Even if Zapar didn't know how convincing his hesitant, lurching gestures were, they were not lost on Pagusel. For much of the time she'd known Daq, she'd seen him behave in such a way: stiff, even spastic movements, frequently halting speech. As far as this ruse went, though, he was not yet out of the woods, nor was Pagusel. For her, these were a confusing woods indeed.
His gestures seemed naturally Daq-like, a fact that was not to Zapar's distinct advantage. That which is natural and comfortable is easy to take for granted. Still, a subconscious part of Pagusel may have been assuaged by his manner, the same as the edges of her mind were softened the tiniest bit by the liquor she sipped.
Still, her gaze roved for something. Over the tenseness of his wrists, the stalling, stuttering mouth, she still sought a crack, another red handkerchief. She heard his words, his slightly disjointed diction, and paid a little of her attention to what was actually being said. She recognized many of the same thoughts that she had spouted to him in the woods--how unsettling that she'd been so unaccustomed to her human form that she'd let that many thoughts turn into spoken words. She drank more.
Presently, he asked her a question. The liquor on her tongue felt as thick as syrup as she swallowed that question. Flattery was such a human feeling, and sometimes--rarely--Pagusel felt it. People liked to talk about themselves. Sometimes--very rarely--she allowed herself to like it. A sad smile and a down turned face were her first response, and the first time she'd moved her gaze from scrutinizing Zapar.
"Mm," she said first, and took another sip of her liquor. "At one time I did practice that sort." She was more savvy to the local customs, and at least avoided saying the offensive word. She glanced up, but into the empty space near Zapar's head, and not at him. "Feeling useful is the opiate of the individual . . ." she murmured, with the soft tone of wonderment that came with trying to pinpoint an elusive source.
Pagusel finally looked back up at him; her face looked slack and older. "It was a different life of mine." She wouldn't waste words explaining that she meant that literally.
After a moment, she blinked. Those words she had said caused an echo in her auditory memory, something she hadn't taken heed of when he'd first said it. " . . . look beyond demons. . . while I was still inhabited by one." Of course . . . he was saying he was no longer possessed.
Her lips parted slightly, formed a silent "M" and the round, trailing shape of a word that ended with the "x" in the middle of her mouth, cradled between her tongue and teeth. The spastic gestures--those belonged to a possessed Daq. The easy comfort she'd taken in his mannerisms came down like a curtain torn from its frame.
Pagusel's eyes widened, her lower lip lost its composure. It was an expression of surprise she rarely conceded to. Too hastily, she glanced over at the drunken young Daq. Her jaw hardened when she looked back at Zapar, and she was no longer at all ready to accept his guise. Her hands were tensed on the table, but she made no immediate move. Her inaction could be to her great folly.
The Hustle
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Zapar smiled, at first, in turn with Pagusel. He was pleased to find her susceptible, even if just to a small degree, to the same tricks he used on everyone else. His brother had warned him before sending him out that there was something special about her, but in this moment, where she gave her banal answer to his question, he found her rather ordinary.
It wasn't until she finished speaking that his impressions were upset. As she mouthed his brother's name, their conversation seemed to turn on a dime from frivolous to grave. He knew his reference to Morax had not spooked her. She'd shown very little fear in the face of Morax, from what he was told. Yet she was, indeed, spooked. He saw it in her uneasy eyes, her quivering lip. With the edge of his hand, he pushed the nauseatingly bitter drink away from himself. It was a slow movement, almost imperceptibly slow in comparison to his next shift in position and form.
Capitalizing on her indecision, he swung around to the other side of the table with a single swift motion. In the second it took him to move, he returned to the form he had been favoring over the past few days. A long face with a commanding, generous nose and thin, meager lips. Dark, delicately coiffured hair, and demanding black eyes. He wore a red jacket that clasped just below his Adam's apple. It was a handsome look, but, more importantly, it was a unique one. Zapar's vanity could not suffer any sort of common attractiveness.
Keeping his hand on the table to block her exit, he twisted so that his torso would face toward her. He kicked out his leg and pressed it against hers. Past the hem of his knickers, he could feel the cool skin of his calf just meeting her smooth shins. Fixing his gaze on her, he smirked.
"As you can see, I know a thing or two about shifting," he said. "And though it would be distasteful, I'm not above getting roach guts on my fine shoes."
As Zapar relaxed his features, the smirk to dissolved away into the natural hardness of the face he'd taken on. "You are a shrewd woman, Pagusel, far more shrewd than most. My brother had tried to convince me of this, but I didn't believe him--I thought you simply exceeded his limited capacity for social interactions. I considered you to be ripe for manipulation, and I, of course, have been proven wrong. So I come to you with an apology and an offer. If you'll hear me out, I believe you will find it quite to your liking. If not..."
He brought his heel sharply to the ground.
It wasn't until she finished speaking that his impressions were upset. As she mouthed his brother's name, their conversation seemed to turn on a dime from frivolous to grave. He knew his reference to Morax had not spooked her. She'd shown very little fear in the face of Morax, from what he was told. Yet she was, indeed, spooked. He saw it in her uneasy eyes, her quivering lip. With the edge of his hand, he pushed the nauseatingly bitter drink away from himself. It was a slow movement, almost imperceptibly slow in comparison to his next shift in position and form.
