Sanctuary
A last glance back marks Mesteno's movements behind expansive panes of glass. Really, the man makes a great target with that inner-light fish-bowl look! However, Sam's not likely to take that shot, even if he did overcome his traditionalism enough to learn riflery. Once he's under the trees - and not without a scowl at the things - he makes short work of heading for the grassland beyond and the gates. If the dogs see him out, for once he'll take the time to give the beasts some attention. But once beyond the gates, he wouldn't be lingering around. Those who knew him might have been surprised by his destination, particularly those who knew him well. The marketplace crowds aren't much thinned down by the advent of darkness, summer heat encouraging an active night-market among enterprising merchants and vendors. That Sam would be there might not be too great a surprise, but that he's there to purchase clothing - that would.
Marketplace
It takes a while to find what he's looking for, and when he does it's a business on the verge of closing for the night. A small clothiers out of the hustle of the greater market, the display in the window one of coarse silk and finely carved semiprecious stones set in equally ornate, carved brass and copper. The veiled woman within pauses for almost a full minute, staring out at Sam with eyes darker than the cloudy sky above before backing away from the door she'd been about to lock, to vanish behind a curtain into the back room. A bearded man, hawk-eyed and arrogant, appears moments later. He as well has nothing more than a scathing stare for the scruffy figure in weathered jeans and a borrowed t-shirt, but the clatter of gold and silver nuggets on the counter speaks a language that bridges all culture gaps, be they real or perceived.
Less than an hour later, a different figure entirely stalks the road leading to the dockside district. It had been a lifetime since Samiel had worn such an outfit - and even then, never one so ornate. It lent a different cast to his features, bringing out certain hints that were usually too deeply buried to be noticed. Hints that his origin hadn't been of the Indians of the Americas at all. The robe is heavy black silk noil, embroidered only sparingly with bronze thread in a swirling, abstract motif. The boots match, soft leather fastened with toggles rather than laces or buckles. The shop keepers woman had managed to get his hair untangled, a sheet of glossy black that falls arrow straight to his lower back, completely covered by a black noil head cloth with one end of it drawn across his face and fastened on the other side. The fabric is held in place by a simple bronze band, a single golden cats-eye topaz pendulous from the front to rest against the dark skin of his forehead, color enhanced by the darkness of kohl-framed eyes. The belt matches the band, though the bronze plaques and connecting beads lack any topaz. The gem had been the purchase of a whim, and attached at the shop.
Incubus
The man who enters Incubus bears little resemblance to the one who had earlier left, but then that had been the point. Better suited to the setting despite the exotic outfit, or perhaps because of it, he crosses to the bar and orders a coffee in the Turkish style. Boiled thick and silty from fine-ground beans. The tiny cup balances on hennaed fingernails as he sips, pausing only in his study of the establishment's wares to glance at a manicured hand that comes to rest on his shoulder, deliberately staring at the presumptuous intrusion until the owner, gaining no other responds, retreats. The faces had changed, perhaps some of the men having finished their shift. Perhaps some had finished with clients, and those who had been there earlier were entertaining. Motion sinuous in the lithe cadence learned by those who have spent a lifetime walking on the shifting seas of dry sand, Samiel walks among the Incubus' gentlemen studying each of the finely groomed bodies as though seeking the best goat for an evening's slaughter and feast. A touch here and there tests the texture of his robe, a word invites a more personal examination, but neither are encouraged. The more personal stroke of a wandering hand finds no response. It takes only one circuit of the room for him to pause at the bar again, the thread of an accent making his usual bland tones more lyrical, if only slightly. "The manager, I would speak with. It suits me to engage services for a private entertainment such as these chattel are not equipped to arrange."
The man in the suit is the only unchanged face, and that face shows no sign of recognition when Samiel closes the door. It had been easier than he would have expected, gaining private audience. The thickened soles of his boots make little noise on the fine carpeting, and he pauses before the man's desk to study the window covering one wall of the office. On the other side, it's a mirror reflecting the clean lines and elegant clothing of shoppers and wares alike. "It pleases you to keep a watch on your merchandise." A humorless smile accompanies the words, and Samiel turns back to the stranger. Standing now, the man steps to the side of the desk and offers his hand, a business smile etched from his lips to his eyes and a businessman's script on his tongue.
"How may Incubus be of service to you, Mr..?"
A question that is left unanswered. Accepting the offered hand, Samiel grips it rather than shake. There's no radiating heat to remind the suit of the two he'd earlier kicked out of the brothel, just skin a trifle warmer than usual. "I believe that you may be of personal service to me, fendim. Earlier today you were impolite to a friend of mine. Your reasoning for that is unimportant. I will not argue that you may have had what you felt was good reason for the choice, but it remains that the offense has been given, and requires reparations." Folding his hands behind his back, each hand clasping the opposite wrist, he regards the man indifferently. The widening of the suits eyes shows that he must not have had many, if any, other 'situations' that day. A frown follows, but Samiel continues before any response can be formulated. "My friend came to your establishment seeking nothing more than the pleasures which you are purported to offer. How would you care to remedy your lack of hospitality to him?" The suit had obviously taken those few moments to overcome his surprise, the plastic smile gone in favor of a stony distaste.
