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She could not escape. It was not for lack of trying, but between the watchful eyes of Rafa and her own wounds, Zosime was not getting anywhere very quickly. Besides that, if she managed to make it outside of the tent, she had absolutely no idea where she was in relation to the Greek settlement and would likely succumb to the elements or be stopped by other soldiers before she found her way. So she rested and waited with nerves on thin razor blades, cursing and grumbling as she was forced to accept kindness from the Egyptian rats that she’d come to kill.
Days and nights blurred together, separated only by the times that her captor -- Osorsen, as she had learned -- came and went. Out early, back by nightfall. Sometimes he was talkative when he returned, others not so much and that was another indicator of how the day’s battles had gone. Zosime spent much of her time sleeping, willing her body to heal faster and praying for favor from @ares over the battles. He seemed to have shunned her but perhaps his pride would be too bruised to see a full army of Greeks fall.
Rafa attended her mostly, overseeing the care of her wounds and taking the barbed words of her tongue without much complaint. She had no respect for the manservant, thinking him weak and spineless to have given himself over to the idea of servitude. She would never. Never. It was such a fierce thought in her head, a roar in her heart that could not be quieted. The fact that she wasn’t already dead meant that they probably intended to keep her alive. Her stomach turned at the mere idea of falling into the same trap, left behind by her fellow soldiers and forgotten -- thought dead perhaps. Her mother would cry when they took the news home to Lyncaea.
She squeezed her eyes shut before opening them, unable to pretend to be sleeping any longer as the thought made her sick. Perhaps the gods would show favor, allow the Egyptians to be utterly overrun and forced to leave their tents behind as they ran like cowards. At the very least, she hoped for a prisoner exchange. As a captive woman, her prospects were quite grim in her own head. She hadn’t asked enough questions of her grandmother about life in Egypt, for she had no idea how she’d be treated.
Her hair fell in her eyes as she turned her head to take in the same place she’d been for at least three full days now. Her ankle had been tied to the cot, perhaps in some misguided attempt to see that she stayed in it. Her body ached, every breath bringing a dull pain back to life as she was forced to lie on her back which was arguably her least favorite position. She was rather annoyed that it was her preferred sleeping side which was injured, which meant she wouldn’t be sleeping on it for a while. Worse yet, it was her primary fighting arm as well which meant that her attempts at resisting much of anything had been laughable at best. Osorsen seemed amused anyway.
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She could not escape. It was not for lack of trying, but between the watchful eyes of Rafa and her own wounds, Zosime was not getting anywhere very quickly. Besides that, if she managed to make it outside of the tent, she had absolutely no idea where she was in relation to the Greek settlement and would likely succumb to the elements or be stopped by other soldiers before she found her way. So she rested and waited with nerves on thin razor blades, cursing and grumbling as she was forced to accept kindness from the Egyptian rats that she’d come to kill.
Days and nights blurred together, separated only by the times that her captor -- Osorsen, as she had learned -- came and went. Out early, back by nightfall. Sometimes he was talkative when he returned, others not so much and that was another indicator of how the day’s battles had gone. Zosime spent much of her time sleeping, willing her body to heal faster and praying for favor from @ares over the battles. He seemed to have shunned her but perhaps his pride would be too bruised to see a full army of Greeks fall.
Rafa attended her mostly, overseeing the care of her wounds and taking the barbed words of her tongue without much complaint. She had no respect for the manservant, thinking him weak and spineless to have given himself over to the idea of servitude. She would never. Never. It was such a fierce thought in her head, a roar in her heart that could not be quieted. The fact that she wasn’t already dead meant that they probably intended to keep her alive. Her stomach turned at the mere idea of falling into the same trap, left behind by her fellow soldiers and forgotten -- thought dead perhaps. Her mother would cry when they took the news home to Lyncaea.
She squeezed her eyes shut before opening them, unable to pretend to be sleeping any longer as the thought made her sick. Perhaps the gods would show favor, allow the Egyptians to be utterly overrun and forced to leave their tents behind as they ran like cowards. At the very least, she hoped for a prisoner exchange. As a captive woman, her prospects were quite grim in her own head. She hadn’t asked enough questions of her grandmother about life in Egypt, for she had no idea how she’d be treated.
Her hair fell in her eyes as she turned her head to take in the same place she’d been for at least three full days now. Her ankle had been tied to the cot, perhaps in some misguided attempt to see that she stayed in it. Her body ached, every breath bringing a dull pain back to life as she was forced to lie on her back which was arguably her least favorite position. She was rather annoyed that it was her preferred sleeping side which was injured, which meant she wouldn’t be sleeping on it for a while. Worse yet, it was her primary fighting arm as well which meant that her attempts at resisting much of anything had been laughable at best. Osorsen seemed amused anyway.
She could not escape. It was not for lack of trying, but between the watchful eyes of Rafa and her own wounds, Zosime was not getting anywhere very quickly. Besides that, if she managed to make it outside of the tent, she had absolutely no idea where she was in relation to the Greek settlement and would likely succumb to the elements or be stopped by other soldiers before she found her way. So she rested and waited with nerves on thin razor blades, cursing and grumbling as she was forced to accept kindness from the Egyptian rats that she’d come to kill.
Days and nights blurred together, separated only by the times that her captor -- Osorsen, as she had learned -- came and went. Out early, back by nightfall. Sometimes he was talkative when he returned, others not so much and that was another indicator of how the day’s battles had gone. Zosime spent much of her time sleeping, willing her body to heal faster and praying for favor from @ares over the battles. He seemed to have shunned her but perhaps his pride would be too bruised to see a full army of Greeks fall.