Capitalizing on her indecision, he swung around to the other side of the table with a single swift motion. In the second it took him to move, he returned to the form he had been favoring over the past few days. A long face with a commanding, generous nose and thin, meager lips. Dark, delicately coiffured hair, and demanding black eyes. He wore a red jacket that clasped just below his Adam's apple. It was a handsome look, but, more importantly, it was a unique one. Zapar's vanity could not suffer any sort of common attractiveness.
Keeping his hand on the table to block her exit, he twisted so that his torso would face toward her. He kicked out his leg and pressed it against hers. Past the hem of his knickers, he could feel the cool skin of his calf just meeting her smooth shins. Fixing his gaze on her, he smirked.
"As you can see, I know a thing or two about shifting," he said. "And though it would be distasteful, I'm not above getting roach guts on my fine shoes."
As Zapar relaxed his features, the smirk to dissolved away into the natural hardness of the face he'd taken on. "You are a shrewd woman, Pagusel, far more shrewd than most. My brother had tried to convince me of this, but I didn't believe him--I thought you simply exceeded his limited capacity for social interactions. I considered you to be ripe for manipulation, and I, of course, have been proven wrong. So I come to you with an apology and an offer. If you'll hear me out, I believe you will find it quite to your liking. If not..."
He brought his heel sharply to the ground.
Re: The Hustle
Pagusel regained her composure just in time to not completely recoil when Zapar came close. He had the audacity to touch his leg to hers. She was able to control her neurosis to some degree: the shudder that wanted to come, she forced herself to channel into a jerk of her elbow as she reached for his discarded glass.
While keeping a leery eye on his smirk--the empty rhetoric of body language if she'd ever seen it--she slugged back both his glass, and then the rest of hers. She exhaled an aromatic breath through her nostrils. Her ankle twitched slightly, and she pressed her heel into the floor to still her nervous energy.
Pagusel's gaze drifted past Zapar's face to see that Daq was still somewhere in her field of view. He was not too hard to spot, even from behind, as he was surrounded by silly girls, and held that unnaturally square perfection in his shoulders. She slowly lowered her gaze and nodded softly with the tip of her nose as Zapar went on.
Morax had never seen much of her in action as a cockroach--truly her preferred form these past few years . . . perhaps her preferred these past few days, although she couldn't be sure. He had probably seen her slip through a few tight spots, but he hadn't exactly tried to crush her before. It wasn't that nobody had tried that before, and yet here she was.
The rap of his heel on the floor played a percussive period to his speech. The pleasant swell of warmth in Pagusel's diaphragm signaled the first effects of the two drinks she'd just finished. She looked up to Zapar's changed face with eyes half-lidded and tipped her head to the right very slightly.
"Oh," she said as she glanced down at his shoes, which he was willing to dirty with her body. "I was counting entirely on your vanity to protect me in this situation." The utter flatness of her tone gave away her dry humor. "How shrewd does that make me?"
Pagusel continued to stare at him with glassy eyes. She swept a long lock of hair back from her face and waited, in indication that she was willing to let him go on. It would probably help to get all the information she could, at least.
While keeping a leery eye on his smirk--the empty rhetoric of body language if she'd ever seen it--she slugged back both his glass, and then the rest of hers. She exhaled an aromatic breath through her nostrils. Her ankle twitched slightly, and she pressed her heel into the floor to still her nervous energy.
Pagusel's gaze drifted past Zapar's face to see that Daq was still somewhere in her field of view. He was not too hard to spot, even from behind, as he was surrounded by silly girls, and held that unnaturally square perfection in his shoulders. She slowly lowered her gaze and nodded softly with the tip of her nose as Zapar went on.
Morax had never seen much of her in action as a cockroach--truly her preferred form these past few years . . . perhaps her preferred these past few days, although she couldn't be sure. He had probably seen her slip through a few tight spots, but he hadn't exactly tried to crush her before. It wasn't that nobody had tried that before, and yet here she was.
The rap of his heel on the floor played a percussive period to his speech. The pleasant swell of warmth in Pagusel's diaphragm signaled the first effects of the two drinks she'd just finished. She looked up to Zapar's changed face with eyes half-lidded and tipped her head to the right very slightly.
"Oh," she said as she glanced down at his shoes, which he was willing to dirty with her body. "I was counting entirely on your vanity to protect me in this situation." The utter flatness of her tone gave away her dry humor. "How shrewd does that make me?"
Pagusel continued to stare at him with glassy eyes. She swept a long lock of hair back from her face and waited, in indication that she was willing to let him go on. It would probably help to get all the information she could, at least.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Zapar watched carefully for Pagusel's response, physical and otherwise. He'd been around her long enough to know that the devil was in the details with her, so he looked for the minutiae. The jerky move for the glasses, the ripple of motion in her ankle and calf as her leg twitched and stilled under his, even her quick glance toward the new Bekkar--these things did not go unnoticed. He allowed his gaze to follow hers for a moment, and he also latched onto the sight of Bekkar's broad shoulders and the gaggle of loose women. Visions of a smallish orgy flashed through his mind. A wave of warmth flushed through his skin, but he quickly regained his focus.
He reached out with his free arm and draped it across Pagusel's shoulders and pressed his long, milk-white fingers into the coffee-brown flesh of her arm. It was a strong grip, but a sensual one. The sensuality interested him more than the hold--it seemed to be the one thing that put her off her guard.
Leaning his face in, he caught the scent of the alcohol as she exhaled and felt the tickle of her warm, moist breath. He had wanted to reach over and sweep the errant hairs behind her ear, but she beat him to it. Instead, he slowly ran his palm up and down her upper arm.
