<img style="avatar" src="http://i.imgur.com/D01nHYr.png" style="max-width:25%;float:right;margin:0 0 18px 18px;]The stranger was correct.
Caldo didn't fit into what images flooded her mind regarding Oasis dwellers. Theirs were a less hardy sort, adorned in clean linens that covered little. Unmarred flesh. Beautiful, timeless faces that aged without the worries of the sands. Bajazet only crossed through the Oasis when there were goods they wished to acquire, but even those ventures were limited; those of the Oasis produced much of their own means. When he removed his mask, it was enough to ensure he wouldn't find a place with the well-to-do's camped around the pristine waters of Sierra.
Bajazet's stomach had been through enough at this point to see beyond the ailments. Not that she didn't stare; surely that was expected. She just didn't shy away from the sight. No flinching. Instead, dark orbs lingered on his lips and the damage, the hole in his cheek. Even, for a time, they processed his lack of hair as though unsure just where it all could have gone. Leprosy wasn't a commonplace occurrence within the caravan, but those who contracted it didn't receive sympathy from their fellow travelers. Tribes all dealt with disfigurement differently, and the bartering ones factored it into a loss of business. Buyers didn't want merchants with half their face deteriorated into a mask of grotesque sickness.
Of course, they hardly tolerated her kind either, but for entirely different reasons. Archaic standards of skin color, mixed with a fear of the unknown. Cultures like Bajazet's were a dying breed. "<font color="e6b519]Just eat. We shall see if there is threat.[/font]"
Rising, the shadow of a woman slipped passed the fire light, closer to the darkness that engulfed much of the campsite. There was no way to entirely protect the perimeter, but the Walkers had done a very good job trying. Years of stalking, of seeking the sounds no one else was willing to meet head on, it all came naturally to Bajazet. This instant was a tamer one, just a singular biker the other Walkers had sent warning of. Had they come with more numbers, the woman would be concerned. Not visibly, but below the surface of her rigidity. Rare was there a time anything openly unnerved her.
A stone's throw from the firelight, the stick continued tapping lightly in time with her steps, Bajazet stopped before the questioning youth. They were not alone by any means, but they were distanced enough to ensure the biker could flee if they became overwhelmed. Bajazet would grant that much hospitality. "<font color="e6b519]Nothing is free[/font]." Edging the stalk of wood into dirt to give her arm a rest, the propped weapon loomed over their conversation. "<font color="e6b519]You come and ask for aid, you must have something to give. What do you offer?[/font]"
Caldo didn't fit into what images flooded her mind regarding Oasis dwellers. Theirs were a less hardy sort, adorned in clean linens that covered little. Unmarred flesh. Beautiful, timeless faces that aged without the worries of the sands. Bajazet only crossed through the Oasis when there were goods they wished to acquire, but even those ventures were limited; those of the Oasis produced much of their own means. When he removed his mask, it was enough to ensure he wouldn't find a place with the well-to-do's camped around the pristine waters of Sierra.
Bajazet's stomach had been through enough at this point to see beyond the ailments. Not that she didn't stare; surely that was expected. She just didn't shy away from the sight. No flinching. Instead, dark orbs lingered on his lips and the damage, the hole in his cheek. Even, for a time, they processed his lack of hair as though unsure just where it all could have gone. Leprosy wasn't a commonplace occurrence within the caravan, but those who contracted it didn't receive sympathy from their fellow travelers. Tribes all dealt with disfigurement differently, and the bartering ones factored it into a loss of business. Buyers didn't want merchants with half their face deteriorated into a mask of grotesque sickness.
Of course, they hardly tolerated her kind either, but for entirely different reasons. Archaic standards of skin color, mixed with a fear of the unknown. Cultures like Bajazet's were a dying breed. "<font color="e6b519]Just eat. We shall see if there is threat.[/font]"
Rising, the shadow of a woman slipped passed the fire light, closer to the darkness that engulfed much of the campsite. There was no way to entirely protect the perimeter, but the Walkers had done a very good job trying. Years of stalking, of seeking the sounds no one else was willing to meet head on, it all came naturally to Bajazet. This instant was a tamer one, just a singular biker the other Walkers had sent warning of. Had they come with more numbers, the woman would be concerned. Not visibly, but below the surface of her rigidity. Rare was there a time anything openly unnerved her.
A stone's throw from the firelight, the stick continued tapping lightly in time with her steps, Bajazet stopped before the questioning youth. They were not alone by any means, but they were distanced enough to ensure the biker could flee if they became overwhelmed. Bajazet would grant that much hospitality. "<font color="e6b519]Nothing is free[/font]." Edging the stalk of wood into dirt to give her arm a rest, the propped weapon loomed over their conversation. "<font color="e6b519]You come and ask for aid, you must have something to give. What do you offer?[/font]"
BDRP Admin. Writer. Villain. Personal Blog.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.
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