Rafa attended her mostly, overseeing the care of her wounds and taking the barbed words of her tongue without much complaint. She had no respect for the manservant, thinking him weak and spineless to have given himself over to the idea of servitude. She would never. Never. It was such a fierce thought in her head, a roar in her heart that could not be quieted. The fact that she wasn’t already dead meant that they probably intended to keep her alive. Her stomach turned at the mere idea of falling into the same trap, left behind by her fellow soldiers and forgotten -- thought dead perhaps. Her mother would cry when they took the news home to Lyncaea.
She squeezed her eyes shut before opening them, unable to pretend to be sleeping any longer as the thought made her sick. Perhaps the gods would show favor, allow the Egyptians to be utterly overrun and forced to leave their tents behind as they ran like cowards. At the very least, she hoped for a prisoner exchange. As a captive woman, her prospects were quite grim in her own head. She hadn’t asked enough questions of her grandmother about life in Egypt, for she had no idea how she’d be treated.
Her hair fell in her eyes as she turned her head to take in the same place she’d been for at least three full days now. Her ankle had been tied to the cot, perhaps in some misguided attempt to see that she stayed in it. Her body ached, every breath bringing a dull pain back to life as she was forced to lie on her back which was arguably her least favorite position. She was rather annoyed that it was her preferred sleeping side which was injured, which meant she wouldn’t be sleeping on it for a while. Worse yet, it was her primary fighting arm as well which meant that her attempts at resisting much of anything had been laughable at best. Osorsen seemed amused anyway.
It had been a long day, and Narmer ached with it. A spear had grazed his hand, and his favourite horse had broken a leg. He’d severed its head himself to end its suffering, but the loss was a sore one. It took time to train a chariot team, and gold, and he had little of either to spare as it was. Having looked in on the men, he wandered through the camp towards Osorsen’s tent. His friend would have good wine and, he hoped, good ideas. This fight was becoming troublesome in that there was no sign of the Greeks being humbled yet.
The longer they were tied up here with these Colchians, the longer Taengea would have to prepare and the more likely they were to rouse themselves after the blow of losing their King. A fact the Pharoah seemed to have lost sight of, despite his Generals mentioning often.
Narmer didn’t bother to announce himself, the Moghamdam General would not be surprised by his visit, but as he pushed inside the tent, it was Narmer who found himself caught off guard. The Egyptian man's wiry form turned as he caught movement in his periphery, and when his sharp, jittery gaze settled on a figure, it was not that of his compatriot.
He had quite forgotten the greek that Osorsen had plucked from the battlefield. Narmer could not understand his friend’s fascination with adopting waifs and strays. He knew the man’s greek slave had been loyal, but from what he’d heard, this wretch was feral. The Haikaddad man had none of Oso’s indulgence toward their enemy. He would have slit the woman’s throat and tossed her body back to the ground, but Osorsen had mistaken her for an Egyptian, so he said. As if an Egyptian woman would be found on a battlefield!
“He says you speak our language,” Narmer said with a jerk of his head toward the woman. His gaze wandered over her, and he supposed he could understand how at first Osorsen might have mistaken her for one of their own. It didn’t explain why she was still here though, lounging in the General’s tent like some overfed cat. Perhaps Oso thought to use her for information, but Narmer also knew a pretty face easily turned his friend’s head. And even under the scowl this one wore, he couldn’t deny her fair.
But Narmer didn’t trust her. He considered turning and going to search for Osoren elsewhere, but who knew where the General was. Instead, Narmer sighed and moved inside the tent, glancing around before he propped a hip up on the table covered with maps, frowning a little at how visible everything had been left when there was an enemy soldier - if a woman could be considered so - in the tent. Perhaps Oso did intend to dispose of her after all then if he was not concerned about secrecy.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you” he observed, picking fractiously at a piece of fraying leather on his wrist bracer. “ You will heal, and then you will be expected to talk, and if you do not talk, your head will be cut off, and your body left for your friends to find.”
He spoke dispassionately, simply relaying the truth of it to the imposter. She had to know how precarious her situation was, didn't she?
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It had been a long day, and Narmer ached with it. A spear had grazed his hand, and his favourite horse had broken a leg. He’d severed its head himself to end its suffering, but the loss was a sore one. It took time to train a chariot team, and gold, and he had little of either to spare as it was. Having looked in on the men, he wandered through the camp towards Osorsen’s tent. His friend would have good wine and, he hoped, good ideas. This fight was becoming troublesome in that there was no sign of the Greeks being humbled yet.
The longer they were tied up here with these Colchians, the longer Taengea would have to prepare and the more likely they were to rouse themselves after the blow of losing their King. A fact the Pharoah seemed to have lost sight of, despite his Generals mentioning often.
Narmer didn’t bother to announce himself, the Moghamdam General would not be surprised by his visit, but as he pushed inside the tent, it was Narmer who found himself caught off guard. The Egyptian man's wiry form turned as he caught movement in his periphery, and when his sharp, jittery gaze settled on a figure, it was not that of his compatriot.
He had quite forgotten the greek that Osorsen had plucked from the battlefield. Narmer could not understand his friend’s fascination with adopting waifs and strays. He knew the man’s greek slave had been loyal, but from what he’d heard, this wretch was feral. The Haikaddad man had none of Oso’s indulgence toward their enemy. He would have slit the woman’s throat and tossed her body back to the ground, but Osorsen had mistaken her for an Egyptian, so he said. As if an Egyptian woman would be found on a battlefield!