"No," he said in a stony tone that was at odds with his affectionate gestures. "It doesn't make you seem any more shrewd. Simply more cheeky... and perhaps a bit more reckless."
He adjusted his posture to meet her blank stare with his sharp gaze. "But," he said, shifting his tone along with the conversation to something more pleasant. "Let's talk about the deal. It's simple, really. My benefactor and my brother are prepared to furnish you with a.. suitable domicile in town, a small stiped, and whatever.. 'chemicals' you desire. You need only send a request our way, and it shall be fulfilled, so long as your habits do not interfere with your task. In exchange, you are to act as a chaperone to this experimental Bekkar that we have designed. You must keep him out of harm's way, make sure his capricious moods do not lead him to attempt something foolish, and, most importantly, you must--ah--nurture his nascent feelings of trust and love for Morax... and for myself, of course."
He stopped there and waited for a response from her. There were some specifics to the job, but he didn't want to get into them if the roach-woman wasn't on board. During that lull in the conversation, he nearly shuddered at the thought of what he'd threatened to do to his poor shoes. Zapar wasn't sure if Morax had implanted any memories that would serve to enkindle Daq's affections for him as well, but the thought of Daq coming to him to vent his 'frustrations' was fine consolation.
He reached out with his free arm and draped it across Pagusel's shoulders and pressed his long, milk-white fingers into the coffee-brown flesh of her arm. It was a strong grip, but a sensual one. The sensuality interested him more than the hold--it seemed to be the one thing that put her off her guard.
Leaning his face in, he caught the scent of the alcohol as she exhaled and felt the tickle of her warm, moist breath. He had wanted to reach over and sweep the errant hairs behind her ear, but she beat him to it. Instead, he slowly ran his palm up and down her upper arm.
"No," he said in a stony tone that was at odds with his affectionate gestures. "It doesn't make you seem any more shrewd. Simply more cheeky... and perhaps a bit more reckless."
He adjusted his posture to meet her blank stare with his sharp gaze. "But," he said, shifting his tone along with the conversation to something more pleasant. "Let's talk about the deal. It's simple, really. My benefactor and my brother are prepared to furnish you with a.. suitable domicile in town, a small stiped, and whatever.. 'chemicals' you desire. You need only send a request our way, and it shall be fulfilled, so long as your habits do not interfere with your task. In exchange, you are to act as a chaperone to this experimental Bekkar that we have designed. You must keep him out of harm's way, make sure his capricious moods do not lead him to attempt something foolish, and, most importantly, you must--ah--nurture his nascent feelings of trust and love for Morax... and for myself, of course."
He stopped there and waited for a response from her. There were some specifics to the job, but he didn't want to get into them if the roach-woman wasn't on board. During that lull in the conversation, he nearly shuddered at the thought of what he'd threatened to do to his poor shoes. Zapar wasn't sure if Morax had implanted any memories that would serve to enkindle Daq's affections for him as well, but the thought of Daq coming to him to vent his 'frustrations' was fine consolation.
Re: The Hustle
A fair amount of Pagusel's energy was devoted to keeping her cool. Zapar was toying with her most exploitable neurosis. Even a perfectly well-adjusted woman should find such a touch untoward. It was perhaps with this knowledge that Pagusel was able to rationalize, and thus control, her revulsion: there was nothing unusual about how disgusted she felt.
Surely, there was no business she intended to have with this foul man. And he couldn't possibly trust her to participate in any sort of mutual arrangement. She inhaled again, through her nose, and felt the dizzying roll of her diaphragm. The fumes of his drink mixed with hers roiled in the cavity of her mouth as she exhaled. Surely he had to be bluffing.
"You cannot give me what I want," she sighed, the loose release of another deep breath, "but I may let you try." She dug the last word from the hollow beneath her tongue, let it linger for a moment.
Pagusel couldn't be sure what information this man did or did not have on her, but he apparently didn't know what she had told the Daq who had met her in the junkyard, that she was utterly against indentured servitude. She herself was bluffing. He was right that she was reckless.
"Of these privileges you have laid out--to be given in exchange for my time and attention--I will certainly deny some. Shall that change your mood on the matter?" She was at least going to uncover whether or not these perks he was leveraging were in fact shackles.
"Furthermore, I derive no pleasure from the way you are touching me right now, and I intend to change the situation myself if you don't unhand me." The last sentence was said rather quickly, and low. Her tone was not hard, though. She was maintaining herself, and still spoke in a reasonably measured way.
Surely, there was no business she intended to have with this foul man. And he couldn't possibly trust her to participate in any sort of mutual arrangement. She inhaled again, through her nose, and felt the dizzying roll of her diaphragm. The fumes of his drink mixed with hers roiled in the cavity of her mouth as she exhaled. Surely he had to be bluffing.
"You cannot give me what I want," she sighed, the loose release of another deep breath, "but I may let you try." She dug the last word from the hollow beneath her tongue, let it linger for a moment.
Pagusel couldn't be sure what information this man did or did not have on her, but he apparently didn't know what she had told the Daq who had met her in the junkyard, that she was utterly against indentured servitude. She herself was bluffing. He was right that she was reckless.
"Of these privileges you have laid out--to be given in exchange for my time and attention--I will certainly deny some. Shall that change your mood on the matter?" She was at least going to uncover whether or not these perks he was leveraging were in fact shackles.
