The chatbox has been hidden for this page. It will reopen upon refresh. To hide the CBox permanently, select "Permanently Toggle Cbox" in your profile User Settings.
This chatbox is hidden. To reopen, edit your User Settings.
Raziya berated herself silently as her stomach rumbled. The world was still as the moon hung high in the sky. A stillness which only made the the sounds of her hunger all the more painfully obvious. She had grown soft these last weeks. There was a time where she could go two days time before the hunger gnawed at her beyond ignoring. Now, it was only a half a day and she felt as though she was about to faint from need.
It had begun when she’d first stumbled upon the crowd when the circus returned to Alexandria. She had known of it, but her life held no room for frivolity. Even if there had once been a time when she would have been in awe of the acrobatic feats. When she might have fantasized of performing them herself. Yet she learned her lack of interest was mistaken. It was less the wonders of the circus itself that enchanted her, as the easy pickings of the crowd. She’d returned day after day, lightening the pockets of those whose gaze was too transfixed by the show to notice.
She’d made a killing. There was no other way to describe it.
For the first time since she’d been abandoned in the foreign land, she had not been scraping by. She had coin aplenty to buy food, clothes, whatever she needed. And the crowd never seemed to shrink even as the same wonders were on display night after night.
Until she learned that the circus was leaving to take the show to other cities. So she made a choice. She would follow them. Why struggle when she could continue on without a worry of going without?
What she hadn’t realized was that the rest of Egypt wasn’t like Alexandria. It was difficult to stay hidden from sight as they traveled the sands. The crowds were smaller. The purses lighter. It grew harder and harder to steal without drawing notice to herself. What she had saved away from Alexandria bought her bread enough. For a time.
She had spent it too frivolously. Hadn’t realized the profits wouldn’t always be so rich and readily available. Her last coin had been spent that morning. And already she felt weak. Her thoughts were consumed with her hunger. Ridiculous. She had been much stronger before. Used to going without. Enough that she could ignore the hunger until it was most dire. That she could keep her wits about her all the while. She had no choice. It was the only way she had survived this long.
Raziya had no one but herself. She had lost sight of that somehow. Let her greed get the best of her. Now it was too late. There was nowhere else to go.
She would do better on the next morrow. She just had to make it to tomorrow with a clear head.
The circus was full of people though... They fed dozens of mouths at least, between all the performers and the workers. And of course there was the slaves as well. Between all of them, who would notice one tiny person’s worth of food if it went missing? There was no way that anyone would be able to tell. No one was even awake.
Except for Raziya of course.
Mind made up, she crept through the night, slipping into the tent. In and out. No one would be the wiser. Her eyes scanned the bags, noticing a small bit of bread near the top. Perfect. Just enough for her. That’s all she needed. But just as she clutched it to her chest, she felt something that sent a chill down her spine.
A hand on her shoulder.
So this was it. Three years alone on the streets and this was how she met her demise. Could she run away? No. There was nowhere to run, or hide. Her usual tricks didn’t work in the desert. And she’d die on her own without food or water or shelter. Damn.
So with no other option, she turned to face her fate.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Stupid.
Raziya berated herself silently as her stomach rumbled. The world was still as the moon hung high in the sky. A stillness which only made the the sounds of her hunger all the more painfully obvious. She had grown soft these last weeks. There was a time where she could go two days time before the hunger gnawed at her beyond ignoring. Now, it was only a half a day and she felt as though she was about to faint from need.
It had begun when she’d first stumbled upon the crowd when the circus returned to Alexandria. She had known of it, but her life held no room for frivolity. Even if there had once been a time when she would have been in awe of the acrobatic feats. When she might have fantasized of performing them herself. Yet she learned her lack of interest was mistaken. It was less the wonders of the circus itself that enchanted her, as the easy pickings of the crowd. She’d returned day after day, lightening the pockets of those whose gaze was too transfixed by the show to notice.
She’d made a killing. There was no other way to describe it.
For the first time since she’d been abandoned in the foreign land, she had not been scraping by. She had coin aplenty to buy food, clothes, whatever she needed. And the crowd never seemed to shrink even as the same wonders were on display night after night.
Until she learned that the circus was leaving to take the show to other cities. So she made a choice. She would follow them. Why struggle when she could continue on without a worry of going without?
What she hadn’t realized was that the rest of Egypt wasn’t like Alexandria. It was difficult to stay hidden from sight as they traveled the sands. The crowds were smaller. The purses lighter. It grew harder and harder to steal without drawing notice to herself. What she had saved away from Alexandria bought her bread enough. For a time.
She had spent it too frivolously. Hadn’t realized the profits wouldn’t always be so rich and readily available. Her last coin had been spent that morning. And already she felt weak. Her thoughts were consumed with her hunger. Ridiculous. She had been much stronger before. Used to going without. Enough that she could ignore the hunger until it was most dire. That she could keep her wits about her all the while. She had no choice. It was the only way she had survived this long.
Raziya had no one but herself. She had lost sight of that somehow. Let her greed get the best of her. Now it was too late. There was nowhere else to go.
She would do better on the next morrow. She just had to make it to tomorrow with a clear head.
The circus was full of people though... They fed dozens of mouths at least, between all the performers and the workers. And of course there was the slaves as well. Between all of them, who would notice one tiny person’s worth of food if it went missing? There was no way that anyone would be able to tell. No one was even awake.
Except for Raziya of course.
Mind made up, she crept through the night, slipping into the tent. In and out. No one would be the wiser. Her eyes scanned the bags, noticing a small bit of bread near the top. Perfect. Just enough for her. That’s all she needed. But just as she clutched it to her chest, she felt something that sent a chill down her spine.
A hand on her shoulder.
So this was it. Three years alone on the streets and this was how she met her demise. Could she run away? No. There was nowhere to run, or hide. Her usual tricks didn’t work in the desert. And she’d die on her own without food or water or shelter. Damn.
So with no other option, she turned to face her fate.
Stupid.
Raziya berated herself silently as her stomach rumbled. The world was still as the moon hung high in the sky. A stillness which only made the the sounds of her hunger all the more painfully obvious. She had grown soft these last weeks. There was a time where she could go two days time before the hunger gnawed at her beyond ignoring. Now, it was only a half a day and she felt as though she was about to faint from need.
It had begun when she’d first stumbled upon the crowd when the circus returned to Alexandria. She had known of it, but her life held no room for frivolity. Even if there had once been a time when she would have been in awe of the acrobatic feats. When she might have fantasized of performing them herself. Yet she learned her lack of interest was mistaken. It was less the wonders of the circus itself that enchanted her, as the easy pickings of the crowd. She’d returned day after day, lightening the pockets of those whose gaze was too transfixed by the show to notice.
She’d made a killing. There was no other way to describe it.
For the first time since she’d been abandoned in the foreign land, she had not been scraping by. She had coin aplenty to buy food, clothes, whatever she needed. And the crowd never seemed to shrink even as the same wonders were on display night after night.
Until she learned that the circus was leaving to take the show to other cities. So she made a choice. She would follow them. Why struggle when she could continue on without a worry of going without?
What she hadn’t realized was that the rest of Egypt wasn’t like Alexandria. It was difficult to stay hidden from sight as they traveled the sands. The crowds were smaller. The purses lighter. It grew harder and harder to steal without drawing notice to herself. What she had saved away from Alexandria bought her bread enough. For a time.
She had spent it too frivolously. Hadn’t realized the profits wouldn’t always be so rich and readily available. Her last coin had been spent that morning. And already she felt weak. Her thoughts were consumed with her hunger. Ridiculous. She had been much stronger before. Used to going without. Enough that she could ignore the hunger until it was most dire. That she could keep her wits about her all the while. She had no choice. It was the only way she had survived this long.
Raziya had no one but herself. She had lost sight of that somehow. Let her greed get the best of her. Now it was too late. There was nowhere else to go.
She would do better on the next morrow. She just had to make it to tomorrow with a clear head.
The circus was full of people though... They fed dozens of mouths at least, between all the performers and the workers. And of course there was the slaves as well. Between all of them, who would notice one tiny person’s worth of food if it went missing? There was no way that anyone would be able to tell. No one was even awake.
Except for Raziya of course.
