Baa Baa Black Sheep, Nyarai

[Welkin Njordson]

Welkin hated Zaman Jaraei.

It was early evening and he'd been paired with the man for a patrol around the marketplace. Generally it was an easy route, but it was made harder by the fact Zaman had a tendency to wander off like a suicidal lamb. Therefore, Welkin was alone.

He sighed and hung around an alcove near a line of stalls. He had a good view of the people as they milled around, gathering their evening wares or closing shop. So far, so good.

He kept an eye out for Zaman too, but didn't keep his hopes up.

[Nyarai Khartuul]

She slid a few coins across the wood grain finish of the stall.

The merchant, a young man a few years older than her, pulled the coins towards him and began to count. His eyes would periodically move to her, his expression one of bored resignation. He was clearly unimpressed by the sheer amount of low-grade coins she had. A lot of brass and very little copper. When he was done counting, he slid a bundle of cloth her way.

She'd come here on impulse. Usually Nyarai Khartuul stuck to the Refugee Quarter, trusting the prices there. But she needed cloth—good quality cloth—and the kind sold in the Quarter was inferior and coarse. Here, she could find something more fitting. Something that didn't irritate her skin.

And despite herself, she couldn't help but think of this as refreshing. The world was so much nicer out here, in the city beyond the little nook she occupied.

She reached for the cloth and folded it.

What she felt next was strange. Picking the bundle up, she felt something tug at her arm. Before she could really comprehend the gravity of what was happening, she felt the straps of her basket slide off her shoulder and away from her hand.

“Hey!” her voice was a surprised cry. Her feet began to move, even as her fingers reached out towards the image of a body throwing itself into the crowd. “Hey! My purse. Stop!”

She couldn't believe she was being robbed. Her. Nyarai: who had nothing of any value.

No one would believe her.

[Welkin Njordson]

Welkin perked at the cry of "My purse!" and immediately scanned the crowd for an escaping figure. He hadn't dealt with a thief in a long time.

The thief was a kid only a couple years younger than he was. He had a little purse clutched to his chest and darted through the crowd toward the quickest route to the Refugee quarter.

Welkin chased after him and pulled four daggers from his belt. The boy dashed in front of a wall and Welkin threw the knives. They pinned the boy to the wall with four deep, satisfying thuds.

Welkin knew it was all just thanks to his magic but he always enjoyed the look on people's faces when he did that.

"I'll take that," Welkin said, plucking the purse from the boy's grasp.

"What're you gonna do?" the boy grumbled in highly accented Escovan.

Welkin looked at the kid, then sighed and pulled the daggers away. "Turn a blind eye. Get going."

The boy hesitated a moment in confusion, ran his eyes over Welkin's appearance, then rushed away.

Welkin turned to the woman the purse must have belonged to, since she was following behind the thief as best she could.

[Nyarai Khartuul]

She followed, steadily losing hope.

She wasn't a fast runner by any means. Gathering her skirts, lifting them well above her ankles, she tried to dart in and out of the crowd—much the thief was doing. But the deeper she dug into the crowd, the further away the thief seemed.

And then he was gone.

It took everything she had not to give up. She kept at it, her thin sandals slapping against the cobblestones and the day's filth and water rising up to meet the edges of her feet. Usually she would avoid puddles, but with the chase, she couldn't watch where she stepped. So she simply ran, ignoring the squishing and squelching that was occurring near her heel and toes.

She arrived just in time to see the guard throw a handful of daggers at the thief. Initially she felt a hand fly to her mouth, covering the gasp that would inevitably escape. But instead of watching the daggers sink into flesh and bone, she watched them pin the man to the far wall, restraining him there. She gasped, but not in horror.

A few seconds later she saw her purse being passed to her, the deceptively young guard now in front of her.

“I—thank you,” she murmured, taking the purse and sliding it back onto a shoulder. She ran a hand through her hair and looked up at the boy. Curious now, she asked him a question. “Why'd you let him go?”

[Welkin Njordson]

He smiled at the woman when she arrived (another pretty one, of course), and was about to say "You're welcome" when her question caught him off guard.

He hadn't actually thought she'd seen that.

"Oh, uh." He glanced back the way the boy had run. "Well...." He waved a hand. "He got out of my knives before I could arrest him."

[Nyarai Khartuul]

"I see."

The way she said the words though indicated she obviously did not see.

She looked him over, her dark eyes tracing a path from his hair down to his shoes. A guard, but with the accent of a foreigner. A refugee like her. It took a heartbeat for her to categorize him. She put him in a little box and filed him away. She understood.

Taking a brave step forward, she found her eyes trailing a back up to his. When she spoke, her voice was low. "Thank you," she repeated. "That was quite impressive."