"Furthermore, I derive no pleasure from the way you are touching me right now, and I intend to change the situation myself if you don't unhand me." The last sentence was said rather quickly, and low. Her tone was not hard, though. She was maintaining herself, and still spoke in a reasonably measured way.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Zapar listened attentively and took stock of each of her replies. After filing them away one by one, he picked them apart, starting with Pagusel's rebuff. The words to it were harsh, but the tone was not. She'd spoken softly and quickly.. shyly, even.
He gave her a broad smile, one that showed the full array of his long, carefully ordered teeth. He wanted her to see the detail he'd put into his appearance, to know that everything about him was deliberate. Unlike the alchemist, he left very little to hazard.
Before letting go of her arm, he leaned in slowly, until his lips were almost touching her cheek. He was close enough to smell the subtle aroma of burnt herbs in her hair, a lingering trace of the drugs he had watched her smoke in the junkyard. He wondered if she knew the extent of the interest his brother had taken in her.
"Alright, then," he said. His tone seemed to imply that his acquiescence to her demand was a mere professional courtesy, rather than a heeding of a threat.
Scooting a few inches away from her, he turned to her next request. If she was truly going to be foolish enough to turn down their payment, he would allow it. All that interested him were the services rendered. "As for our offer, you are free to turn down whatever you wish. A Bishan saved is a Bishan earned, after all. Please allow me to stipulate, though, that turning down one of our offers shall not be used as grounds for a breach in contract on your part. You must make your desires clear."
As for the first thing she'd said.. He decided to ignore it. She was likely trying to be intentionally obtuse, to cultivate his impressions of her cryptic demeanor, the one that her tattoos suggested.
Zapar folded his hands in front of him on the table, crossed his legs, and straightened his back. There was a certain degree of femininity to his movements, but it did not detract from his apparent gravity. The humorless look on Zapar's face showed that he was done with posturing and playing games.
"So," he said abruptly. He figured that, given enough time, Pagusel might find grounds to reconsider or undermine him in some way. It would be best if he forced her hand, made her act on impulse. "It is time for you to make a decision. Do you wish to enter into this arrangement, or shall I take your alchemist and be gone?"
He gave her a broad smile, one that showed the full array of his long, carefully ordered teeth. He wanted her to see the detail he'd put into his appearance, to know that everything about him was deliberate. Unlike the alchemist, he left very little to hazard.
Before letting go of her arm, he leaned in slowly, until his lips were almost touching her cheek. He was close enough to smell the subtle aroma of burnt herbs in her hair, a lingering trace of the drugs he had watched her smoke in the junkyard. He wondered if she knew the extent of the interest his brother had taken in her.
"Alright, then," he said. His tone seemed to imply that his acquiescence to her demand was a mere professional courtesy, rather than a heeding of a threat.
Scooting a few inches away from her, he turned to her next request. If she was truly going to be foolish enough to turn down their payment, he would allow it. All that interested him were the services rendered. "As for our offer, you are free to turn down whatever you wish. A Bishan saved is a Bishan earned, after all. Please allow me to stipulate, though, that turning down one of our offers shall not be used as grounds for a breach in contract on your part. You must make your desires clear."
As for the first thing she'd said.. He decided to ignore it. She was likely trying to be intentionally obtuse, to cultivate his impressions of her cryptic demeanor, the one that her tattoos suggested.
Zapar folded his hands in front of him on the table, crossed his legs, and straightened his back. There was a certain degree of femininity to his movements, but it did not detract from his apparent gravity. The humorless look on Zapar's face showed that he was done with posturing and playing games.
"So," he said abruptly. He figured that, given enough time, Pagusel might find grounds to reconsider or undermine him in some way. It would be best if he forced her hand, made her act on impulse. "It is time for you to make a decision. Do you wish to enter into this arrangement, or shall I take your alchemist and be gone?"
Re: The Hustle
The alcohol in her empty system caused a soft blush to percolate in the hollows of her cheeks. It amplified the strange perfume of Pagusel: sickly sweet liqueur, spicy, smoky burnt herbs, and the faint, sourish smell of garbage.
She couldn't make her desires clear; how could she? He probably knew but didn't understand. There was no point trying to put to words how desperately she gravitated towards that obscure object in the booth several seats behind them. The alcohol was making her feel enjoyably reckless as she let herself remember her object's presence.
"Please don't pretend you're offering some sort of contract." She glanced back at him and her momentary reverie was snuffed. "It's foolishness to act as if either of us intend to be governed by the authority of promises."
The blush gradually drained from her cheeks. Slowly and deliberately, she lifted her middle finger to wipe an irritation away from her lower eyelid. She caught sight of Daq again, how little he resembled the middle-aged alchemist of before. "Send him home with me. If he is uncomfortable in the junkyard, I can consider civilized accommodations."
Pagusel looked more pointedly past Zapar so that he knew she was observing Daq. It was a strange sort of look, not unlike the way men leer at unsuspecting women as they speak of them as bets or chattel. She wouldn't let her expression betray her own surprise that she was, for some reason, concerned with his comfort.
She couldn't make her desires clear; how could she? He probably knew but didn't understand. There was no point trying to put to words how desperately she gravitated towards that obscure object in the booth several seats behind them. The alcohol was making her feel enjoyably reckless as she let herself remember her object's presence.
"Please don't pretend you're offering some sort of contract." She glanced back at him and her momentary reverie was snuffed. "It's foolishness to act as if either of us intend to be governed by the authority of promises."