Mind made up, she crept through the night, slipping into the tent. In and out. No one would be the wiser. Her eyes scanned the bags, noticing a small bit of bread near the top. Perfect. Just enough for her. That’s all she needed. But just as she clutched it to her chest, she felt something that sent a chill down her spine.
A hand on her shoulder.
So this was it. Three years alone on the streets and this was how she met her demise. Could she run away? No. There was nowhere to run, or hide. Her usual tricks didn’t work in the desert. And she’d die on her own without food or water or shelter. Damn.
So with no other option, she turned to face her fate.
Amenemhat lived for movement.
The travel between provinces gave the passage of time meaning. It gave him something to do when the stillness overwhelmed between the reverie that was the show. While Amenemhat grew strong by his inclusion in the acrobats' regimen, it was not his prerogative to spend the entire day consumed in it. Not a performer, nor a slave driver, the labour consumed his focus, but festered within him... a feeling. It was a worm that burrowed into his skull, the thought that he held no purpose, was merely a passenger in the circus he'd always believed to be his destiny.
And it was. As the boy grew older, taller. Stronger. He felt the distance between himself and the ringmaster. No longer one to suffer by the man's hand, now he languished in his shadow, a visage that shrank and shrank, wilting as the flaws of his tenure became obvious. Amenemhat knew cruelty to be his father's fascination, and where he could no longer inflict physical damage upon his heir, he switched a psychological one. Inaction, inadequacy. He was being shut out, and the talk of it was not missed in the pockets of the inner circle. So, the choice was made.
This is my family.
He knew it well, that the denizens of the inner circle were his future, and he acquiesced to their recommendation. The thought that Somgi of Cairo could isolate him, to force him to question himself... This was his retaliation. Each stab brought with it a furthered sense of resolve, the mallet-driven bone depositing its ink, crimson blooming in the wake and swelling along his back. The wisps of the storm carved against the entirety of his back, a massive marking that'd taken the entire day. He lay on a table for hours into the evening.
You should do it in parts, they suggested. He'd have none of it, insisting on the entirety of the marking to be made before he was allowed to leave. He felt the trickle of blood as it dribbled along his skin.
Drip.
So quiet, but it was all he could focus on as he stared at the ground with one eye, his cheek pressed into wood as they finished the work.
Then, they dabbed at the flesh around the wounds, removing the blood. Amenemhat lay on that table, alone, for at least another hour before he heard something nearby. A shifting uncharacteristic to the sounds of the night. Sure, there might be pockets of circus folk awake, but their noises would be louder. In the Tempest of Set, there was little need for stealth.
Unless you're an outsider.
He rose to his feet and took hold of the long stick they'd given, to aid him in walking. Nem clenched his jaw as the pain shot through his body, as he took his first steps outside of the tent and towards another. His pace was deliberately slow as his feet sifted into the sand, following the sound up until he saw the offendor. A girl, perhaps the same age as the sister he left behind in Alexandria... He narrowed his gaze just as he shifted his pace. The movement seemed to dull the pain, to awaken him from it. Set him apart form it.
She turned when he clasped at her shoulder, holding several pieces of bread...
"All of the things to steal here... and you decide on the bread?"
She seemed emaciated, desperate. She didn't run, even though, she might've been able to. Nem was certainly in no shape to chase her down. But, perhaps, she didn't see that yet.
"Why? What's happened to you?"
Tell me your story.
Her fate was attached to her answer.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Amenemhat lived for movement.
The travel between provinces gave the passage of time meaning. It gave him something to do when the stillness overwhelmed between the reverie that was the show. While Amenemhat grew strong by his inclusion in the acrobats' regimen, it was not his prerogative to spend the entire day consumed in it. Not a performer, nor a slave driver, the labour consumed his focus, but festered within him... a feeling. It was a worm that burrowed into his skull, the thought that he held no purpose, was merely a passenger in the circus he'd always believed to be his destiny.
And it was. As the boy grew older, taller. Stronger. He felt the distance between himself and the ringmaster. No longer one to suffer by the man's hand, now he languished in his shadow, a visage that shrank and shrank, wilting as the flaws of his tenure became obvious. Amenemhat knew cruelty to be his father's fascination, and where he could no longer inflict physical damage upon his heir, he switched a psychological one. Inaction, inadequacy. He was being shut out, and the talk of it was not missed in the pockets of the inner circle. So, the choice was made.
This is my family.
He knew it well, that the denizens of the inner circle were his future, and he acquiesced to their recommendation. The thought that Somgi of Cairo could isolate him, to force him to question himself... This was his retaliation. Each stab brought with it a furthered sense of resolve, the mallet-driven bone depositing its ink, crimson blooming in the wake and swelling along his back. The wisps of the storm carved against the entirety of his back, a massive marking that'd taken the entire day. He lay on a table for hours into the evening.
You should do it in parts, they suggested. He'd have none of it, insisting on the entirety of the marking to be made before he was allowed to leave. He felt the trickle of blood as it dribbled along his skin.
Drip.
So quiet, but it was all he could focus on as he stared at the ground with one eye, his cheek pressed into wood as they finished the work.
Then, they dabbed at the flesh around the wounds, removing the blood. Amenemhat lay on that table, alone, for at least another hour before he heard something nearby. A shifting uncharacteristic to the sounds of the night. Sure, there might be pockets of circus folk awake, but their noises would be louder. In the Tempest of Set, there was little need for stealth.
Unless you're an outsider.
He rose to his feet and took hold of the long stick they'd given, to aid him in walking. Nem clenched his jaw as the pain shot through his body, as he took his first steps outside of the tent and towards another. His pace was deliberately slow as his feet sifted into the sand, following the sound up until he saw the offendor. A girl, perhaps the same age as the sister he left behind in Alexandria... He narrowed his gaze just as he shifted his pace. The movement seemed to dull the pain, to awaken him from it. Set him apart form it.
She turned when he clasped at her shoulder, holding several pieces of bread...
"All of the things to steal here... and you decide on the bread?"
She seemed emaciated, desperate. She didn't run, even though, she might've been able to. Nem was certainly in no shape to chase her down. But, perhaps, she didn't see that yet.
"Why? What's happened to you?"
Tell me your story.
Her fate was attached to her answer.
Amenemhat lived for movement.
The travel between provinces gave the passage of time meaning. It gave him something to do when the stillness overwhelmed between the reverie that was the show. While Amenemhat grew strong by his inclusion in the acrobats' regimen, it was not his prerogative to spend the entire day consumed in it. Not a performer, nor a slave driver, the labour consumed his focus, but festered within him... a feeling. It was a worm that burrowed into his skull, the thought that he held no purpose, was merely a passenger in the circus he'd always believed to be his destiny.
And it was. As the boy grew older, taller. Stronger. He felt the distance between himself and the ringmaster. No longer one to suffer by the man's hand, now he languished in his shadow, a visage that shrank and shrank, wilting as the flaws of his tenure became obvious. Amenemhat knew cruelty to be his father's fascination, and where he could no longer inflict physical damage upon his heir, he switched a psychological one. Inaction, inadequacy. He was being shut out, and the talk of it was not missed in the pockets of the inner circle. So, the choice was made.
This is my family.
He knew it well, that the denizens of the inner circle were his future, and he acquiesced to their recommendation. The thought that Somgi of Cairo could isolate him, to force him to question himself... This was his retaliation. Each stab brought with it a furthered sense of resolve, the mallet-driven bone depositing its ink, crimson blooming in the wake and swelling along his back. The wisps of the storm carved against the entirety of his back, a massive marking that'd taken the entire day. He lay on a table for hours into the evening.
You should do it in parts, they suggested. He'd have none of it, insisting on the entirety of the marking to be made before he was allowed to leave. He felt the trickle of blood as it dribbled along his skin.
Drip.
So quiet, but it was all he could focus on as he stared at the ground with one eye, his cheek pressed into wood as they finished the work.
Then, they dabbed at the flesh around the wounds, removing the blood. Amenemhat lay on that table, alone, for at least another hour before he heard something nearby. A shifting uncharacteristic to the sounds of the night. Sure, there might be pockets of circus folk awake, but their noises would be louder. In the Tempest of Set, there was little need for stealth.
Unless you're an outsider.