“He says you speak our language,” Narmer said with a jerk of his head toward the woman. His gaze wandered over her, and he supposed he could understand how at first Osorsen might have mistaken her for one of their own. It didn’t explain why she was still here though, lounging in the General’s tent like some overfed cat. Perhaps Oso thought to use her for information, but Narmer also knew a pretty face easily turned his friend’s head. And even under the scowl this one wore, he couldn’t deny her fair.
But Narmer didn’t trust her. He considered turning and going to search for Osoren elsewhere, but who knew where the General was. Instead, Narmer sighed and moved inside the tent, glancing around before he propped a hip up on the table covered with maps, frowning a little at how visible everything had been left when there was an enemy soldier - if a woman could be considered so - in the tent. Perhaps Oso did intend to dispose of her after all then if he was not concerned about secrecy.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you” he observed, picking fractiously at a piece of fraying leather on his wrist bracer. “ You will heal, and then you will be expected to talk, and if you do not talk, your head will be cut off, and your body left for your friends to find.”
He spoke dispassionately, simply relaying the truth of it to the imposter. She had to know how precarious her situation was, didn't she?
It had been a long day, and Narmer ached with it. A spear had grazed his hand, and his favourite horse had broken a leg. He’d severed its head himself to end its suffering, but the loss was a sore one. It took time to train a chariot team, and gold, and he had little of either to spare as it was. Having looked in on the men, he wandered through the camp towards Osorsen’s tent. His friend would have good wine and, he hoped, good ideas. This fight was becoming troublesome in that there was no sign of the Greeks being humbled yet.
The longer they were tied up here with these Colchians, the longer Taengea would have to prepare and the more likely they were to rouse themselves after the blow of losing their King. A fact the Pharoah seemed to have lost sight of, despite his Generals mentioning often.
Narmer didn’t bother to announce himself, the Moghamdam General would not be surprised by his visit, but as he pushed inside the tent, it was Narmer who found himself caught off guard. The Egyptian man's wiry form turned as he caught movement in his periphery, and when his sharp, jittery gaze settled on a figure, it was not that of his compatriot.
He had quite forgotten the greek that Osorsen had plucked from the battlefield. Narmer could not understand his friend’s fascination with adopting waifs and strays. He knew the man’s greek slave had been loyal, but from what he’d heard, this wretch was feral. The Haikaddad man had none of Oso’s indulgence toward their enemy. He would have slit the woman’s throat and tossed her body back to the ground, but Osorsen had mistaken her for an Egyptian, so he said. As if an Egyptian woman would be found on a battlefield!
“He says you speak our language,” Narmer said with a jerk of his head toward the woman. His gaze wandered over her, and he supposed he could understand how at first Osorsen might have mistaken her for one of their own. It didn’t explain why she was still here though, lounging in the General’s tent like some overfed cat. Perhaps Oso thought to use her for information, but Narmer also knew a pretty face easily turned his friend’s head. And even under the scowl this one wore, he couldn’t deny her fair.
But Narmer didn’t trust her. He considered turning and going to search for Osoren elsewhere, but who knew where the General was. Instead, Narmer sighed and moved inside the tent, glancing around before he propped a hip up on the table covered with maps, frowning a little at how visible everything had been left when there was an enemy soldier - if a woman could be considered so - in the tent. Perhaps Oso did intend to dispose of her after all then if he was not concerned about secrecy.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you” he observed, picking fractiously at a piece of fraying leather on his wrist bracer. “ You will heal, and then you will be expected to talk, and if you do not talk, your head will be cut off, and your body left for your friends to find.”
He spoke dispassionately, simply relaying the truth of it to the imposter. She had to know how precarious her situation was, didn't she?
She did not look up at first when someone entered the tent. It was not uncommon for Osorsen or his little greek lackey, Rafa, to be in and out, once they had determined that there was no way she could leave on her own.
He says you speak our language A decidedly unfamiliar voice said, causing her to turn her head to take in the new arrival. Awareness prickled against her skin, something telling her that she needed to sit up and take notice of what she perceived as a threat. It had been a lanky little man that she had disregarded that had landed her in this situation. She’d dismissed his presence all together and he had been the one to land the blow that sent her to the ground, the one that had nearly killed her. She could not afford such a mistake again so she scowled as she forced her aching body up and onto alert.
Her eyes tracked him as he moved around the tent before settling near a table covered with papers that she hadn’t yet gotten close enough to inspect. She couldn’t read their language, but somethings could be implied so perhaps that was part of the reason she’d been relegated to a corner of the place that lacked things she could try to interpret.
She had to focus hard on what he was saying, going much too fast for her to take in all at once. Her knowledge of Coptic was limited, relegated to an old woman’s teachings and most of those conversations had been about womanly interests like cooking or a beautiful man walking by. It was a language that she associated with gossip and warmth, and so she had to process what he was saying and piece together what she knew with what she could guess.
She watched him, still sprawled across the cot that she’d been given. She was laying on the side of her body that wasn’t injured and covered in bandages which wasn’t ideal, but she could hardly lie on her back while he sauntered about. She wished -- and not for the first time -- for a weapon, something...anything to defend herself, but Rafa had learned just how quickly she’d try to turn anything into something usable and had taken the liberty of limiting her access to such things.
”Such big words for a man who stands on the other side of the tent.” She hissed out, picking up the gist of what he’d said. ”If I talk, I am dead. If I do not talk, I am dead. Either way...it seems I may not walk out of this tent alive-- rat.” It perhaps wasn’t the wisest thing in the world to provoke him, not when she wasn’t sure where Oso or Rafa were at this exact moment. She doubted they would mourn her death, but surely one or both would intervene if only to save the plan they wanted her to execute.