The blush gradually drained from her cheeks. Slowly and deliberately, she lifted her middle finger to wipe an irritation away from her lower eyelid. She caught sight of Daq again, how little he resembled the middle-aged alchemist of before. "Send him home with me. If he is uncomfortable in the junkyard, I can consider civilized accommodations."
Pagusel looked more pointedly past Zapar so that he knew she was observing Daq. It was a strange sort of look, not unlike the way men leer at unsuspecting women as they speak of them as bets or chattel. She wouldn't let her expression betray her own surprise that she was, for some reason, concerned with his comfort.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Zapar could feel the flare of desire from within Pagusel's breast, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from lunging toward her to immerse himself in the emotion. At the same time, he knew that it had nothing to do with him or with his offer. It was a terrible feeling, being so close to forbidden fruit. He uncrossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap to mask his arousal.
Just as Pagusel shifted her focus, he was able to begin listening to her again. What he heard displeased him further, but he had an idea of how, perhaps, to take a parting shot. Pulling out an oil pencil and some crumpled paper from his pocket, he wrote out, "she does not feel bound by the 'authority of promises' and may break her side of the bargain." As a result of his almost absurdly florid and formal handwriting, it took him some time to finish, and he missed the opportunity to read Pagusel's reaction as she spoke of Daq.
Dropping the pencil into the breast pocket of his jacket, he turned to Pagusel with the same composure that he'd had earlier when demanding that she make her choice. "Fine," he said. "You'll have a chance with him tonight, on your own terms. But know that my brother and I have some very... advanced methods for keeping tabs on the subject. Do not attempt to pollute him."
A ripple spread across his face, as if it were a pond struck by a stone. "And, there is one additional thing..."
In an instant, he seemed to collapse in on himself. Left behind in the wake of his image was an old crone who seemed a little green around the gills. Though she was obviously in a state of confusion, there was still a particularly petulant look on her face. She glanced down at the paper in front of her.
The old woman closed her large, bug-like eyes for a moment. When they opened again, her stare seemed much more acute than before. "It is a higher authority," she said. She was speaking slowly to give her thoughts time to formulate. "A much higher authority than that of a mere promise."
She clasped her gnarled, jewelry-covered hands on the table in front of her. "You, perhaps, do not know me, but I am a councilwoman. You are a vagrant and an addict. It would take but a single stamp of my seal for things to get ugly for you. Enter into this agreement with caution, and do not take it lightly."
Taking great pains to stand carefully, she rose to her feet with the help of her cane. She held out her free hand to Pagusel. "Are we understood?"
Just as Pagusel shifted her focus, he was able to begin listening to her again. What he heard displeased him further, but he had an idea of how, perhaps, to take a parting shot. Pulling out an oil pencil and some crumpled paper from his pocket, he wrote out, "she does not feel bound by the 'authority of promises' and may break her side of the bargain." As a result of his almost absurdly florid and formal handwriting, it took him some time to finish, and he missed the opportunity to read Pagusel's reaction as she spoke of Daq.
Dropping the pencil into the breast pocket of his jacket, he turned to Pagusel with the same composure that he'd had earlier when demanding that she make her choice. "Fine," he said. "You'll have a chance with him tonight, on your own terms. But know that my brother and I have some very... advanced methods for keeping tabs on the subject. Do not attempt to pollute him."
A ripple spread across his face, as if it were a pond struck by a stone. "And, there is one additional thing..."
In an instant, he seemed to collapse in on himself. Left behind in the wake of his image was an old crone who seemed a little green around the gills. Though she was obviously in a state of confusion, there was still a particularly petulant look on her face. She glanced down at the paper in front of her.
The old woman closed her large, bug-like eyes for a moment. When they opened again, her stare seemed much more acute than before. "It is a higher authority," she said. She was speaking slowly to give her thoughts time to formulate. "A much higher authority than that of a mere promise."
She clasped her gnarled, jewelry-covered hands on the table in front of her. "You, perhaps, do not know me, but I am a councilwoman. You are a vagrant and an addict. It would take but a single stamp of my seal for things to get ugly for you. Enter into this agreement with caution, and do not take it lightly."
Taking great pains to stand carefully, she rose to her feet with the help of her cane. She held out her free hand to Pagusel. "Are we understood?"
Re: The Hustle
While Zapar stated his agreement to the proposal Pagusel had just laid out, she was peering down towards the note he'd just written. She couldn't make any of it out before the paper was covered by the hands of another who had taken his place. Pagusel could hardly help the surprise that registered on her face. This particular form was unexpected, and didn't seem to be merely a shifted form of the person she'd been dealing with. This person had to read a note to catch up.
This old woman seemed to look down on Pagusel just a bit more than the last man and perhaps his brother Morax did. The man had been doing a better job of at least not explicitly stating his intent to exercise an unequal power balance over her. The flat fogginess of Pagusel's expression, however, betrayed no intimidation, if perhaps a hint of stubbornness.
Pagusel stood, with her belongings, as the crone did and looked past her towards Daq's back again. "I guess that will remain to be seen," she replied in answer to the question. She glanced down at the woman's outstretched hand. "Shaking hands is against my religion," she dismissed, before swiveling her hips past the councilwoman.
She came upon Daq from behind and bore the half-puzzled, half-indignant stares of the girls seated around him as she moved to put her hand upon his shoulder. She leaned as close to his ear as her suffering of his heady body scent would allow and looked towards the door. "It's time to go," she said in a low voice.