He rose to his feet and took hold of the long stick they'd given, to aid him in walking. Nem clenched his jaw as the pain shot through his body, as he took his first steps outside of the tent and towards another. His pace was deliberately slow as his feet sifted into the sand, following the sound up until he saw the offendor. A girl, perhaps the same age as the sister he left behind in Alexandria... He narrowed his gaze just as he shifted his pace. The movement seemed to dull the pain, to awaken him from it. Set him apart form it.
She turned when he clasped at her shoulder, holding several pieces of bread...
"All of the things to steal here... and you decide on the bread?"
She seemed emaciated, desperate. She didn't run, even though, she might've been able to. Nem was certainly in no shape to chase her down. But, perhaps, she didn't see that yet.
"Why? What's happened to you?"
Tell me your story.
Her fate was attached to her answer.
Raziya hesitated a moment as she felt the tell-tale hand upon her shoulder. Her mind was racing through her options. She turned to face her captor, stubborn resolve written upon her face even as a certain vulnerability in her eyes hinted at the fear within her. The man was young, but held a walking stick. Was he ill or injured?
No, even if he was unable to chase her himself, running still did her no good. There were dozens in the surrounding tents he could easily rouse to assist him. She was an outsider. More than that, there was nowhere to hide. The desert would reveal her plain as day, and the only place to hide was the tents which could contain all sort of unpleasant surprises. And even if they didn’t chase her into the desert, she wouldn’t survive. She’d sooner be killed or maimed quickly than to languish until her body was too weak to continue.
No. When she met death, it would be quick and sure. Not wasting away.
Her eyes narrowed more as he critiqued her choice of food. “Perhaps if you’d been kind enough to not interrupt, I would have found something more appealing,” she grumbled, her hunger sharpening her temper more than was probably wise. Stupid. She might not be able to escape, but if she kept her wits about her, maybe she could spin this somehow. Enough to keep her alive at least.
“A hungry thief is a sloppy thief,” she said finally with a sigh, seemingly dejected by his judgement. She lifted the bread still in her hand to her mouth, taking a large bite. If she was going to be punished for taking it, she would at least put something in her stomach. Besides, it bought her time to think of how to answer his question.
She couldn’t lie. She knew that much. This man’s eyes had a sharpness to them that made her think he’d see through anything that strayed far from the truth. But she couldn’t tell him everything, could she? Not at first at least. She needed to know more about him before she could decide what would be the right details to tell. Some people thrived on helping the pitiable - others found such tales of woe to be distasteful. Without knowing her audience, it was too big a risk to take.
“I’ve done just fine on my own until now,” she huffed with a half full mouth. Even now, her pride wouldn’t let her admit she needed assistance. “But... I’ve always stayed in the city. I didn’t realize how much slimmer the pickings would be out here,” she admitted, her gaze turning downcast and sheepish. She didn’t like admitting it, but she had made a grave error in judgment.
Suddenly an idea popped into her head. He had suggested there were better things to steal, after all. Perhaps that meant he would be willing to barter...
“I need a meal,” she said plainly. “But you can’t get something for nothing. So maybe there is something I can offer you to just... forget you saw me?” As she spoke, she pulled out a small pouch. She might have been out of coin, but she still had the things she hadn’t yet been able to sell. After a moment of shuffling around the contents, she pulled out a sapphire and gold ring she had nicked the other day. She knew she couldn’t sell it in the same town she had stolen it from. The risk of it being recognized was simply too great. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t save her hide right now.
“I rather think this would suit. What do you say?”
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Raziya hesitated a moment as she felt the tell-tale hand upon her shoulder. Her mind was racing through her options. She turned to face her captor, stubborn resolve written upon her face even as a certain vulnerability in her eyes hinted at the fear within her. The man was young, but held a walking stick. Was he ill or injured?
No, even if he was unable to chase her himself, running still did her no good. There were dozens in the surrounding tents he could easily rouse to assist him. She was an outsider. More than that, there was nowhere to hide. The desert would reveal her plain as day, and the only place to hide was the tents which could contain all sort of unpleasant surprises. And even if they didn’t chase her into the desert, she wouldn’t survive. She’d sooner be killed or maimed quickly than to languish until her body was too weak to continue.
No. When she met death, it would be quick and sure. Not wasting away.
Her eyes narrowed more as he critiqued her choice of food. “Perhaps if you’d been kind enough to not interrupt, I would have found something more appealing,” she grumbled, her hunger sharpening her temper more than was probably wise. Stupid. She might not be able to escape, but if she kept her wits about her, maybe she could spin this somehow. Enough to keep her alive at least.
“A hungry thief is a sloppy thief,” she said finally with a sigh, seemingly dejected by his judgement. She lifted the bread still in her hand to her mouth, taking a large bite. If she was going to be punished for taking it, she would at least put something in her stomach. Besides, it bought her time to think of how to answer his question.
She couldn’t lie. She knew that much. This man’s eyes had a sharpness to them that made her think he’d see through anything that strayed far from the truth. But she couldn’t tell him everything, could she? Not at first at least. She needed to know more about him before she could decide what would be the right details to tell. Some people thrived on helping the pitiable - others found such tales of woe to be distasteful. Without knowing her audience, it was too big a risk to take.
“I’ve done just fine on my own until now,” she huffed with a half full mouth. Even now, her pride wouldn’t let her admit she needed assistance. “But... I’ve always stayed in the city. I didn’t realize how much slimmer the pickings would be out here,” she admitted, her gaze turning downcast and sheepish. She didn’t like admitting it, but she had made a grave error in judgment.
Suddenly an idea popped into her head. He had suggested there were better things to steal, after all. Perhaps that meant he would be willing to barter...
“I need a meal,” she said plainly. “But you can’t get something for nothing. So maybe there is something I can offer you to just... forget you saw me?” As she spoke, she pulled out a small pouch. She might have been out of coin, but she still had the things she hadn’t yet been able to sell. After a moment of shuffling around the contents, she pulled out a sapphire and gold ring she had nicked the other day. She knew she couldn’t sell it in the same town she had stolen it from. The risk of it being recognized was simply too great. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t save her hide right now.
“I rather think this would suit. What do you say?”
Raziya hesitated a moment as she felt the tell-tale hand upon her shoulder. Her mind was racing through her options. She turned to face her captor, stubborn resolve written upon her face even as a certain vulnerability in her eyes hinted at the fear within her. The man was young, but held a walking stick. Was he ill or injured?
No, even if he was unable to chase her himself, running still did her no good. There were dozens in the surrounding tents he could easily rouse to assist him. She was an outsider. More than that, there was nowhere to hide. The desert would reveal her plain as day, and the only place to hide was the tents which could contain all sort of unpleasant surprises. And even if they didn’t chase her into the desert, she wouldn’t survive. She’d sooner be killed or maimed quickly than to languish until her body was too weak to continue.
No. When she met death, it would be quick and sure. Not wasting away.
Her eyes narrowed more as he critiqued her choice of food. “Perhaps if you’d been kind enough to not interrupt, I would have found something more appealing,” she grumbled, her hunger sharpening her temper more than was probably wise. Stupid. She might not be able to escape, but if she kept her wits about her, maybe she could spin this somehow. Enough to keep her alive at least.
“A hungry thief is a sloppy thief,” she said finally with a sigh, seemingly dejected by his judgement. She lifted the bread still in her hand to her mouth, taking a large bite. If she was going to be punished for taking it, she would at least put something in her stomach. Besides, it bought her time to think of how to answer his question.
She couldn’t lie. She knew that much. This man’s eyes had a sharpness to them that made her think he’d see through anything that strayed far from the truth. But she couldn’t tell him everything, could she? Not at first at least. She needed to know more about him before she could decide what would be the right details to tell. Some people thrived on helping the pitiable - others found such tales of woe to be distasteful. Without knowing her audience, it was too big a risk to take.
“I’ve done just fine on my own until now,” she huffed with a half full mouth. Even now, her pride wouldn’t let her admit she needed assistance. “But... I’ve always stayed in the city. I didn’t realize how much slimmer the pickings would be out here,” she admitted, her gaze turning downcast and sheepish. She didn’t like admitting it, but she had made a grave error in judgment.