"I believe it is time for you to leave now. I don't welcome your accusations, and I certainly do not owe anything in reimbursement for asking someone to leave. I believe you and your....friends....should consider intruding on one of the less discriminating businesses, in the future."
The man moves past the desk and toward the door, obviously intending to open it and see his guest out without further delay. Earlier he'd shown excellent reserve, but this time when Samiel's hand comes to rest on his arm it draws a gasp. Before he'd felt the heat of that hand, but now it doesn't hold any undue warmth. It's the trickle of fine sand, crystalline fragments that spills through his sleeve like water, licking around and up his arm that draws the noise. "The observation window. You must have this room well soundproofed to prevent any noise from reaching through it. I do not believe we are done here, fendim." Angry now, the man jerks his arm to shake away the offending hand, and the peculiar sensations - surely those can't be real - that accompanies it. When that hand leaves his sleeve, however, it captures his wrist and holds it captive. The sand hadn't merely crawled along the stranger's flesh at random. When the suit jerks away, the crystalline structures lance through skin, tiny holes for tinier grains to slide through. For a moment the man freezes, eyes wide. His other hand dives into his jacket for the pistol fine tailoring leaves well concealed, but it never makes it there.
Sand that had trickled like living water over the surface slithers in a hissing rush into the punctures, shredding with countless tiny razors at exposed nerves. A spear of fusing crystal slides into the flesh of the man's throat as neatly as a hypodermic into a vein, clustering and growing in delicate, sharp-edged latices to strangle any cry before it can form. Wind slides around the interior of the office, ruffling papers and flicking them outward to scatter over the floor, scalding hot and dry enough to suck the moisture from a body too distracted to think of his weapon anymore. The wind cycles, suffocating heat rising steadily as sand sifts and swirls into the lick of it, slashing at exposed skin and needling into flesh, burrowing through fabric to the tenderness beneath and choking breath from throat and chest in a smothering pall. There is no anger in it, merely the dispassionate efficiency and brutality of the desert. Before he leaves, Samiel places the suit carefully in his office chair and secures the head cloth over his face again with a hand that radiates heat like a desert stone at sundown. The office door closes quietly behind him, inner lock set, and he gives the man behind the bar a polite nod on his way out. Business as usual.
Behind a locked door, amidst the wind-scattered mess of what was once an immaculate office, a dried and desiccated mummy remains. Leather-and-twig hands are fold on the desk, fine suit only slightly faded from the heat and moisture leeched from his tissues as utterly as any cadaver left too long in the arid sandy wastes.
A last glance back marks Mesteno's movements behind expansive panes of glass. Really, the man makes a great target with that inner-light fish-bowl look! However, Sam's not likely to take that shot, even if he did overcome his traditionalism enough to learn riflery. Once he's under the trees - and not without a scowl at the things - he makes short work of heading for the grassland beyond and the gates. If the dogs see him out, for once he'll take the time to give the beasts some attention. But once beyond the gates, he wouldn't be lingering around. Those who knew him might have been surprised by his destination, particularly those who knew him well. The marketplace crowds aren't much thinned down by the advent of darkness, summer heat encouraging an active night-market among enterprising merchants and vendors. That Sam would be there might not be too great a surprise, but that he's there to purchase clothing - that would.
Marketplace
It takes a while to find what he's looking for, and when he does it's a business on the verge of closing for the night. A small clothiers out of the hustle of the greater market, the display in the window one of coarse silk and finely carved semiprecious stones set in equally ornate, carved brass and copper. The veiled woman within pauses for almost a full minute, staring out at Sam with eyes darker than the cloudy sky above before backing away from the door she'd been about to lock, to vanish behind a curtain into the back room. A bearded man, hawk-eyed and arrogant, appears moments later. He as well has nothing more than a scathing stare for the scruffy figure in weathered jeans and a borrowed t-shirt, but the clatter of gold and silver nuggets on the counter speaks a language that bridges all culture gaps, be they real or perceived.
Less than an hour later, a different figure entirely stalks the road leading to the dockside district. It had been a lifetime since Samiel had worn such an outfit - and even then, never one so ornate. It lent a different cast to his features, bringing out certain hints that were usually too deeply buried to be noticed. Hints that his origin hadn't been of the Indians of the Americas at all. The robe is heavy black silk noil, embroidered only sparingly with bronze thread in a swirling, abstract motif. The boots match, soft leather fastened with toggles rather than laces or buckles. The shop keepers woman had managed to get his hair untangled, a sheet of glossy black that falls arrow straight to his lower back, completely covered by a black noil head cloth with one end of it drawn across his face and fastened on the other side. The fabric is held in place by a simple bronze band, a single golden cats-eye topaz pendulous from the front to rest against the dark skin of his forehead, color enhanced by the darkness of kohl-framed eyes. The belt matches the band, though the bronze plaques and connecting beads lack any topaz. The gem had been the purchase of a whim, and attached at the shop.
