big cats, but Delia held very little fear towards them. Probably because she’d been hiding out in this tent for years, chatting up the cat tamer when there was nothing else that caught her eye.
Of course, she was aware of the rumors that the circus was flooded with, she simply… did not care. Hamidi was her friend, she knew the truth and the cat tamer knew the truth. There was nothing more to it. “Was it my most favorite slave girl?” She pouted, tutting quietly, assuming the answer was true. It really was a shame—she’d worked hard to teach that one…
Ah, well. Not everyone could change where they belonged in the circus.
“Hamidi, get out,”
It was not a request, but an order. As the Bedoan left, Delia settled back onto the hay bale she had been resting on, staring at the ringmaster. His smile reminded her of a hyena, and she scrunched her nose, spouting back: “I dunno. Why don’t you tell me, Nem? Surely that’s why you’re here.” A bold move, to flash an innocent smile and demand he answer her question instead.
Every statement, every promise of ‘I’ve never hurt myself because of my clothes’ that had been used in the past was now useless. A falsity. Crumbling at her feet. She had no way to defend herself against the next words out of his mouth; she was certain he was going to tell her where she stood in his circus, and what she’d wear, and when she’d wear it.
She kicked her feet though, features neutral as she studied him, waiting as if she really had no idea why she was there with him. “Rumors travel fast, who told you?” She inquired, tapping her fingers against the nearest animal cage fearlessly.
She might joke and laugh when others messed with the big cats, but Delia held very little fear towards them. Probably because she’d been hiding out in this tent for years, chatting up the cat tamer when there was nothing else that caught her eye.
Of course, she was aware of the rumors that the circus was flooded with, she simply… did not care. Hamidi was her friend, she knew the truth and the cat tamer knew the truth. There was nothing more to it. “Was it my most favorite slave girl?” She pouted, tutting quietly, assuming the answer was true. It really was a shame—she’d worked hard to teach that one…
Ah, well. Not everyone could change where they belonged in the circus.
Amenemhat did not like to show his enjoyment of exerting his authority, but there was no denying the fine delight that came with the knowledge of it. The smile upon his features was less act than it might've been with other people, but Delia earned the particular cruelty because she continued again and again to argue with him. This woman was not some insect to be stamped out beneath his foot, she was an asset and one he'd bring great displeasure in ever forcing away from his circus. But, nevertheless, her constant disregard for the words that were made into the laws of his circus...
"... Why don't you tell me, Nem?"
Insolence.
Again, she had her quip, her lash of defiance in the face of his correct judgments. Of course the both of them knew why he was here, in some forsaken corner of his circus. The Tempest of Set was staying in Cairo for longer than expected, given its relative isolation from the rigors of the war and the fact that the provinces did not share such a privilege. Perhaps it was beginning to get to the circus' denizens, and surely it was to Nem himself. He was getting restless, being in one place for so long, but there was no denying the fact that his coffers were fuller and fuller for the fact.
Maybe we go to Thebes soon.
Another 'great' Egyptian city, a few days of travel. Amenemhat considered the idle thought before...
"Was it my most favourite slave girl?"
Stalling? Genuine curiosity? Either way,
"It doesn't matter who it was." Her question interrupted his moment's musing.
There's only so many people who know at all. She has her answer without asking.
"What does matter, Delia, is that your clothes were set aflame by your carelessness. Clothes that again and again, I've insisted are unnecessary and possibly even a detriment to your livelihood. But, as always, my good advice falls on deaf ears."
The ringmaster shrugged his shoulders, painting a false lament upon his features as he moved forward. fingers threaded between tatters, cinching a segment just above the woman's breast before kneading the material between his fingertips.
"Linen? Is wool too heavy for you? You're just asking to immolate yourself wearing such a thing. Thin, waifish fabrics burn like oil. You wear clothes that will fail to protect you... what's the point?"
Amenemhat released the material before he tilted his head, curious to hear her answer. This Greek prudishness needed to come to an end, or Amenemhat would have to bench a very potent asset to protect the rest of his circus.