Suddenly an idea popped into her head. He had suggested there were better things to steal, after all. Perhaps that meant he would be willing to barter...
“I need a meal,” she said plainly. “But you can’t get something for nothing. So maybe there is something I can offer you to just... forget you saw me?” As she spoke, she pulled out a small pouch. She might have been out of coin, but she still had the things she hadn’t yet been able to sell. After a moment of shuffling around the contents, she pulled out a sapphire and gold ring she had nicked the other day. She knew she couldn’t sell it in the same town she had stolen it from. The risk of it being recognized was simply too great. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t save her hide right now.
“I rather think this would suit. What do you say?”
Even through the dull ache that cascaded along the length of his back, Amenemhat could see the workings of a brain as it transpired before him. Astute enough in his young age to take note of it, it seemed apparent that the girl, whoever she was (some street rat), carried intelligence about her. She'd struck at a good time, for the flight of people away from the tent he'd been in, if she'd been waiting a good while, would've left the adjacent with a lesser likelihood of being inhabited. It was simply her misfortune for the circus heir to be engaging in behaviour that required more time than most to recover from.
Where this begets pain, it also begat strength. Tonight, they see me as a brother. Someday, I will be much more, he vowed.
Ever since he'd first joined the circus four years ago, Nem craved a sense of belonging, to be seen as more than just some heir to kiss up to and make sure he didn't report odd behaviours to the ringmaster. He craved the acknowledgement of the people who would someday serve as his eyes, his ears, and his hands in the inner machinations that kept the Tempest of Set alive. Even as Somgi of Cairo's stranglehold over his people waned and his competence suffered, the inner circle of the circus kept the wheels spinning.
The heir studied his unwitting guest carefully, and even let a laugh part from his lips once she grumbled out those words. Nem shifted, bending with some effort to retrieve another couple pieces of bread from the opened bag that the girl opened. It was intuitive, for her to come to this tent. It was an equivalent to their pantry, where the few cooks who worked over open fires and hastily assembled clay stoves in the circus encampment. Even in the outskirts of town, those with the ingenuity had the means to enjoy such simple comforts.
"If you'd been sneakier, you would've had more time to look," he chided her, nodding in agreement with her assessment as to how hunger affected one's ability to be a proper thief. Nem lobbed another piece of bread at the girl, shaking his head,
"That's not enough. You're telling me about right now. You're looking for a way out. It's the wrong thing to be looking for."
You followed us, he added internally, just as the voice that nagged at the back of the young man's skull began to wax, to grow louder and louder.
She stole from you. Why would you give her more?
Amenemhat had a response, but to acknowledge those words would mean giving in to a specter that lived on the periphery of his thoughts, a shade with no regard for his answers at all.
When the girl passed him a beautifully rendered sapphire and gold ring, Amenemhat arched his eyebrows in surprise. Again and again she did not fail to impress him. An item worth so much surely was being paid attention to. She measured her answers, worked with caution, and she was so very young...
People like her can be useful. Grandfather insists on the utility of children. There's no reason this stray prowler can't find a home here, he mused. But, to make that ask so quickly would be seen as odd. Amenemhat took his time, shaking his head as he told her,
"We aren't city-dwellers, thief. I don't want your bribery. I told you what I wanted and you've not supplied the proper answer. You're not an Egyptian. You're a long way from home," he pointed out.
"I'd rather not forget I saw you, either. My name's Amenemhat, the son of this circus' ringmaster. Who're you?"
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Even through the dull ache that cascaded along the length of his back, Amenemhat could see the workings of a brain as it transpired before him. Astute enough in his young age to take note of it, it seemed apparent that the girl, whoever she was (some street rat), carried intelligence about her. She'd struck at a good time, for the flight of people away from the tent he'd been in, if she'd been waiting a good while, would've left the adjacent with a lesser likelihood of being inhabited. It was simply her misfortune for the circus heir to be engaging in behaviour that required more time than most to recover from.
Where this begets pain, it also begat strength. Tonight, they see me as a brother. Someday, I will be much more, he vowed.
Ever since he'd first joined the circus four years ago, Nem craved a sense of belonging, to be seen as more than just some heir to kiss up to and make sure he didn't report odd behaviours to the ringmaster. He craved the acknowledgement of the people who would someday serve as his eyes, his ears, and his hands in the inner machinations that kept the Tempest of Set alive. Even as Somgi of Cairo's stranglehold over his people waned and his competence suffered, the inner circle of the circus kept the wheels spinning.
The heir studied his unwitting guest carefully, and even let a laugh part from his lips once she grumbled out those words. Nem shifted, bending with some effort to retrieve another couple pieces of bread from the opened bag that the girl opened. It was intuitive, for her to come to this tent. It was an equivalent to their pantry, where the few cooks who worked over open fires and hastily assembled clay stoves in the circus encampment. Even in the outskirts of town, those with the ingenuity had the means to enjoy such simple comforts.
"If you'd been sneakier, you would've had more time to look," he chided her, nodding in agreement with her assessment as to how hunger affected one's ability to be a proper thief. Nem lobbed another piece of bread at the girl, shaking his head,
"That's not enough. You're telling me about right now. You're looking for a way out. It's the wrong thing to be looking for."
You followed us, he added internally, just as the voice that nagged at the back of the young man's skull began to wax, to grow louder and louder.
She stole from you. Why would you give her more?
Amenemhat had a response, but to acknowledge those words would mean giving in to a specter that lived on the periphery of his thoughts, a shade with no regard for his answers at all.
When the girl passed him a beautifully rendered sapphire and gold ring, Amenemhat arched his eyebrows in surprise. Again and again she did not fail to impress him. An item worth so much surely was being paid attention to. She measured her answers, worked with caution, and she was so very young...
People like her can be useful. Grandfather insists on the utility of children. There's no reason this stray prowler can't find a home here, he mused. But, to make that ask so quickly would be seen as odd. Amenemhat took his time, shaking his head as he told her,
"We aren't city-dwellers, thief. I don't want your bribery. I told you what I wanted and you've not supplied the proper answer. You're not an Egyptian. You're a long way from home," he pointed out.
"I'd rather not forget I saw you, either. My name's Amenemhat, the son of this circus' ringmaster. Who're you?"
Even through the dull ache that cascaded along the length of his back, Amenemhat could see the workings of a brain as it transpired before him. Astute enough in his young age to take note of it, it seemed apparent that the girl, whoever she was (some street rat), carried intelligence about her. She'd struck at a good time, for the flight of people away from the tent he'd been in, if she'd been waiting a good while, would've left the adjacent with a lesser likelihood of being inhabited. It was simply her misfortune for the circus heir to be engaging in behaviour that required more time than most to recover from.
Where this begets pain, it also begat strength. Tonight, they see me as a brother. Someday, I will be much more, he vowed.
Ever since he'd first joined the circus four years ago, Nem craved a sense of belonging, to be seen as more than just some heir to kiss up to and make sure he didn't report odd behaviours to the ringmaster. He craved the acknowledgement of the people who would someday serve as his eyes, his ears, and his hands in the inner machinations that kept the Tempest of Set alive. Even as Somgi of Cairo's stranglehold over his people waned and his competence suffered, the inner circle of the circus kept the wheels spinning.
The heir studied his unwitting guest carefully, and even let a laugh part from his lips once she grumbled out those words. Nem shifted, bending with some effort to retrieve another couple pieces of bread from the opened bag that the girl opened. It was intuitive, for her to come to this tent. It was an equivalent to their pantry, where the few cooks who worked over open fires and hastily assembled clay stoves in the circus encampment. Even in the outskirts of town, those with the ingenuity had the means to enjoy such simple comforts.
"If you'd been sneakier, you would've had more time to look," he chided her, nodding in agreement with her assessment as to how hunger affected one's ability to be a proper thief. Nem lobbed another piece of bread at the girl, shaking his head,
"That's not enough. You're telling me about right now. You're looking for a way out. It's the wrong thing to be looking for."
You followed us, he added internally, just as the voice that nagged at the back of the young man's skull began to wax, to grow louder and louder.
She stole from you. Why would you give her more?
Amenemhat had a response, but to acknowledge those words would mean giving in to a specter that lived on the periphery of his thoughts, a shade with no regard for his answers at all.