This old woman seemed to look down on Pagusel just a bit more than the last man and perhaps his brother Morax did. The man had been doing a better job of at least not explicitly stating his intent to exercise an unequal power balance over her. The flat fogginess of Pagusel's expression, however, betrayed no intimidation, if perhaps a hint of stubbornness.
Pagusel stood, with her belongings, as the crone did and looked past her towards Daq's back again. "I guess that will remain to be seen," she replied in answer to the question. She glanced down at the woman's outstretched hand. "Shaking hands is against my religion," she dismissed, before swiveling her hips past the councilwoman.
She came upon Daq from behind and bore the half-puzzled, half-indignant stares of the girls seated around him as she moved to put her hand upon his shoulder. She leaned as close to his ear as her suffering of his heady body scent would allow and looked towards the door. "It's time to go," she said in a low voice.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Priscilla held her hand out for a few moments longer after Pagusel had spurned it, just in case she changed her mind. It wasn't a matter of religion--Priscilla had been working with and around people for too long to fall for that one. The look on Pagusel's face, so nonchalant, so unresponsive, told her everything she needed to know. Pagusel was one that would likely need to be knuckled under at some point.
She had been planning to wipe her hand on her skirt after allowing it to be touched by the addict. She did so anyway. The mere thought of the woman's tan skin against hers was enough to incite a feeling of uncleanliness.
"Toodles, then," she said to Pagusel's back. She didn't bother to watch as she slipped away to Bekkar's booth. Instead, she met her butler at the door and had him tell the driver to bring the coach around. Once inside the coach, her mind turned to other matters. Bekkar had always been more important to the brothers in her service.
At Bekkar's booth, the confrontation was a bit less understated. Jealous of Pagusel's intrusion, the head trollop, a tall blond woman in her early thirties, stood up and faced Pagusel. "Who d'ya think you is, comin' over to us to steal our fella?"
Most of the other girls tittered, but there were a couple of nods of agreement. Daq, whose thoughts had just recently made a full circle to return to the prize Pagusel had offered him, did not share in this sentiment.
Stabilizing himself on the woman's generous waist, he pulled himself to his feet. He stumbled over to Pagusel and said, "See... I d... Did just wha' you wannid. Now where's that box you owe me?"
Before any answer could have been given, the woman interjected, "What?! So this's jus' some bet she put ya up to?" A petulant look welled up across her besotted features, and, without warning, she hauled back and struck Daq across his left cheek. She started to accompany the slap with a derogatory name, but she only managed to get out a part of it, "Basta--."
The rest was cut off by Daq, who reacted with the kind of speed and ferocity that could have only been a result of Morax's muscle-deep, instinctual memory. Before his alcohol-dulled senses could even register the sting of the slap, or the sound from the woman's hand striking his skin, he had her pinned by the throat against the wall at the inside of the booth. She was already starting to turn color.
She had been planning to wipe her hand on her skirt after allowing it to be touched by the addict. She did so anyway. The mere thought of the woman's tan skin against hers was enough to incite a feeling of uncleanliness.
"Toodles, then," she said to Pagusel's back. She didn't bother to watch as she slipped away to Bekkar's booth. Instead, she met her butler at the door and had him tell the driver to bring the coach around. Once inside the coach, her mind turned to other matters. Bekkar had always been more important to the brothers in her service.
At Bekkar's booth, the confrontation was a bit less understated. Jealous of Pagusel's intrusion, the head trollop, a tall blond woman in her early thirties, stood up and faced Pagusel. "Who d'ya think you is, comin' over to us to steal our fella?"
Most of the other girls tittered, but there were a couple of nods of agreement. Daq, whose thoughts had just recently made a full circle to return to the prize Pagusel had offered him, did not share in this sentiment.
Stabilizing himself on the woman's generous waist, he pulled himself to his feet. He stumbled over to Pagusel and said, "See... I d... Did just wha' you wannid. Now where's that box you owe me?"
Before any answer could have been given, the woman interjected, "What?! So this's jus' some bet she put ya up to?" A petulant look welled up across her besotted features, and, without warning, she hauled back and struck Daq across his left cheek. She started to accompany the slap with a derogatory name, but she only managed to get out a part of it, "Basta--."
The rest was cut off by Daq, who reacted with the kind of speed and ferocity that could have only been a result of Morax's muscle-deep, instinctual memory. Before his alcohol-dulled senses could even register the sting of the slap, or the sound from the woman's hand striking his skin, he had her pinned by the throat against the wall at the inside of the booth. She was already starting to turn color.
Re: The Hustle
Pagusel held up a hand to push Daq's shoulder just a bit when he stumbled over her. She felt the need to halt the inertia of his drunken body, but she hadn't the heart to offer a stabilizing grip. Soon enough, though, he turned himself around, a body in unpredictable motion.
The blond woman was probably old enough to have known better than to be in such a situation--making a drunken harlot of herself in public, a hen of misplaced arrogance. There they all were, willfully silly females playing at a game of attention. The hour verged upon embarrassing, and most people of sound judgment had decided to call it a night already.
Among the girls of questionable judgment, the older blond had the audacity to stand up and make more of a spectacle of herself. The squeaky wheel perhaps got more grease than she bargained for, in the form of Daq's physical attentions, when he turned on her.