Her hair swung dark and loose in her face, as she braced the side of the cot to push herself up. She clenched her teeth as the pain made her head swim, but ultimately she was able to put her feet on the floor. The tether to the cot wouldn’t allow her to get far, but if she was going to face death from this...this...insect, then she’d do it on her feet.
”Did you come all this way just to stare?” She asked, hoisting her chin up in defiance. ”Why don’t you come a little closer, Egyptian? Don’t you want a show?” Her fingers drummed against the side of the cot, anxious but not afraid. It was the same feeling that had followed her into battle the other day. A fight was brewing, but she wasn’t afraid at all.
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She did not look up at first when someone entered the tent. It was not uncommon for Osorsen or his little greek lackey, Rafa, to be in and out, once they had determined that there was no way she could leave on her own.
He says you speak our language A decidedly unfamiliar voice said, causing her to turn her head to take in the new arrival. Awareness prickled against her skin, something telling her that she needed to sit up and take notice of what she perceived as a threat. It had been a lanky little man that she had disregarded that had landed her in this situation. She’d dismissed his presence all together and he had been the one to land the blow that sent her to the ground, the one that had nearly killed her. She could not afford such a mistake again so she scowled as she forced her aching body up and onto alert.
Her eyes tracked him as he moved around the tent before settling near a table covered with papers that she hadn’t yet gotten close enough to inspect. She couldn’t read their language, but somethings could be implied so perhaps that was part of the reason she’d been relegated to a corner of the place that lacked things she could try to interpret.
She had to focus hard on what he was saying, going much too fast for her to take in all at once. Her knowledge of Coptic was limited, relegated to an old woman’s teachings and most of those conversations had been about womanly interests like cooking or a beautiful man walking by. It was a language that she associated with gossip and warmth, and so she had to process what he was saying and piece together what she knew with what she could guess.
She watched him, still sprawled across the cot that she’d been given. She was laying on the side of her body that wasn’t injured and covered in bandages which wasn’t ideal, but she could hardly lie on her back while he sauntered about. She wished -- and not for the first time -- for a weapon, something...anything to defend herself, but Rafa had learned just how quickly she’d try to turn anything into something usable and had taken the liberty of limiting her access to such things.
”Such big words for a man who stands on the other side of the tent.” She hissed out, picking up the gist of what he’d said. ”If I talk, I am dead. If I do not talk, I am dead. Either way...it seems I may not walk out of this tent alive-- rat.” It perhaps wasn’t the wisest thing in the world to provoke him, not when she wasn’t sure where Oso or Rafa were at this exact moment. She doubted they would mourn her death, but surely one or both would intervene if only to save the plan they wanted her to execute.
Her hair swung dark and loose in her face, as she braced the side of the cot to push herself up. She clenched her teeth as the pain made her head swim, but ultimately she was able to put her feet on the floor. The tether to the cot wouldn’t allow her to get far, but if she was going to face death from this...this...insect, then she’d do it on her feet.
”Did you come all this way just to stare?” She asked, hoisting her chin up in defiance. ”Why don’t you come a little closer, Egyptian? Don’t you want a show?” Her fingers drummed against the side of the cot, anxious but not afraid. It was the same feeling that had followed her into battle the other day. A fight was brewing, but she wasn’t afraid at all.
She did not look up at first when someone entered the tent. It was not uncommon for Osorsen or his little greek lackey, Rafa, to be in and out, once they had determined that there was no way she could leave on her own.
He says you speak our language A decidedly unfamiliar voice said, causing her to turn her head to take in the new arrival. Awareness prickled against her skin, something telling her that she needed to sit up and take notice of what she perceived as a threat. It had been a lanky little man that she had disregarded that had landed her in this situation. She’d dismissed his presence all together and he had been the one to land the blow that sent her to the ground, the one that had nearly killed her. She could not afford such a mistake again so she scowled as she forced her aching body up and onto alert.
Her eyes tracked him as he moved around the tent before settling near a table covered with papers that she hadn’t yet gotten close enough to inspect. She couldn’t read their language, but somethings could be implied so perhaps that was part of the reason she’d been relegated to a corner of the place that lacked things she could try to interpret.
She had to focus hard on what he was saying, going much too fast for her to take in all at once. Her knowledge of Coptic was limited, relegated to an old woman’s teachings and most of those conversations had been about womanly interests like cooking or a beautiful man walking by. It was a language that she associated with gossip and warmth, and so she had to process what he was saying and piece together what she knew with what she could guess.
She watched him, still sprawled across the cot that she’d been given. She was laying on the side of her body that wasn’t injured and covered in bandages which wasn’t ideal, but she could hardly lie on her back while he sauntered about. She wished -- and not for the first time -- for a weapon, something...anything to defend herself, but Rafa had learned just how quickly she’d try to turn anything into something usable and had taken the liberty of limiting her access to such things.
”Such big words for a man who stands on the other side of the tent.” She hissed out, picking up the gist of what he’d said. ”If I talk, I am dead. If I do not talk, I am dead. Either way...it seems I may not walk out of this tent alive-- rat.” It perhaps wasn’t the wisest thing in the world to provoke him, not when she wasn’t sure where Oso or Rafa were at this exact moment. She doubted they would mourn her death, but surely one or both would intervene if only to save the plan they wanted her to execute.