When the girl passed him a beautifully rendered sapphire and gold ring, Amenemhat arched his eyebrows in surprise. Again and again she did not fail to impress him. An item worth so much surely was being paid attention to. She measured her answers, worked with caution, and she was so very young...
People like her can be useful. Grandfather insists on the utility of children. There's no reason this stray prowler can't find a home here, he mused. But, to make that ask so quickly would be seen as odd. Amenemhat took his time, shaking his head as he told her,
"We aren't city-dwellers, thief. I don't want your bribery. I told you what I wanted and you've not supplied the proper answer. You're not an Egyptian. You're a long way from home," he pointed out.
"I'd rather not forget I saw you, either. My name's Amenemhat, the son of this circus' ringmaster. Who're you?"
Her grumble about his unkind interuption earned a laugh which surprised her. Her eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn’t acting at all how someone who just caught a thief should. She wasn’t exactly complaining - after all it could be going far worse for her - but it was odd to say the least. She wasn’t sure exactly how to react to him.
He shifted then, and she instinctively shuffled back to stay out of reach in case he planned to grab her by the ankle or any such thing. Instead, he reached for the bread. It was then that her eyes caught the sight of his back. She leaned a little closer, trying to make sense of the inked design beneath the swelling. He righted himself, chiding her all the while before tossing her another piece. Even distracted, she caught it with ease.
Instead she gave a half shrug as she took another bite. “I wasn’t looking for anything better anyway. If you don’t know when or where your next meal is coming, better to stick with bland things than the good stuff. Spoiling yourself backfires.” She had relearned that lesson all too painfully. It was what had put her in this very situation after all.
His answer frustrated and intrigued her all at once. Yes, she was looking for a way out, but what else was it that he wanted her to do? She listened as he spoke, watching him carefully as he seemed to consider her offer. Only to curse inwardly as he rejected it. Did she have another choice but to play this game?
“Alexandria is my home,” she insisted, venom in her voice. A moment’s pause to consider and collect herself. “My name is Raziya. I may not have been born here, but Egypt is more my home than Judea ever was. I’ve lived here for years now.” She fidgeted slightly, debating how honest she wanted to be. “I came here with my father on business. He decided to return alone.” Her expression darkened slightly. “I was better off without them or their pointless rules anyway.” Nevermind their bitterness. It was like a poison eating away at them. She could only hope her siblings were fairing better without her.
Her eyes returned to him. A hint of curiosity shining through the wariness. After all, she had told him a great deal about herself now. It seemed only right he should reveal something as well. She didn’t like the notion that he held all the cards in this little exchange. “So what is that supposed to be on your back?”
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Her grumble about his unkind interuption earned a laugh which surprised her. Her eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn’t acting at all how someone who just caught a thief should. She wasn’t exactly complaining - after all it could be going far worse for her - but it was odd to say the least. She wasn’t sure exactly how to react to him.
He shifted then, and she instinctively shuffled back to stay out of reach in case he planned to grab her by the ankle or any such thing. Instead, he reached for the bread. It was then that her eyes caught the sight of his back. She leaned a little closer, trying to make sense of the inked design beneath the swelling. He righted himself, chiding her all the while before tossing her another piece. Even distracted, she caught it with ease.
Instead she gave a half shrug as she took another bite. “I wasn’t looking for anything better anyway. If you don’t know when or where your next meal is coming, better to stick with bland things than the good stuff. Spoiling yourself backfires.” She had relearned that lesson all too painfully. It was what had put her in this very situation after all.
His answer frustrated and intrigued her all at once. Yes, she was looking for a way out, but what else was it that he wanted her to do? She listened as he spoke, watching him carefully as he seemed to consider her offer. Only to curse inwardly as he rejected it. Did she have another choice but to play this game?
“Alexandria is my home,” she insisted, venom in her voice. A moment’s pause to consider and collect herself. “My name is Raziya. I may not have been born here, but Egypt is more my home than Judea ever was. I’ve lived here for years now.” She fidgeted slightly, debating how honest she wanted to be. “I came here with my father on business. He decided to return alone.” Her expression darkened slightly. “I was better off without them or their pointless rules anyway.” Nevermind their bitterness. It was like a poison eating away at them. She could only hope her siblings were fairing better without her.
Her eyes returned to him. A hint of curiosity shining through the wariness. After all, she had told him a great deal about herself now. It seemed only right he should reveal something as well. She didn’t like the notion that he held all the cards in this little exchange. “So what is that supposed to be on your back?”
Her grumble about his unkind interuption earned a laugh which surprised her. Her eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn’t acting at all how someone who just caught a thief should. She wasn’t exactly complaining - after all it could be going far worse for her - but it was odd to say the least. She wasn’t sure exactly how to react to him.
He shifted then, and she instinctively shuffled back to stay out of reach in case he planned to grab her by the ankle or any such thing. Instead, he reached for the bread. It was then that her eyes caught the sight of his back. She leaned a little closer, trying to make sense of the inked design beneath the swelling. He righted himself, chiding her all the while before tossing her another piece. Even distracted, she caught it with ease.
Instead she gave a half shrug as she took another bite. “I wasn’t looking for anything better anyway. If you don’t know when or where your next meal is coming, better to stick with bland things than the good stuff. Spoiling yourself backfires.” She had relearned that lesson all too painfully. It was what had put her in this very situation after all.
His answer frustrated and intrigued her all at once. Yes, she was looking for a way out, but what else was it that he wanted her to do? She listened as he spoke, watching him carefully as he seemed to consider her offer. Only to curse inwardly as he rejected it. Did she have another choice but to play this game?
“Alexandria is my home,” she insisted, venom in her voice. A moment’s pause to consider and collect herself. “My name is Raziya. I may not have been born here, but Egypt is more my home than Judea ever was. I’ve lived here for years now.” She fidgeted slightly, debating how honest she wanted to be. “I came here with my father on business. He decided to return alone.” Her expression darkened slightly. “I was better off without them or their pointless rules anyway.” Nevermind their bitterness. It was like a poison eating away at them. She could only hope her siblings were fairing better without her.
Her eyes returned to him. A hint of curiosity shining through the wariness. After all, she had told him a great deal about herself now. It seemed only right he should reveal something as well. She didn’t like the notion that he held all the cards in this little exchange. “So what is that supposed to be on your back?”
Loyalty.
For years Amenemhat stewed on the word. He'd been told conflicting things about the subject, from the twisted facsimile of it that Somgi of Cairo understood to what the heir believed it to be all along: what his grandfather insisted it was. There was no loyalty in compensation. Those that made their living and nothing else within the Tempest of Set were not the people who truly understood the place. Their faith could be put into question, and their mouths could run off as a result of it.
Loyalty.
There needed to exist a deeper obligation. There were those that rose to power within the circus that would find power nowhere else in all of their life. They were blights upon the world, pariahs outside of the sanctuary that was the circus. Lost and broken, it was within the Tempest of Set that they were made whole. He saw it through all places within the circus. Many of the denizens were loyal to one another and made their roles in the circus unbreakable as a result. But, only a few had that zealous obsession with the ringmaster himself.
Whisper their reality into being, and they will fall for you.
The advice that Amenhotep offered... it rang true even now. There were many now, who would be loyal to the circus itself, the families that swelled its ranks. So, Amenemhat embodied that loyalty. By imbibing the ink within his back, brandishing his circus' insignia upon his back for all to see, he irretrievably bound himself to the Tempest of Set and those that inhabited it.
But, loyalty to the circus only stretched so far.
Machinations. They wove even as he listened to this girl's story. She was lost and broken. Could the circus make her whole as well? She mentioned a fondness for Alexandria, something that the heir could understand. He lived in Alexandria for, presumably, longer than this girl had been on this earth for. He reveled in the place, gleaning fluent Greek and his smattering of Hebrew from foreigners that designated it a melting pot. As much as Egypt would allow, anyway.
Egypt is more my home than Judea ever was.
His suspicions were correct, and she saw no reason to negate them. Her words rung with the tinge of honesty about them, even as she seemed reserved. She'd given him quite a lot of information, so succinctly to add. He was impressed. She spoke more akin to someone his age than her own, something that reminded her of him before he'd joined the circus.