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Amenemhat did not like to show his enjoyment of exerting his authority, but there was no denying the fine delight that came with the knowledge of it. The smile upon his features was less act than it might've been with other people, but Delia earned the particular cruelty because she continued again and again to argue with him. This woman was not some insect to be stamped out beneath his foot, she was an asset and one he'd bring great displeasure in ever forcing away from his circus. But, nevertheless, her constant disregard for the words that were made into the laws of his circus...
"... Why don't you tell me, Nem?"
Insolence.
Again, she had her quip, her lash of defiance in the face of his correct judgments. Of course the both of them knew why he was here, in some forsaken corner of his circus. The Tempest of Set was staying in Cairo for longer than expected, given its relative isolation from the rigors of the war and the fact that the provinces did not share such a privilege. Perhaps it was beginning to get to the circus' denizens, and surely it was to Nem himself. He was getting restless, being in one place for so long, but there was no denying the fact that his coffers were fuller and fuller for the fact.
Maybe we go to Thebes soon.
Another 'great' Egyptian city, a few days of travel. Amenemhat considered the idle thought before...
"Was it my most favourite slave girl?"
Stalling? Genuine curiosity? Either way,
"It doesn't matter who it was." Her question interrupted his moment's musing.
There's only so many people who know at all. She has her answer without asking.
"What does matter, Delia, is that your clothes were set aflame by your carelessness. Clothes that again and again, I've insisted are unnecessary and possibly even a detriment to your livelihood. But, as always, my good advice falls on deaf ears."
The ringmaster shrugged his shoulders, painting a false lament upon his features as he moved forward. fingers threaded between tatters, cinching a segment just above the woman's breast before kneading the material between his fingertips.
"Linen? Is wool too heavy for you? You're just asking to immolate yourself wearing such a thing. Thin, waifish fabrics burn like oil. You wear clothes that will fail to protect you... what's the point?"
Amenemhat released the material before he tilted his head, curious to hear her answer. This Greek prudishness needed to come to an end, or Amenemhat would have to bench a very potent asset to protect the rest of his circus.
Amenemhat did not like to show his enjoyment of exerting his authority, but there was no denying the fine delight that came with the knowledge of it. The smile upon his features was less act than it might've been with other people, but Delia earned the particular cruelty because she continued again and again to argue with him. This woman was not some insect to be stamped out beneath his foot, she was an asset and one he'd bring great displeasure in ever forcing away from his circus. But, nevertheless, her constant disregard for the words that were made into the laws of his circus...
"... Why don't you tell me, Nem?"
Insolence.
Again, she had her quip, her lash of defiance in the face of his correct judgments. Of course the both of them knew why he was here, in some forsaken corner of his circus. The Tempest of Set was staying in Cairo for longer than expected, given its relative isolation from the rigors of the war and the fact that the provinces did not share such a privilege. Perhaps it was beginning to get to the circus' denizens, and surely it was to Nem himself. He was getting restless, being in one place for so long, but there was no denying the fact that his coffers were fuller and fuller for the fact.
Maybe we go to Thebes soon.
Another 'great' Egyptian city, a few days of travel. Amenemhat considered the idle thought before...
"Was it my most favourite slave girl?"
Stalling? Genuine curiosity? Either way,
"It doesn't matter who it was." Her question interrupted his moment's musing.
There's only so many people who know at all. She has her answer without asking.
"What does matter, Delia, is that your clothes were set aflame by your carelessness. Clothes that again and again, I've insisted are unnecessary and possibly even a detriment to your livelihood. But, as always, my good advice falls on deaf ears."
The ringmaster shrugged his shoulders, painting a false lament upon his features as he moved forward. fingers threaded between tatters, cinching a segment just above the woman's breast before kneading the material between his fingertips.
"Linen? Is wool too heavy for you? You're just asking to immolate yourself wearing such a thing. Thin, waifish fabrics burn like oil. You wear clothes that will fail to protect you... what's the point?"
Amenemhat released the material before he tilted his head, curious to hear her answer. This Greek prudishness needed to come to an end, or Amenemhat would have to bench a very potent asset to protect the rest of his circus.