Her hair swung dark and loose in her face, as she braced the side of the cot to push herself up. She clenched her teeth as the pain made her head swim, but ultimately she was able to put her feet on the floor. The tether to the cot wouldn’t allow her to get far, but if she was going to face death from this...this...insect, then she’d do it on her feet.
”Did you come all this way just to stare?” She asked, hoisting her chin up in defiance. ”Why don’t you come a little closer, Egyptian? Don’t you want a show?” Her fingers drummed against the side of the cot, anxious but not afraid. It was the same feeling that had followed her into battle the other day. A fight was brewing, but she wasn’t afraid at all.
Narmer saw the moment the girl’s demeanour changed, and she began to pay attention to who had stepped into the tent. He found it concerning that she had already grown so relaxed around Osorsen to not afford him the respect of looking up when he entered. Even as she sullenly listened to his words, clearly deciphering the language, he could feel the hostility from her. Well, that was one thing that was normal, at least.
She should be hostile. He’d cut down countless greeks today, maybe a friend, lover of this girl. He’d done the same the day before, and he’d do the same the day after. The more of them they could kill here, and now, the less would stand in their way when they finally got the order to sail. What would become of this one then, he wondered. Osorsen could be peculiarly soft sometimes for a man who’d made his name killing his enemies and his enemies friends. Yet here was this one sitting pretty and making herself right at home.
Still leaning on the edge of the table, he merely smiled a tight, press lipped smile at the word ‘rat’, slanted a mocking gaze over at her. “ And yet it is you who has slunk into another’s dwelling. Eats their bread, drinks their wine. I don’t think I’m the vermin here.”
He found it laughable that she seemed to be suggesting he be afraid of her, a woman, and an injured one at that. If she did possess any martial skill, she certainly didn’t possess any wits to go with it to be goading of one who could end her life in an instant. Narmer watched a flicker of amusement in those large, ever-moving eyes, as Zosime struggled to sit upright, spitting more words at him as she did so.
He had no intent to harm her - though learning some manners might benefit the woman -, she was Osorsen’s prisoner after all, and not his own. But was curious as to what she thought she might able to do if he did wish it. Feral little thing indeed.
“You flatter yourself,” he said, pushing off the desk and taking a few steps nearer, shaking his head slightly. “ Not all of us are so fascinated by you. General H’Moghadam might think he has a need for you, but I do not, so don’t tempt me, little girl. Besides, you look as though you will fall over in about...hm, thirty seconds and I won't pick you up again, so why not save us both the trouble.
He’d located the wine he’d been hoping Osorsen would offer him, and in his friend’s absence, poured a cup for himself and then sat down upon one of the small chairs in front of the desk, crossing his feet at the ankle and observing Zosi with a bored expression.
“You have a family? Who will miss you?” He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of letting womenfolk on the battlefield, could not see how a Father or a Brother would allow such a thing. “Or you have a husband maybe, who is a soldier too?”
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Narmer saw the moment the girl’s demeanour changed, and she began to pay attention to who had stepped into the tent. He found it concerning that she had already grown so relaxed around Osorsen to not afford him the respect of looking up when he entered. Even as she sullenly listened to his words, clearly deciphering the language, he could feel the hostility from her. Well, that was one thing that was normal, at least.
She should be hostile. He’d cut down countless greeks today, maybe a friend, lover of this girl. He’d done the same the day before, and he’d do the same the day after. The more of them they could kill here, and now, the less would stand in their way when they finally got the order to sail. What would become of this one then, he wondered. Osorsen could be peculiarly soft sometimes for a man who’d made his name killing his enemies and his enemies friends. Yet here was this one sitting pretty and making herself right at home.
Still leaning on the edge of the table, he merely smiled a tight, press lipped smile at the word ‘rat’, slanted a mocking gaze over at her. “ And yet it is you who has slunk into another’s dwelling. Eats their bread, drinks their wine. I don’t think I’m the vermin here.”
He found it laughable that she seemed to be suggesting he be afraid of her, a woman, and an injured one at that. If she did possess any martial skill, she certainly didn’t possess any wits to go with it to be goading of one who could end her life in an instant. Narmer watched a flicker of amusement in those large, ever-moving eyes, as Zosime struggled to sit upright, spitting more words at him as she did so.
He had no intent to harm her - though learning some manners might benefit the woman -, she was Osorsen’s prisoner after all, and not his own. But was curious as to what she thought she might able to do if he did wish it. Feral little thing indeed.
“You flatter yourself,” he said, pushing off the desk and taking a few steps nearer, shaking his head slightly. “ Not all of us are so fascinated by you. General H’Moghadam might think he has a need for you, but I do not, so don’t tempt me, little girl. Besides, you look as though you will fall over in about...hm, thirty seconds and I won't pick you up again, so why not save us both the trouble.
He’d located the wine he’d been hoping Osorsen would offer him, and in his friend’s absence, poured a cup for himself and then sat down upon one of the small chairs in front of the desk, crossing his feet at the ankle and observing Zosi with a bored expression.
“You have a family? Who will miss you?” He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of letting womenfolk on the battlefield, could not see how a Father or a Brother would allow such a thing. “Or you have a husband maybe, who is a soldier too?”
Narmer saw the moment the girl’s demeanour changed, and she began to pay attention to who had stepped into the tent. He found it concerning that she had already grown so relaxed around Osorsen to not afford him the respect of looking up when he entered. Even as she sullenly listened to his words, clearly deciphering the language, he could feel the hostility from her. Well, that was one thing that was normal, at least.