"I lived in Alexandria for the first twelve years of my life. Been with my dad's circus for four," he gave her. There was no need for him to stew in silence and deliberate. His decision was made. Now, he'd see if he could reflect that decision onto her.
"It's bloated right now from the swelling. I haven't even really seen it yet. Hopefully they did a well enough job. Asagi said that he's good with the mallet," he said, rolling his eyes. He was certain that the older man wouldn't do this to him if he wasn't sure. If there was any benefit to being the son of Somgi of Cairo, it was the fact that a certain amount of fear came with wronging Amenemhat so egregiously.
"It's the tempest that gives our circus its name. Our patron, Set, is the god of Chaos, a nebulous, but very powerful sphere of influence. But, for us mortals, who cannot comprehend chaos in its essence, we require analogies."
To give this girl a lesson, to call it our circus rather than his. Little by little, he'd cultivate the crop he planted.
"The storm. Set decided that it was this physical sphere would be the embodiment of chaos for us to understand. So, the circus names itself the Tempest of Set. Engraving this on my body serves as a similar symbol. Just as Set is bound to the storm, I am bound to his circus."
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Loyalty.
For years Amenemhat stewed on the word. He'd been told conflicting things about the subject, from the twisted facsimile of it that Somgi of Cairo understood to what the heir believed it to be all along: what his grandfather insisted it was. There was no loyalty in compensation. Those that made their living and nothing else within the Tempest of Set were not the people who truly understood the place. Their faith could be put into question, and their mouths could run off as a result of it.
Loyalty.
There needed to exist a deeper obligation. There were those that rose to power within the circus that would find power nowhere else in all of their life. They were blights upon the world, pariahs outside of the sanctuary that was the circus. Lost and broken, it was within the Tempest of Set that they were made whole. He saw it through all places within the circus. Many of the denizens were loyal to one another and made their roles in the circus unbreakable as a result. But, only a few had that zealous obsession with the ringmaster himself.
Whisper their reality into being, and they will fall for you.
The advice that Amenhotep offered... it rang true even now. There were many now, who would be loyal to the circus itself, the families that swelled its ranks. So, Amenemhat embodied that loyalty. By imbibing the ink within his back, brandishing his circus' insignia upon his back for all to see, he irretrievably bound himself to the Tempest of Set and those that inhabited it.
But, loyalty to the circus only stretched so far.
Machinations. They wove even as he listened to this girl's story. She was lost and broken. Could the circus make her whole as well? She mentioned a fondness for Alexandria, something that the heir could understand. He lived in Alexandria for, presumably, longer than this girl had been on this earth for. He reveled in the place, gleaning fluent Greek and his smattering of Hebrew from foreigners that designated it a melting pot. As much as Egypt would allow, anyway.
Egypt is more my home than Judea ever was.
His suspicions were correct, and she saw no reason to negate them. Her words rung with the tinge of honesty about them, even as she seemed reserved. She'd given him quite a lot of information, so succinctly to add. He was impressed. She spoke more akin to someone his age than her own, something that reminded her of him before he'd joined the circus.
"I lived in Alexandria for the first twelve years of my life. Been with my dad's circus for four," he gave her. There was no need for him to stew in silence and deliberate. His decision was made. Now, he'd see if he could reflect that decision onto her.
"It's bloated right now from the swelling. I haven't even really seen it yet. Hopefully they did a well enough job. Asagi said that he's good with the mallet," he said, rolling his eyes. He was certain that the older man wouldn't do this to him if he wasn't sure. If there was any benefit to being the son of Somgi of Cairo, it was the fact that a certain amount of fear came with wronging Amenemhat so egregiously.
"It's the tempest that gives our circus its name. Our patron, Set, is the god of Chaos, a nebulous, but very powerful sphere of influence. But, for us mortals, who cannot comprehend chaos in its essence, we require analogies."
To give this girl a lesson, to call it our circus rather than his. Little by little, he'd cultivate the crop he planted.
"The storm. Set decided that it was this physical sphere would be the embodiment of chaos for us to understand. So, the circus names itself the Tempest of Set. Engraving this on my body serves as a similar symbol. Just as Set is bound to the storm, I am bound to his circus."
Loyalty.
For years Amenemhat stewed on the word. He'd been told conflicting things about the subject, from the twisted facsimile of it that Somgi of Cairo understood to what the heir believed it to be all along: what his grandfather insisted it was. There was no loyalty in compensation. Those that made their living and nothing else within the Tempest of Set were not the people who truly understood the place. Their faith could be put into question, and their mouths could run off as a result of it.
Loyalty.
There needed to exist a deeper obligation. There were those that rose to power within the circus that would find power nowhere else in all of their life. They were blights upon the world, pariahs outside of the sanctuary that was the circus. Lost and broken, it was within the Tempest of Set that they were made whole. He saw it through all places within the circus. Many of the denizens were loyal to one another and made their roles in the circus unbreakable as a result. But, only a few had that zealous obsession with the ringmaster himself.
Whisper their reality into being, and they will fall for you.
The advice that Amenhotep offered... it rang true even now. There were many now, who would be loyal to the circus itself, the families that swelled its ranks. So, Amenemhat embodied that loyalty. By imbibing the ink within his back, brandishing his circus' insignia upon his back for all to see, he irretrievably bound himself to the Tempest of Set and those that inhabited it.
But, loyalty to the circus only stretched so far.
Machinations. They wove even as he listened to this girl's story. She was lost and broken. Could the circus make her whole as well? She mentioned a fondness for Alexandria, something that the heir could understand. He lived in Alexandria for, presumably, longer than this girl had been on this earth for. He reveled in the place, gleaning fluent Greek and his smattering of Hebrew from foreigners that designated it a melting pot. As much as Egypt would allow, anyway.
Egypt is more my home than Judea ever was.
His suspicions were correct, and she saw no reason to negate them. Her words rung with the tinge of honesty about them, even as she seemed reserved. She'd given him quite a lot of information, so succinctly to add. He was impressed. She spoke more akin to someone his age than her own, something that reminded her of him before he'd joined the circus.
"I lived in Alexandria for the first twelve years of my life. Been with my dad's circus for four," he gave her. There was no need for him to stew in silence and deliberate. His decision was made. Now, he'd see if he could reflect that decision onto her.
"It's bloated right now from the swelling. I haven't even really seen it yet. Hopefully they did a well enough job. Asagi said that he's good with the mallet," he said, rolling his eyes. He was certain that the older man wouldn't do this to him if he wasn't sure. If there was any benefit to being the son of Somgi of Cairo, it was the fact that a certain amount of fear came with wronging Amenemhat so egregiously.
"It's the tempest that gives our circus its name. Our patron, Set, is the god of Chaos, a nebulous, but very powerful sphere of influence. But, for us mortals, who cannot comprehend chaos in its essence, we require analogies."
To give this girl a lesson, to call it our circus rather than his. Little by little, he'd cultivate the crop he planted.
"The storm. Set decided that it was this physical sphere would be the embodiment of chaos for us to understand. So, the circus names itself the Tempest of Set. Engraving this on my body serves as a similar symbol. Just as Set is bound to the storm, I am bound to his circus."
Raziya began to relax a little as he told her a little of himself. That they were from the same city. That shouldn’t matter, yet... somehow it did. She had become someone new when she’d had to make a life for herself on those once strange streets. They had meaning. At least to her.
Her eyes studied him thoughtfully as he spoke about the tattoo upon his back. She had never bothered to learn anything of the gods of Egypt. After all, she had learn long ago that prayers didn’t put food on the table. She didn’t imagine it much mattered which god one prayed to. Being on her own, worthless prayers hadn’t been a priority. Food, water, shelter. Those were important. Prayers were just a waste of time.
Yet as he explained the circus’s patron, this deity of chaos, something about it struck her. Chaos was something that she could understand. Something real. Far more so than the miraculous god she had grown up hearing about. Tales meant to inspire awe and fear. It was a story book, nothing more.
Chaos though... she had lived and breathed that every day since she came to Egypt those years ago. Who could live without feeling such an influence? No one could escape it because nothing is more powerful that innate unpredictability of life. And what could embody that more than a storm? No one ever knew where one would strike. One home could be reduced to nothing while the one next to it was unscathed. But there was a thrill in the risk too. She didn’t realize that she was listening to him with bated breath, as his words seemed to speak to some part of her very soul. Nor did she realize that she had begun moving closer as he spoke.