[Welkin Njordson]

Well, she didn't snap at him or demand he go after the kid, so Welkin supposed that was a good thing. Then again, she was spending an awful long time looking at him. He wondered if his portable armory bothered her. She sounded foreign, and refugees didn't normally like the guards, but then he was a refugee too. Despite his months on Escova, the accent was still there, slight but noticeable to people who knew better.

His brows dropped heavy over his eyes when she took a step closer. When she spoke her voice was lowered, and Welkin still couldn't help noticing how really really pretty she was.

He swallowed. "Uhm. Thank you. That's just, uh, training." He cleared his throat. "Are you all right?"

[Nyarai Khartuul]

She nodded.

Her eyes went down to her feet and she lifted one slightly to take a quick glance at the mud stains there. Ugh. She would have to wash those out at the river before she went home. Maybe she would bathe. The run had caused her to sweat and beads of moisture were forming between her shoulderblades and in the part of her hair.

Looking back at him, she smiled. It was a small, brittle little smile. Not a real one. “I'm fine. Just a little dirty. I don't run a lot.”

She wondered if this was requisite amount of time she had to spend with the guard. Was she done now? Were the two thanks yous polite enough? She didn't quite know. What Nyarai did know was that she had to keep it friendly with guards. This one was a refugee and though she didn't believe that he would ever do her any favours, it was good sense to be on friendly terms with the authorities.

[Welkin Njordson]

He glanced down at her feet and saw her barely useful sandals. "Oh. Okay." He suddenly realized he was still holding all his knives and deftly slipped them back into their sheaths.

"Do you need help? An escort or...." He stared at her, then blushed and looked away and shrugged a single shoulder. "Or whatever."

[Nyarai Khartuul]

He was blushing.

Nyarai pretended not to notice the blush. Instead, she pushed her hair back over her shoulder and teased it, letting the locks settle around her face and back. It was a female tactic, the kind created to draw attention to the curve of her slender neck, the darkness of her hair.

“I couldn't ask that of you,” she said, smiling again. “Are you sure?” She glanced around, pretending to notice the other people he was obviously here to guard. People she didn't actually care about.

And escort though—that would be nice.

[Welkin Njordson]

His eyes glanced right where she wanted them too, and he swallowed again. Quickly he looked back at her eyes and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, it's no trouble. My partner can handle this." He waved at the marketplace. "And that kid might try again if you were left alone. So, uh...yeah, if you want an escort, I'd be happy to."

He swallowed again.

[Nyarai Khartuul]

The wooden bangles she wore clinked and clattered as her hands smoothed out her hair. When she was done, she adjusted the straps of her purse—the purse he'd saved, she reminded herself—and looked down the road, towards the distant Refugee Quarter. Towards home.

From a distance, it was a grotesque stain on the city. It fanned out for a few kilometres, a series of blackened buildings and ramshackle huts. It was disgusting to look at, especially after the beauty of the Escovan markets. Things were so organized here, with white-washed walls, cobblestone streets and sweet smelling flowers. She could actually pick out the smells of the bakery here. Everything was so pleasant. To Nyarai, it was like paradise.

“I live down there,” she said, making sure not to meet his eyes. This was always the hard part—to admit that she was poor, that she lived amongst the poor.

Not that she looked rich. Her clothes were of inferior quality and nothing she wore was gold or silver.

[Welkin Njordson]

Welkin only nodded. He wasn't surprised, but she seemed shy or embarrassed to admit where she lived. Couldn't she tell he was a refugee too?

"After you," he said, gesturing for her to lead the way. "I'd live there too if I hadn't...joined the scouts." He gave her a little smile. "I'm from Paras originally."

[Nyarai Khartuul]

Some would argue that working for the Escovans was like working for the enemy. It was wrong. Refugees were second class citizens, and those who worked within The System were traitors.

Nyarai knew it was different.

She gave him a faint smile and began to walk, her slippers squelching and protesting against the now firm cobblestones. She tried to ignore the wetness around her soles, but it was proving difficult. What she needed was a distraction—and this boy seemed more than willing to be one.

Again, she wondered at how young he was. She knew men could join the military at sixteen, so he must have been new to the whole situation. Surely his accent was enough to prove it. He looked sixteen, maybe seventeen. That or he was lucky to enough to look more youthful than his years. She would figure it out soon enough, she assumed. He was more than willing to talk.

"How did you join the scouts...?" she asked, searching for a name.

[Welkin Njordson]

He didn't pick up on the lilt in her voice suggesting he give his name. Instead, he chuckled sourly. "Well, it was join the scouts or hang. Not much of a choice really." He glanced at her sheepishly. "I guess you could say I'm a...hm. A reformed criminal."