She should be hostile. He’d cut down countless greeks today, maybe a friend, lover of this girl. He’d done the same the day before, and he’d do the same the day after. The more of them they could kill here, and now, the less would stand in their way when they finally got the order to sail. What would become of this one then, he wondered. Osorsen could be peculiarly soft sometimes for a man who’d made his name killing his enemies and his enemies friends. Yet here was this one sitting pretty and making herself right at home.
Still leaning on the edge of the table, he merely smiled a tight, press lipped smile at the word ‘rat’, slanted a mocking gaze over at her. “ And yet it is you who has slunk into another’s dwelling. Eats their bread, drinks their wine. I don’t think I’m the vermin here.”
He found it laughable that she seemed to be suggesting he be afraid of her, a woman, and an injured one at that. If she did possess any martial skill, she certainly didn’t possess any wits to go with it to be goading of one who could end her life in an instant. Narmer watched a flicker of amusement in those large, ever-moving eyes, as Zosime struggled to sit upright, spitting more words at him as she did so.
He had no intent to harm her - though learning some manners might benefit the woman -, she was Osorsen’s prisoner after all, and not his own. But was curious as to what she thought she might able to do if he did wish it. Feral little thing indeed.
“You flatter yourself,” he said, pushing off the desk and taking a few steps nearer, shaking his head slightly. “ Not all of us are so fascinated by you. General H’Moghadam might think he has a need for you, but I do not, so don’t tempt me, little girl. Besides, you look as though you will fall over in about...hm, thirty seconds and I won't pick you up again, so why not save us both the trouble.
He’d located the wine he’d been hoping Osorsen would offer him, and in his friend’s absence, poured a cup for himself and then sat down upon one of the small chairs in front of the desk, crossing his feet at the ankle and observing Zosi with a bored expression.
“You have a family? Who will miss you?” He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of letting womenfolk on the battlefield, could not see how a Father or a Brother would allow such a thing. “Or you have a husband maybe, who is a soldier too?”
She did not think that she liked this bug-eyed man. True, he was Egyptian so that automatically meant that she disliked him but Osorsen -- while her enemy -- was likeable at least. Her fingers continued to beat against the side of the cot in a tapping thrum, although she was quite clearly imagining wrapping them around this man’s throat and watching those eyes pop right out of his skull. His gaze was mocking, his tone matching and she found the more that he spoke the more that her already sour mood was souring which would likely end badly for Rafa, as the manservant was the one who had to deal with her the most at the moment.
Zosime let her lip curl into a sneer. ”I don’t seem to recall asking to be brought here.” She returned with a snort. She had been dying on the sand when Osorsen had picked her up, mistaking her for one of his Egyptians. It had not been until she had opened her eyes -- and her mouth -- that he had realized his mistake. However, he seemed keen to use that to his advantage and was trying to draw her into being some ill-planned messenger. It was her selfish desire for survival that had her settled in here like a little lap-dog, but none of these men should forget that she had teeth. Rafa certainly wouldn’t, not with her bite mark still on his hand from the first night.
She watched him, gaze narrowing as he continued to make himself at home in the tent. Where in the hell was Rafa? The General? Surely leaving their tent unattended, especially with someone like her inside of it, was unwise.
The smile she gave him was wolfish, full of teeth and menace. ”Somehow I think you’d be surprised how long I can last.” She said, raising one eyebrow. ”Longer than you, I would wager. Again, I’d invite you to come and see for yourself.” She gestured to the space nearest to herself. She would not win if he decided to put her to the test, but she would make damn sure that he regretted his life choices.
Zosime was not sure if the man held rank -- surely he must with how familiar he seemed with the General’s tent. She was fairly sure that not just anyone could walk in and out of the place, which meant he had to be somewhere on the higher end of the rankings. She was no strategist, did not know if Egyptians held the same formal ranks that Greeks did.
You have a family? Who will miss you? He seemed bored as he asked, taking a seat and hoisting a glass of wine that he had managed to dig up in his scrounging. @ares save her from these fools and their questions. She was of half a mind to ask him about Osorsen’s plans, but she kept them to herself if only not to jeopardize the possibility of getting out of this sandhill alive, but perhaps he could tell her of other things. Recent things.
”You sandworms ask the strangest questions.” She bit off, more than a bit annoyed. ”Your women must stay home and hide their faces until you want to shove your cock in them.” She said, making a rude gesture in his direction. ”I do not need a man’s permission to fight. I do not even need my father’s permission. There are entire units of women who live to fight on these battlefields, to taste the glory of it.” She regarded him, eyes narrowing slightly.
”Tell me of today’s battles.” She said dismissively. ”How much longer until the Greeks win and I can return home?” She straightened a little, ignoring the tugging of her stitches. She barely even winced, shuffling her weight back to get more comfortable. She was also hoping of news of her comrades, perhaps hoping to hear of a familiar blonde woman amidst the gossip.
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She did not think that she liked this bug-eyed man. True, he was Egyptian so that automatically meant that she disliked him but Osorsen -- while her enemy -- was likeable at least. Her fingers continued to beat against the side of the cot in a tapping thrum, although she was quite clearly imagining wrapping them around this man’s throat and watching those eyes pop right out of his skull. His gaze was mocking, his tone matching and she found the more that he spoke the more that her already sour mood was souring which would likely end badly for Rafa, as the manservant was the one who had to deal with her the most at the moment.