Pagusel's first reaction was to take a step back and glance toward the door. The old creature was already gone. But, even if she could back out of the agreement at this point, it wasn't her intent. She recalled how unpredictably Daq had behaved in the junkyard: trusting, then skittish; wide-eyed, then ornery. He was going to be a handful. She shook her head as if to dislodge the act of even looking in the direction of escape.
She couldn't imagine "charming" had somehow found its way into his repertoire just yet. None of these girls should miss him too badly once they lay eyes on another unattached buck. Pagusel extended her hand to tug on the man's collar and disengage him from this latest whim of emotion.
"Come then. . . You can have my box." She pulled harder on his collar to turn his face towards hers. A younger brunette, piggy-looking and cute, snorted at the double-entendre she perceived, while the others scratched self-consciously at their chins and hairlines. The panting of the released blond ticked off the seconds of an evening--too close to morning, really--wiled away.
Pagusel dropped her hand down to the edge of Daq's sleeve to lead him out into the night.
Outside, she started back towards her home. She towed Daq along behind her like a stumbling kite. Once outside the general vicinity of the bar, she loosed him, and used her hand to stuff the little box deeper into the folds of the cloak bunched up under her arm. Gooseflesh prickled all over her exposed arms and legs, but she wouldn't shift her load to throw on the cloak.
When her fingers touched the top of the little wooden box, she very suddenly felt a prickling urge that manifested a moment later as a memory. She could practically attest to the physical nature of the tickle. So startling was the sensation that she felt it significant, and she spoke up to the memory that had just come--of something Morax had said an eternity ago.
"Are you aware, Daq. . . of a wife you have?" She kept her gaze forward, but her step slowed.
The blond woman was probably old enough to have known better than to be in such a situation--making a drunken harlot of herself in public, a hen of misplaced arrogance. There they all were, willfully silly females playing at a game of attention. The hour verged upon embarrassing, and most people of sound judgment had decided to call it a night already.
Among the girls of questionable judgment, the older blond had the audacity to stand up and make more of a spectacle of herself. The squeaky wheel perhaps got more grease than she bargained for, in the form of Daq's physical attentions, when he turned on her.
Pagusel's first reaction was to take a step back and glance toward the door. The old creature was already gone. But, even if she could back out of the agreement at this point, it wasn't her intent. She recalled how unpredictably Daq had behaved in the junkyard: trusting, then skittish; wide-eyed, then ornery. He was going to be a handful. She shook her head as if to dislodge the act of even looking in the direction of escape.
She couldn't imagine "charming" had somehow found its way into his repertoire just yet. None of these girls should miss him too badly once they lay eyes on another unattached buck. Pagusel extended her hand to tug on the man's collar and disengage him from this latest whim of emotion.
"Come then. . . You can have my box." She pulled harder on his collar to turn his face towards hers. A younger brunette, piggy-looking and cute, snorted at the double-entendre she perceived, while the others scratched self-consciously at their chins and hairlines. The panting of the released blond ticked off the seconds of an evening--too close to morning, really--wiled away.
Pagusel dropped her hand down to the edge of Daq's sleeve to lead him out into the night.
Outside, she started back towards her home. She towed Daq along behind her like a stumbling kite. Once outside the general vicinity of the bar, she loosed him, and used her hand to stuff the little box deeper into the folds of the cloak bunched up under her arm. Gooseflesh prickled all over her exposed arms and legs, but she wouldn't shift her load to throw on the cloak.
When her fingers touched the top of the little wooden box, she very suddenly felt a prickling urge that manifested a moment later as a memory. She could practically attest to the physical nature of the tickle. So startling was the sensation that she felt it significant, and she spoke up to the memory that had just come--of something Morax had said an eternity ago.
"Are you aware, Daq. . . of a wife you have?" She kept her gaze forward, but her step slowed.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Daq felt little prickles from the cold air that penetrated the insensitive, mask-like skin of his face. As Pagusel hurried him along, he reached with his other hand to try to wipe away the numbness, but the heavy feeling persisted. He had only a moment to consider that his cheeks felt like they were burning before he stumbled on an uneven cobblestone and had to focus on taking quick, staccato steps to keep from being pulled off of his feet entirely.
When Pagusel loosed him and slowed down to readjust her belongings, the pause was welcome. He put his hands on his hips and inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, he could see the fine mist of the moisture in his breath. The air felt thick with water like that. The stones below were already damp with the dew of countless in-and-out breaths.
He turned to look at Pagusel when she spoke to him and thought that he could see her shivering ever so slightly. Drawing his jacket tight across his chest, he crossed his arms and put his hands in his armpits.
Her question was of the sort that the old Daq might not have answered, or that he would have at best answered in a peevish, incomplete way, but the history that had informed his mannerisms did not seem fresh or meaningful any longer. Indeed, the new Bekkar could hardly recall many important parts of it. There were moments that Morax had not been around to experience firsthand, so he was left with nothing more than dilutions of dilutions, tiny aliquots Morax had made from Daq's private memories of the way he had suffered.
In the bar, he felt that he'd become more talkative. He'd played little alchemy tricks, tried to woo the ladies with exaggerated tales of tinctures and concoctions. And he'd had time to reflect, to come to terms with his malleability. He felt a special resonance with the word mercurial, but only in the way that Morax had tended to use it. Like the metal, there was a density and a heaviness to his character, but it still seemed to flow like water.
"Had," he said. He was trailing a little behind Pagusel, so he carefully jogged a few steps to catch up with her. "Err.. was supposed to..." It took a few moments for his sluggish brain to parse out the grammar. "..To.. have.. had."