Never had she had something to believe in before. But this... this made sense in a way nothing else ever had.
As he explained how the tattoo represented him being bound to the circus and by extension to Set, she began to circle him, eyes studying his back, trying to see the symbol beneath the skin’s irritation. Perhaps if she squinted...
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, finally making sense of the inked lines. A swirling storm... She could see it now. But why was he sharing this with her of all people? She was just some random miscreant. Unless... perhaps he saw her appearance as some sort of divine chaos? Perhaps she could use that to escape. And yet... there was something about this that had ensnared her. If she were wise, she would use this to gain an advantage. Instead, she only felt that spark of curiosity grow, demanding to know more. She completed her circle to stand before him again, this time within arm’s reach as she looked up at him with wide eyes.
“There’s more to the circus than it seems... isn’t there? Just as there is to your Patron. A mirror of sorts.”
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Raziya began to relax a little as he told her a little of himself. That they were from the same city. That shouldn’t matter, yet... somehow it did. She had become someone new when she’d had to make a life for herself on those once strange streets. They had meaning. At least to her.
Her eyes studied him thoughtfully as he spoke about the tattoo upon his back. She had never bothered to learn anything of the gods of Egypt. After all, she had learn long ago that prayers didn’t put food on the table. She didn’t imagine it much mattered which god one prayed to. Being on her own, worthless prayers hadn’t been a priority. Food, water, shelter. Those were important. Prayers were just a waste of time.
Yet as he explained the circus’s patron, this deity of chaos, something about it struck her. Chaos was something that she could understand. Something real. Far more so than the miraculous god she had grown up hearing about. Tales meant to inspire awe and fear. It was a story book, nothing more.
Chaos though... she had lived and breathed that every day since she came to Egypt those years ago. Who could live without feeling such an influence? No one could escape it because nothing is more powerful that innate unpredictability of life. And what could embody that more than a storm? No one ever knew where one would strike. One home could be reduced to nothing while the one next to it was unscathed. But there was a thrill in the risk too. She didn’t realize that she was listening to him with bated breath, as his words seemed to speak to some part of her very soul. Nor did she realize that she had begun moving closer as he spoke.
Never had she had something to believe in before. But this... this made sense in a way nothing else ever had.
As he explained how the tattoo represented him being bound to the circus and by extension to Set, she began to circle him, eyes studying his back, trying to see the symbol beneath the skin’s irritation. Perhaps if she squinted...
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, finally making sense of the inked lines. A swirling storm... She could see it now. But why was he sharing this with her of all people? She was just some random miscreant. Unless... perhaps he saw her appearance as some sort of divine chaos? Perhaps she could use that to escape. And yet... there was something about this that had ensnared her. If she were wise, she would use this to gain an advantage. Instead, she only felt that spark of curiosity grow, demanding to know more. She completed her circle to stand before him again, this time within arm’s reach as she looked up at him with wide eyes.
“There’s more to the circus than it seems... isn’t there? Just as there is to your Patron. A mirror of sorts.”
Raziya began to relax a little as he told her a little of himself. That they were from the same city. That shouldn’t matter, yet... somehow it did. She had become someone new when she’d had to make a life for herself on those once strange streets. They had meaning. At least to her.
Her eyes studied him thoughtfully as he spoke about the tattoo upon his back. She had never bothered to learn anything of the gods of Egypt. After all, she had learn long ago that prayers didn’t put food on the table. She didn’t imagine it much mattered which god one prayed to. Being on her own, worthless prayers hadn’t been a priority. Food, water, shelter. Those were important. Prayers were just a waste of time.
Yet as he explained the circus’s patron, this deity of chaos, something about it struck her. Chaos was something that she could understand. Something real. Far more so than the miraculous god she had grown up hearing about. Tales meant to inspire awe and fear. It was a story book, nothing more.
Chaos though... she had lived and breathed that every day since she came to Egypt those years ago. Who could live without feeling such an influence? No one could escape it because nothing is more powerful that innate unpredictability of life. And what could embody that more than a storm? No one ever knew where one would strike. One home could be reduced to nothing while the one next to it was unscathed. But there was a thrill in the risk too. She didn’t realize that she was listening to him with bated breath, as his words seemed to speak to some part of her very soul. Nor did she realize that she had begun moving closer as he spoke.
Never had she had something to believe in before. But this... this made sense in a way nothing else ever had.
As he explained how the tattoo represented him being bound to the circus and by extension to Set, she began to circle him, eyes studying his back, trying to see the symbol beneath the skin’s irritation. Perhaps if she squinted...
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, finally making sense of the inked lines. A swirling storm... She could see it now. But why was he sharing this with her of all people? She was just some random miscreant. Unless... perhaps he saw her appearance as some sort of divine chaos? Perhaps she could use that to escape. And yet... there was something about this that had ensnared her. If she were wise, she would use this to gain an advantage. Instead, she only felt that spark of curiosity grow, demanding to know more. She completed her circle to stand before him again, this time within arm’s reach as she looked up at him with wide eyes.
“There’s more to the circus than it seems... isn’t there? Just as there is to your Patron. A mirror of sorts.”
The beauty in worshipping the God of Chaos was that prayer became unnecessary. Action was worship, the means by which the nebulous concept of chaos became real. When Amenemhat delved into the nature of chaos, he found himself enraptured by it. A dangerous fascination that seeped into everything he did, from the way he spoke to people to the means by which he assessed the world. Stillness became stifling but even as it irked him there was power in it. Nem debated the definition of chaos in every moment, deliberating as it seemed an idea of infinite depth and yet so very simply understood in the moment it manifested.
Chaos is not learned in a book or recounted in stories. It is experienced and embraced before one can learn from it.
Amenemhat experienced the helplessness in chaos, and allowed himself to be forged anew from it.
"It's beautiful."
It was a relief to hear that. If the lines could be followed even in the wake of swelling, then he was confident that once these wounds were healed, his journey through the echelons of the Tempest of Set would be complete. As the circus' heir, he was always permitted to know of the existence of its inner circle. He'd been raised by hands that dwelled in it still, obliged to their presence in one way or another. He thought on Rekhmire, a man whose tenure rivalled even Nem's own father. Reared by the hands that drove the Tempest of Set forward into the future, he held doubts particularly about one member of its ilk.
Someday, he will be gone.
He assured himself of it. He prepared for the idea of it years in advance, steeling himself for the needs of the circus and acknowledging how they weren't being met. He took note, and then, he knew how he could use this child. As he listened to her, he could ascertain her capacity for intuition. He saw the jewels in her hand and the curiousity in her gaze. His explanation seemed to have whetted her appetite, for it turned yet another question, one that amused him more than any of the others.
"More to it? Nothing in this place is as it seems," he echoed, a hint of a playful tone could be interpreted in his words just as he asked her,
"What gives you that impression?" he wondered. He needed to know how she thought, her motives for raising the question she did. Amenemhat did not speak in veiled tones or communicate in riddles to hide his true intentions. There was no need. Instead, he spoke as a means of gauging her aptitude. Already, he was testing her, and he'd asked nothing of her. It was a little game, played between them with so much as an exchange to set its terms.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
The beauty in worshipping the God of Chaos was that prayer became unnecessary. Action was worship, the means by which the nebulous concept of chaos became real. When Amenemhat delved into the nature of chaos, he found himself enraptured by it. A dangerous fascination that seeped into everything he did, from the way he spoke to people to the means by which he assessed the world. Stillness became stifling but even as it irked him there was power in it. Nem debated the definition of chaos in every moment, deliberating as it seemed an idea of infinite depth and yet so very simply understood in the moment it manifested.
Chaos is not learned in a book or recounted in stories. It is experienced and embraced before one can learn from it.
Amenemhat experienced the helplessness in chaos, and allowed himself to be forged anew from it.
"It's beautiful."