Zosime let her lip curl into a sneer. ”I don’t seem to recall asking to be brought here.” She returned with a snort. She had been dying on the sand when Osorsen had picked her up, mistaking her for one of his Egyptians. It had not been until she had opened her eyes -- and her mouth -- that he had realized his mistake. However, he seemed keen to use that to his advantage and was trying to draw her into being some ill-planned messenger. It was her selfish desire for survival that had her settled in here like a little lap-dog, but none of these men should forget that she had teeth. Rafa certainly wouldn’t, not with her bite mark still on his hand from the first night.
She watched him, gaze narrowing as he continued to make himself at home in the tent. Where in the hell was Rafa? The General? Surely leaving their tent unattended, especially with someone like her inside of it, was unwise.
The smile she gave him was wolfish, full of teeth and menace. ”Somehow I think you’d be surprised how long I can last.” She said, raising one eyebrow. ”Longer than you, I would wager. Again, I’d invite you to come and see for yourself.” She gestured to the space nearest to herself. She would not win if he decided to put her to the test, but she would make damn sure that he regretted his life choices.
Zosime was not sure if the man held rank -- surely he must with how familiar he seemed with the General’s tent. She was fairly sure that not just anyone could walk in and out of the place, which meant he had to be somewhere on the higher end of the rankings. She was no strategist, did not know if Egyptians held the same formal ranks that Greeks did.
You have a family? Who will miss you? He seemed bored as he asked, taking a seat and hoisting a glass of wine that he had managed to dig up in his scrounging. @ares save her from these fools and their questions. She was of half a mind to ask him about Osorsen’s plans, but she kept them to herself if only not to jeopardize the possibility of getting out of this sandhill alive, but perhaps he could tell her of other things. Recent things.
”You sandworms ask the strangest questions.” She bit off, more than a bit annoyed. ”Your women must stay home and hide their faces until you want to shove your cock in them.” She said, making a rude gesture in his direction. ”I do not need a man’s permission to fight. I do not even need my father’s permission. There are entire units of women who live to fight on these battlefields, to taste the glory of it.” She regarded him, eyes narrowing slightly.
”Tell me of today’s battles.” She said dismissively. ”How much longer until the Greeks win and I can return home?” She straightened a little, ignoring the tugging of her stitches. She barely even winced, shuffling her weight back to get more comfortable. She was also hoping of news of her comrades, perhaps hoping to hear of a familiar blonde woman amidst the gossip.
She did not think that she liked this bug-eyed man. True, he was Egyptian so that automatically meant that she disliked him but Osorsen -- while her enemy -- was likeable at least. Her fingers continued to beat against the side of the cot in a tapping thrum, although she was quite clearly imagining wrapping them around this man’s throat and watching those eyes pop right out of his skull. His gaze was mocking, his tone matching and she found the more that he spoke the more that her already sour mood was souring which would likely end badly for Rafa, as the manservant was the one who had to deal with her the most at the moment.
Zosime let her lip curl into a sneer. ”I don’t seem to recall asking to be brought here.” She returned with a snort. She had been dying on the sand when Osorsen had picked her up, mistaking her for one of his Egyptians. It had not been until she had opened her eyes -- and her mouth -- that he had realized his mistake. However, he seemed keen to use that to his advantage and was trying to draw her into being some ill-planned messenger. It was her selfish desire for survival that had her settled in here like a little lap-dog, but none of these men should forget that she had teeth. Rafa certainly wouldn’t, not with her bite mark still on his hand from the first night.
She watched him, gaze narrowing as he continued to make himself at home in the tent. Where in the hell was Rafa? The General? Surely leaving their tent unattended, especially with someone like her inside of it, was unwise.
The smile she gave him was wolfish, full of teeth and menace. ”Somehow I think you’d be surprised how long I can last.” She said, raising one eyebrow. ”Longer than you, I would wager. Again, I’d invite you to come and see for yourself.” She gestured to the space nearest to herself. She would not win if he decided to put her to the test, but she would make damn sure that he regretted his life choices.
Zosime was not sure if the man held rank -- surely he must with how familiar he seemed with the General’s tent. She was fairly sure that not just anyone could walk in and out of the place, which meant he had to be somewhere on the higher end of the rankings. She was no strategist, did not know if Egyptians held the same formal ranks that Greeks did.
You have a family? Who will miss you? He seemed bored as he asked, taking a seat and hoisting a glass of wine that he had managed to dig up in his scrounging. @ares save her from these fools and their questions. She was of half a mind to ask him about Osorsen’s plans, but she kept them to herself if only not to jeopardize the possibility of getting out of this sandhill alive, but perhaps he could tell her of other things. Recent things.
”You sandworms ask the strangest questions.” She bit off, more than a bit annoyed. ”Your women must stay home and hide their faces until you want to shove your cock in them.” She said, making a rude gesture in his direction. ”I do not need a man’s permission to fight. I do not even need my father’s permission. There are entire units of women who live to fight on these battlefields, to taste the glory of it.” She regarded him, eyes narrowing slightly.
”Tell me of today’s battles.” She said dismissively. ”How much longer until the Greeks win and I can return home?” She straightened a little, ignoring the tugging of her stitches. She barely even winced, shuffling her weight back to get more comfortable. She was also hoping of news of her comrades, perhaps hoping to hear of a familiar blonde woman amidst the gossip.
Narmer took his first sip of wine, let his eyes drift close and inhaled deeply. It had been a taxing day; he ached, an old injury to his shoulder, making itself known after the bumping and jostling of the chariot. He had wanted a little relaxation, good conversation with his friend Osorsen and instead, he had found this harpy instead.