Incubus
The man who enters Incubus bears little resemblance to the one who had earlier left, but then that had been the point. Better suited to the setting despite the exotic outfit, or perhaps because of it, he crosses to the bar and orders a coffee in the Turkish style. Boiled thick and silty from fine-ground beans. The tiny cup balances on hennaed fingernails as he sips, pausing only in his study of the establishment's wares to glance at a manicured hand that comes to rest on his shoulder, deliberately staring at the presumptuous intrusion until the owner, gaining no other responds, retreats. The faces had changed, perhaps some of the men having finished their shift. Perhaps some had finished with clients, and those who had been there earlier were entertaining. Motion sinuous in the lithe cadence learned by those who have spent a lifetime walking on the shifting seas of dry sand, Samiel walks among the Incubus' gentlemen studying each of the finely groomed bodies as though seeking the best goat for an evening's slaughter and feast. A touch here and there tests the texture of his robe, a word invites a more personal examination, but neither are encouraged. The more personal stroke of a wandering hand finds no response. It takes only one circuit of the room for him to pause at the bar again, the thread of an accent making his usual bland tones more lyrical, if only slightly. "The manager, I would speak with. It suits me to engage services for a private entertainment such as these chattel are not equipped to arrange."
The man in the suit is the only unchanged face, and that face shows no sign of recognition when Samiel closes the door. It had been easier than he would have expected, gaining private audience. The thickened soles of his boots make little noise on the fine carpeting, and he pauses before the man's desk to study the window covering one wall of the office. On the other side, it's a mirror reflecting the clean lines and elegant clothing of shoppers and wares alike. "It pleases you to keep a watch on your merchandise." A humorless smile accompanies the words, and Samiel turns back to the stranger. Standing now, the man steps to the side of the desk and offers his hand, a business smile etched from his lips to his eyes and a businessman's script on his tongue.
"How may Incubus be of service to you, Mr..?"
A question that is left unanswered. Accepting the offered hand, Samiel grips it rather than shake. There's no radiating heat to remind the suit of the two he'd earlier kicked out of the brothel, just skin a trifle warmer than usual. "I believe that you may be of personal service to me, fendim. Earlier today you were impolite to a friend of mine. Your reasoning for that is unimportant. I will not argue that you may have had what you felt was good reason for the choice, but it remains that the offense has been given, and requires reparations." Folding his hands behind his back, each hand clasping the opposite wrist, he regards the man indifferently. The widening of the suits eyes shows that he must not have had many, if any, other 'situations' that day. A frown follows, but Samiel continues before any response can be formulated. "My friend came to your establishment seeking nothing more than the pleasures which you are purported to offer. How would you care to remedy your lack of hospitality to him?" The suit had obviously taken those few moments to overcome his surprise, the plastic smile gone in favor of a stony distaste.
"I believe it is time for you to leave now. I don't welcome your accusations, and I certainly do not owe anything in reimbursement for asking someone to leave. I believe you and your....friends....should consider intruding on one of the less discriminating businesses, in the future."
The man moves past the desk and toward the door, obviously intending to open it and see his guest out without further delay. Earlier he'd shown excellent reserve, but this time when Samiel's hand comes to rest on his arm it draws a gasp. Before he'd felt the heat of that hand, but now it doesn't hold any undue warmth. It's the trickle of fine sand, crystalline fragments that spills through his sleeve like water, licking around and up his arm that draws the noise. "The observation window. You must have this room well soundproofed to prevent any noise from reaching through it. I do not believe we are done here, fendim." Angry now, the man jerks his arm to shake away the offending hand, and the peculiar sensations - surely those can't be real - that accompanies it. When that hand leaves his sleeve, however, it captures his wrist and holds it captive. The sand hadn't merely crawled along the stranger's flesh at random. When the suit jerks away, the crystalline structures lance through skin, tiny holes for tinier grains to slide through. For a moment the man freezes, eyes wide. His other hand dives into his jacket for the pistol fine tailoring leaves well concealed, but it never makes it there.
Sand that had trickled like living water over the surface slithers in a hissing rush into the punctures, shredding with countless tiny razors at exposed nerves. A spear of fusing crystal slides into the flesh of the man's throat as neatly as a hypodermic into a vein, clustering and growing in delicate, sharp-edged latices to strangle any cry before it can form. Wind slides around the interior of the office, ruffling papers and flicking them outward to scatter over the floor, scalding hot and dry enough to suck the moisture from a body too distracted to think of his weapon anymore. The wind cycles, suffocating heat rising steadily as sand sifts and swirls into the lick of it, slashing at exposed skin and needling into flesh, burrowing through fabric to the tenderness beneath and choking breath from throat and chest in a smothering pall. There is no anger in it, merely the dispassionate efficiency and brutality of the desert. Before he leaves, Samiel places the suit carefully in his office chair and secures the head cloth over his face again with a hand that radiates heat like a desert stone at sundown. The office door closes quietly behind him, inner lock set, and he gives the man behind the bar a polite nod on his way out. Business as usual.
Behind a locked door, amidst the wind-scattered mess of what was once an immaculate office, a dried and desiccated mummy remains. Leather-and-twig hands are fold on the desk, fine suit only slightly faded from the heat and moisture leeched from his tissues as utterly as any cadaver left too long in the arid sandy wastes.