It was a relief to hear that. If the lines could be followed even in the wake of swelling, then he was confident that once these wounds were healed, his journey through the echelons of the Tempest of Set would be complete. As the circus' heir, he was always permitted to know of the existence of its inner circle. He'd been raised by hands that dwelled in it still, obliged to their presence in one way or another. He thought on Rekhmire, a man whose tenure rivalled even Nem's own father. Reared by the hands that drove the Tempest of Set forward into the future, he held doubts particularly about one member of its ilk.
Someday, he will be gone.
He assured himself of it. He prepared for the idea of it years in advance, steeling himself for the needs of the circus and acknowledging how they weren't being met. He took note, and then, he knew how he could use this child. As he listened to her, he could ascertain her capacity for intuition. He saw the jewels in her hand and the curiousity in her gaze. His explanation seemed to have whetted her appetite, for it turned yet another question, one that amused him more than any of the others.
"More to it? Nothing in this place is as it seems," he echoed, a hint of a playful tone could be interpreted in his words just as he asked her,
"What gives you that impression?" he wondered. He needed to know how she thought, her motives for raising the question she did. Amenemhat did not speak in veiled tones or communicate in riddles to hide his true intentions. There was no need. Instead, he spoke as a means of gauging her aptitude. Already, he was testing her, and he'd asked nothing of her. It was a little game, played between them with so much as an exchange to set its terms.
The beauty in worshipping the God of Chaos was that prayer became unnecessary. Action was worship, the means by which the nebulous concept of chaos became real. When Amenemhat delved into the nature of chaos, he found himself enraptured by it. A dangerous fascination that seeped into everything he did, from the way he spoke to people to the means by which he assessed the world. Stillness became stifling but even as it irked him there was power in it. Nem debated the definition of chaos in every moment, deliberating as it seemed an idea of infinite depth and yet so very simply understood in the moment it manifested.
Chaos is not learned in a book or recounted in stories. It is experienced and embraced before one can learn from it.
Amenemhat experienced the helplessness in chaos, and allowed himself to be forged anew from it.
"It's beautiful."
It was a relief to hear that. If the lines could be followed even in the wake of swelling, then he was confident that once these wounds were healed, his journey through the echelons of the Tempest of Set would be complete. As the circus' heir, he was always permitted to know of the existence of its inner circle. He'd been raised by hands that dwelled in it still, obliged to their presence in one way or another. He thought on Rekhmire, a man whose tenure rivalled even Nem's own father. Reared by the hands that drove the Tempest of Set forward into the future, he held doubts particularly about one member of its ilk.
Someday, he will be gone.
He assured himself of it. He prepared for the idea of it years in advance, steeling himself for the needs of the circus and acknowledging how they weren't being met. He took note, and then, he knew how he could use this child. As he listened to her, he could ascertain her capacity for intuition. He saw the jewels in her hand and the curiousity in her gaze. His explanation seemed to have whetted her appetite, for it turned yet another question, one that amused him more than any of the others.
"More to it? Nothing in this place is as it seems," he echoed, a hint of a playful tone could be interpreted in his words just as he asked her,
"What gives you that impression?" he wondered. He needed to know how she thought, her motives for raising the question she did. Amenemhat did not speak in veiled tones or communicate in riddles to hide his true intentions. There was no need. Instead, he spoke as a means of gauging her aptitude. Already, he was testing her, and he'd asked nothing of her. It was a little game, played between them with so much as an exchange to set its terms.
He seemed to agree that nothing was as it seemed, and yet he challenged her to defend this knowledge. For what purpose, she did not know, but this exchange had stopped following straight forward logic long ago. So she pursed her lips together, trying to find the right words to explain what she knew. “Well, even before we talked, it was obvious that the circus, while technically one group, is comprised of different layers... different tiers. And its not all based on who is a performer or who isn’t, either. But now with all you’ve said...”
Raziya tilted her head slightly, studying his face as she spoke. “You say that Set is the circus’s patron, but it goes beyond that. The only way to worship a god of chaos is with action, though. The circus isn’t just a symbol of Set, but an instrument of him instead. Everywhere you go, you spread the seeds of chaos.” She paused for a second, searching for any sign that she was on the right track, even though she felt confident in her answer.
“Yes, there’s the circus itself. The performances meant to dazzle and amaze. Which of course they do. But its more than just mindless entertainment for the sake of spectacle. It makes emotions run high and it lingers well past when people walk away from these tents. It causes fights when a husband stares too long at a dancer’s body. It inspires another to try and connect with a perfect stranger. It fills one heart with hope to witness such beauty and another with despair at never being able to possess such for themselves... It distracts the crowd to allow a hungry girl to fill her pockets with no one the wiser,” she concluded with a cheeky grin.
“The point though, is that those seeds are planted the moment they answer Set’s call to your circus. They take root and continue to spread long after his Tempest has moved on. It might be small to start, but it grows until it reaches those who never even heard of your circus at all. It’s a perfect machine of chaos and none of that is by accident.”
Her smile grew wider and there was a spark in her dark eyes. “It’s a design every bit as intentional as the one you now bear upon your skin.”
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
He seemed to agree that nothing was as it seemed, and yet he challenged her to defend this knowledge. For what purpose, she did not know, but this exchange had stopped following straight forward logic long ago. So she pursed her lips together, trying to find the right words to explain what she knew. “Well, even before we talked, it was obvious that the circus, while technically one group, is comprised of different layers... different tiers. And its not all based on who is a performer or who isn’t, either. But now with all you’ve said...”
Raziya tilted her head slightly, studying his face as she spoke. “You say that Set is the circus’s patron, but it goes beyond that. The only way to worship a god of chaos is with action, though. The circus isn’t just a symbol of Set, but an instrument of him instead. Everywhere you go, you spread the seeds of chaos.” She paused for a second, searching for any sign that she was on the right track, even though she felt confident in her answer.
“Yes, there’s the circus itself. The performances meant to dazzle and amaze. Which of course they do. But its more than just mindless entertainment for the sake of spectacle. It makes emotions run high and it lingers well past when people walk away from these tents. It causes fights when a husband stares too long at a dancer’s body. It inspires another to try and connect with a perfect stranger. It fills one heart with hope to witness such beauty and another with despair at never being able to possess such for themselves... It distracts the crowd to allow a hungry girl to fill her pockets with no one the wiser,” she concluded with a cheeky grin.
“The point though, is that those seeds are planted the moment they answer Set’s call to your circus. They take root and continue to spread long after his Tempest has moved on. It might be small to start, but it grows until it reaches those who never even heard of your circus at all. It’s a perfect machine of chaos and none of that is by accident.”
Her smile grew wider and there was a spark in her dark eyes. “It’s a design every bit as intentional as the one you now bear upon your skin.”
He seemed to agree that nothing was as it seemed, and yet he challenged her to defend this knowledge. For what purpose, she did not know, but this exchange had stopped following straight forward logic long ago. So she pursed her lips together, trying to find the right words to explain what she knew. “Well, even before we talked, it was obvious that the circus, while technically one group, is comprised of different layers... different tiers. And its not all based on who is a performer or who isn’t, either. But now with all you’ve said...”
Raziya tilted her head slightly, studying his face as she spoke. “You say that Set is the circus’s patron, but it goes beyond that. The only way to worship a god of chaos is with action, though. The circus isn’t just a symbol of Set, but an instrument of him instead. Everywhere you go, you spread the seeds of chaos.” She paused for a second, searching for any sign that she was on the right track, even though she felt confident in her answer.
“Yes, there’s the circus itself. The performances meant to dazzle and amaze. Which of course they do. But its more than just mindless entertainment for the sake of spectacle. It makes emotions run high and it lingers well past when people walk away from these tents. It causes fights when a husband stares too long at a dancer’s body. It inspires another to try and connect with a perfect stranger. It fills one heart with hope to witness such beauty and another with despair at never being able to possess such for themselves... It distracts the crowd to allow a hungry girl to fill her pockets with no one the wiser,” she concluded with a cheeky grin.
“The point though, is that those seeds are planted the moment they answer Set’s call to your circus. They take root and continue to spread long after his Tempest has moved on. It might be small to start, but it grows until it reaches those who never even heard of your circus at all. It’s a perfect machine of chaos and none of that is by accident.”
Her smile grew wider and there was a spark in her dark eyes. “It’s a design every bit as intentional as the one you now bear upon your skin.”