She bored him; the stupid girl seemed almost like she wanted to get herself killed. He’d done enough of that today already, and now he couldn’t even have peace here? “I’ll pass,” he said, with a steady look. I can smell you from here. Blood and sweat and greek filth.I’ll tell the General you need washing down as the other animals do.”
His gaze flicked dismissively away from her, although it was more difficult to pretend she wasn’t there that he might have hoped. And even though he might hate the Greeks, his was a curious mind all the same, and it seemed a wasted opportunity not to try and learn what he could from this one. His question about her family was met with a similar snarling response, though and Narmer rolled his eyes to heaven.
“Our woman are things of grace and beauty, to be treasured and protected. I can see why your men do not feel the same about you,” was his reply before he added with a mocking sort of smile. “And how does your glory taste now? Is captivity as sweet as you hoped?”
When she began to make demands of him, the General’s first instinct was to say nothing. What did she deserve to know? But she was so brazen, so arrogant that he couldn’t help himself, setting down his wine and folding his hands loosely in his lap.
“Would you like to know how many of your fellows are in chains down the way? Or how long the rest of them spend after the battle has been called, dragging their bodies back to the beach to burn? Can’t you smell the pyres? I wonder...what will happen to those dead here? Anubis will not want them. Who will wait for you when you die here? You….your false gods won’t be able to call you home.”
The question had prickled at him when he’d pulled a spear from the lifeless body of a young Greek man earlier. They had their heathen beliefs, but what did it mean to die and not be welcomed into the fields of reeds? Was it just the end for them? Almost there was an edge of pity as he’d looked upon that dead boy. The same feeling was hard to conjure with the spitting, snarling she-cat across from him, though.
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Narmer took his first sip of wine, let his eyes drift close and inhaled deeply. It had been a taxing day; he ached, an old injury to his shoulder, making itself known after the bumping and jostling of the chariot. He had wanted a little relaxation, good conversation with his friend Osorsen and instead, he had found this harpy instead.
She bored him; the stupid girl seemed almost like she wanted to get herself killed. He’d done enough of that today already, and now he couldn’t even have peace here? “I’ll pass,” he said, with a steady look. I can smell you from here. Blood and sweat and greek filth.I’ll tell the General you need washing down as the other animals do.”
His gaze flicked dismissively away from her, although it was more difficult to pretend she wasn’t there that he might have hoped. And even though he might hate the Greeks, his was a curious mind all the same, and it seemed a wasted opportunity not to try and learn what he could from this one. His question about her family was met with a similar snarling response, though and Narmer rolled his eyes to heaven.
“Our woman are things of grace and beauty, to be treasured and protected. I can see why your men do not feel the same about you,” was his reply before he added with a mocking sort of smile. “And how does your glory taste now? Is captivity as sweet as you hoped?”
When she began to make demands of him, the General’s first instinct was to say nothing. What did she deserve to know? But she was so brazen, so arrogant that he couldn’t help himself, setting down his wine and folding his hands loosely in his lap.
“Would you like to know how many of your fellows are in chains down the way? Or how long the rest of them spend after the battle has been called, dragging their bodies back to the beach to burn? Can’t you smell the pyres? I wonder...what will happen to those dead here? Anubis will not want them. Who will wait for you when you die here? You….your false gods won’t be able to call you home.”
The question had prickled at him when he’d pulled a spear from the lifeless body of a young Greek man earlier. They had their heathen beliefs, but what did it mean to die and not be welcomed into the fields of reeds? Was it just the end for them? Almost there was an edge of pity as he’d looked upon that dead boy. The same feeling was hard to conjure with the spitting, snarling she-cat across from him, though.
Narmer took his first sip of wine, let his eyes drift close and inhaled deeply. It had been a taxing day; he ached, an old injury to his shoulder, making itself known after the bumping and jostling of the chariot. He had wanted a little relaxation, good conversation with his friend Osorsen and instead, he had found this harpy instead.
She bored him; the stupid girl seemed almost like she wanted to get herself killed. He’d done enough of that today already, and now he couldn’t even have peace here? “I’ll pass,” he said, with a steady look. I can smell you from here. Blood and sweat and greek filth.I’ll tell the General you need washing down as the other animals do.”
His gaze flicked dismissively away from her, although it was more difficult to pretend she wasn’t there that he might have hoped. And even though he might hate the Greeks, his was a curious mind all the same, and it seemed a wasted opportunity not to try and learn what he could from this one. His question about her family was met with a similar snarling response, though and Narmer rolled his eyes to heaven.
“Our woman are things of grace and beauty, to be treasured and protected. I can see why your men do not feel the same about you,” was his reply before he added with a mocking sort of smile. “And how does your glory taste now? Is captivity as sweet as you hoped?”
When she began to make demands of him, the General’s first instinct was to say nothing. What did she deserve to know? But she was so brazen, so arrogant that he couldn’t help himself, setting down his wine and folding his hands loosely in his lap.
“Would you like to know how many of your fellows are in chains down the way? Or how long the rest of them spend after the battle has been called, dragging their bodies back to the beach to burn? Can’t you smell the pyres? I wonder...what will happen to those dead here? Anubis will not want them. Who will wait for you when you die here? You….your false gods won’t be able to call you home.”
The question had prickled at him when he’d pulled a spear from the lifeless body of a young Greek man earlier. They had their heathen beliefs, but what did it mean to die and not be welcomed into the fields of reeds? Was it just the end for them? Almost there was an edge of pity as he’d looked upon that dead boy. The same feeling was hard to conjure with the spitting, snarling she-cat across from him, though.
