4 Ashan 718
The man's eyes washed over her, cloaked in suspicion and dripping with intent. Her hair was wet, thick and hanging over her shoulders and onto her small breasts like a shroud of red mange, and her dirty clothes clung to her form enticingly. Eddore knew she wouldn't sleep with him, but it didn't stop him from imagining what it would be like all the same. The man, whose shabby hovel was right next to hers, looked up at the leaking hole in the ceiling. The rains weren't strong, but they were enough to soak the woman while she was trying to sleep. Luckily, Siara hadn't joined her that trial, so the only one cold and dripping was Khama.
"Poxy spitch, s'wot et is," Khama said, glaring up at the small hole leaking down onto her ratty mattress. It was garbage, sure, but it was her garbage, and she'd be damned if some poxy weather was gonna take her garbage from her. Her stormy eyes lingered a little too long, and Eddore's eyes glued themselves firmly to her breasts, the outlines of which were now visible through her wet shirt. When her eyes came down, his darted away, but she was too clever for that.
"Can ye fix'et or no?" She asked, more interested in leaving his company than her roof at that point. Not only was Eddore too gangly for her, his laryngeal projection was too large and his teeth too rotten. She was a gutterchild, sure, but not like Eddore. The boy ate rats for fun, even if he could afford fish or chicken. His brain was mushier than her bedding, and she didn't want to give him the impression she was going to pay him with sex.
"Aye'p, I can. Whatcha got fer trade?" He asked, obviously interested in her body. She smirked, but there was no happiness in her face. Instead, she balled a small fist and stepped forward, the smell of dusty sweat coming off her as the cool rain pulled the grime from her skin.
"Ye fancy this is a tumblehut, jhi'nat?" She asked, her stance aggressive. Eddore took a step back, not speaking the Rakahi pidgin but knowing enough of its slang to know that she'd been thought a prostitute. He also knew that Khama punched first, asked questions never, so he held his hands up almost immediately.
"Aye'p, less say I owed ye one from that time ye broke Timbel's thumbs fer me," Eddore quickly muttered, rushing from the abode to fetch his meager tool kit. She walked to the wooden desk, barely standing and ruinous in its ability to give splinters, and poured a glass of the rotgut whisky she owned. The first sip brought a grimace, the second a mask of acceptance as she just leaned back on the wood, the creak from below her sending shivers as she anticipated the hard fall to the dirt floor. When Eddore returned, he was shirtless, his slight and muscular frame lithe as he entered. A single eyebrow arched, and the carpenter quickly made his excuse.
"No dis-respeck, but loose clothes'll get nailed t'the wall, Khama," he said, a dorky smile spreading across his ratty face. She just shrugged, instead moving from the main room to a small kitchenette area off to the side. She stripped the wet shirt off, nipples erect in the chilly mid-night air, and she slipped a dry top over her freckled torso. When she returned, Eddore was hard at work repairing the small leak in her ceiling.
"Ye want a drink, yipat?" She asked, pouring a small amount of the whisky into the glass. He looked at it warily, well aware of where he ended up the last time he'd shared alcohol with Khama.
"An' end up outside covered in dog piss? Nye, no' again," he stammered, his sapphire eyes narrowing to combat the wide grin growing on her face. She shook her head, slowly-drying locks shaking with her as she pushed it closer to him.
"Aww, stuff et an' have a damn drink, it'qaj. Promise ye won't wake up en piss, a'right?" She joked, pushing the glass into his chest. He reached down and threw it back, admittedly in a much more satisfying way than Khama had. He shook his head for a moment, sticking out his tongue.
"Couldn'ta gotten anythin' less ass, eh?" Eddore ribbed, tears rimming his eyes. It certainly was a poor quality, but who was she to judge. She could barely afford the garbage runoff that this whisky was.
"Never heard o' a man gettin' gunnel'd offa someone's else's booze an' complainin' 'bout it till the next trial," she said, winking, She took the next shot herself, and Edd went back to work.
"Poxy spitch, s'wot et is," Khama said, glaring up at the small hole leaking down onto her ratty mattress. It was garbage, sure, but it was her garbage, and she'd be damned if some poxy weather was gonna take her garbage from her. Her stormy eyes lingered a little too long, and Eddore's eyes glued themselves firmly to her breasts, the outlines of which were now visible through her wet shirt. When her eyes came down, his darted away, but she was too clever for that.
"Can ye fix'et or no?" She asked, more interested in leaving his company than her roof at that point. Not only was Eddore too gangly for her, his laryngeal projection was too large and his teeth too rotten. She was a gutterchild, sure, but not like Eddore. The boy ate rats for fun, even if he could afford fish or chicken. His brain was mushier than her bedding, and she didn't want to give him the impression she was going to pay him with sex.
"Aye'p, I can. Whatcha got fer trade?" He asked, obviously interested in her body. She smirked, but there was no happiness in her face. Instead, she balled a small fist and stepped forward, the smell of dusty sweat coming off her as the cool rain pulled the grime from her skin.
"Ye fancy this is a tumblehut, jhi'nat?" She asked, her stance aggressive. Eddore took a step back, not speaking the Rakahi pidgin but knowing enough of its slang to know that she'd been thought a prostitute. He also knew that Khama punched first, asked questions never, so he held his hands up almost immediately.
"Aye'p, less say I owed ye one from that time ye broke Timbel's thumbs fer me," Eddore quickly muttered, rushing from the abode to fetch his meager tool kit. She walked to the wooden desk, barely standing and ruinous in its ability to give splinters, and poured a glass of the rotgut whisky she owned. The first sip brought a grimace, the second a mask of acceptance as she just leaned back on the wood, the creak from below her sending shivers as she anticipated the hard fall to the dirt floor. When Eddore returned, he was shirtless, his slight and muscular frame lithe as he entered. A single eyebrow arched, and the carpenter quickly made his excuse.
"No dis-respeck, but loose clothes'll get nailed t'the wall, Khama," he said, a dorky smile spreading across his ratty face. She just shrugged, instead moving from the main room to a small kitchenette area off to the side. She stripped the wet shirt off, nipples erect in the chilly mid-night air, and she slipped a dry top over her freckled torso. When she returned, Eddore was hard at work repairing the small leak in her ceiling.
"Ye want a drink, yipat?" She asked, pouring a small amount of the whisky into the glass. He looked at it warily, well aware of where he ended up the last time he'd shared alcohol with Khama.
"An' end up outside covered in dog piss? Nye, no' again," he stammered, his sapphire eyes narrowing to combat the wide grin growing on her face. She shook her head, slowly-drying locks shaking with her as she pushed it closer to him.
"Aww, stuff et an' have a damn drink, it'qaj. Promise ye won't wake up en piss, a'right?" She joked, pushing the glass into his chest. He reached down and threw it back, admittedly in a much more satisfying way than Khama had. He shook his head for a moment, sticking out his tongue.
"Couldn'ta gotten anythin' less ass, eh?" Eddore ribbed, tears rimming his eyes. It certainly was a poor quality, but who was she to judge. She could barely afford the garbage runoff that this whisky was.
"Never heard o' a man gettin' gunnel'd offa someone's else's booze an' complainin' 'bout it till the next trial," she said, winking, She took the next shot herself, and Edd went back to work.