"It's a memory of Daq's," he said slowly, over-enunciating to keep from slurring anything. He felt the distinction was too important to botch its description. "And I don't.. have all of his. For some, I just have Morax's version, for others, just..."
He inhaled sharply through his nose, and with the burning rush of the damp, cool air, the word came to him. "Just associations. Memories that remind me of something missing."
Moving to walk closer to Pagusel, he lowered his voice, almost to a mutter. It was as if he was letting her be privy to something he was saying to himself. "Those are Daq's memories, the inaccessible ones."
He was too drowsy and intoxicated for the idea to fully form, but it slowly began to occur to him then that he was wholly capable of leaving Daq's identity behind, if he wished it.
When Pagusel loosed him and slowed down to readjust her belongings, the pause was welcome. He put his hands on his hips and inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, he could see the fine mist of the moisture in his breath. The air felt thick with water like that. The stones below were already damp with the dew of countless in-and-out breaths.
He turned to look at Pagusel when she spoke to him and thought that he could see her shivering ever so slightly. Drawing his jacket tight across his chest, he crossed his arms and put his hands in his armpits.
Her question was of the sort that the old Daq might not have answered, or that he would have at best answered in a peevish, incomplete way, but the history that had informed his mannerisms did not seem fresh or meaningful any longer. Indeed, the new Bekkar could hardly recall many important parts of it. There were moments that Morax had not been around to experience firsthand, so he was left with nothing more than dilutions of dilutions, tiny aliquots Morax had made from Daq's private memories of the way he had suffered.
In the bar, he felt that he'd become more talkative. He'd played little alchemy tricks, tried to woo the ladies with exaggerated tales of tinctures and concoctions. And he'd had time to reflect, to come to terms with his malleability. He felt a special resonance with the word mercurial, but only in the way that Morax had tended to use it. Like the metal, there was a density and a heaviness to his character, but it still seemed to flow like water.
"Had," he said. He was trailing a little behind Pagusel, so he carefully jogged a few steps to catch up with her. "Err.. was supposed to..." It took a few moments for his sluggish brain to parse out the grammar. "..To.. have.. had."
"It's a memory of Daq's," he said slowly, over-enunciating to keep from slurring anything. He felt the distinction was too important to botch its description. "And I don't.. have all of his. For some, I just have Morax's version, for others, just..."
He inhaled sharply through his nose, and with the burning rush of the damp, cool air, the word came to him. "Just associations. Memories that remind me of something missing."
Moving to walk closer to Pagusel, he lowered his voice, almost to a mutter. It was as if he was letting her be privy to something he was saying to himself. "Those are Daq's memories, the inaccessible ones."
He was too drowsy and intoxicated for the idea to fully form, but it slowly began to occur to him then that he was wholly capable of leaving Daq's identity behind, if he wished it.
Re: The Hustle
She stopped as he jogged to catch up to her, looked back over her shoulder. Her expression seemed frozen as she realized the potential for a grave response. The previous Daq probably would have stammered. Maybe he would have been irritated by the question, whatever the answer. Her face was a slow motion picture of sadness as she realized before Daq spoke that this person was also dead, and that she had stepped right into it.
His response was so unemotional, and he seemed to struggle for his qualifying words like scientist faced with inconclusive results, or else a poet tormented by diction. The modal verbs nested each within the next, the result being a trim little semantic box in which the idea stood, static. The idea, and nothing else: was supposed to have had a wife. Pagusel glanced down at the box in her arm and started walking again, slower.
"Well," she said hoarsely, to clear a catch in her throat. "I suppose there is no worried widow to be concerned about then."
They picked through the wider lanes of the junkyard, Pagusel carefully sidestepping deceptively slippery patches of grit that gleamed with dark green oil. The goblins from before were long gone, as were all the salvageable pieces from the pile of scrap they'd been scavenging. A brief, rust-scented wind pushed Pagusel to hurry on, and she urged Daq along with her.
They soon arrived at her overturned armoire. The thing was practically indistinguishable from so much garbage all around it, but Pagusel found it as easily as navigating the central streets of a city.
"You should sleep here," she ordered, as she herself sat down on the edge of the inclined and rotting wood. She pulled her cloak up over her body and tucked the little box into the hollow behind the small of her back.
"And try to dream of memories, Daq. If you lose those, then what do you have at all?"
His response was so unemotional, and he seemed to struggle for his qualifying words like scientist faced with inconclusive results, or else a poet tormented by diction. The modal verbs nested each within the next, the result being a trim little semantic box in which the idea stood, static. The idea, and nothing else: was supposed to have had a wife. Pagusel glanced down at the box in her arm and started walking again, slower.
"Well," she said hoarsely, to clear a catch in her throat. "I suppose there is no worried widow to be concerned about then."
They picked through the wider lanes of the junkyard, Pagusel carefully sidestepping deceptively slippery patches of grit that gleamed with dark green oil. The goblins from before were long gone, as were all the salvageable pieces from the pile of scrap they'd been scavenging. A brief, rust-scented wind pushed Pagusel to hurry on, and she urged Daq along with her.
They soon arrived at her overturned armoire. The thing was practically indistinguishable from so much garbage all around it, but Pagusel found it as easily as navigating the central streets of a city.
"You should sleep here," she ordered, as she herself sat down on the edge of the inclined and rotting wood. She pulled her cloak up over her body and tucked the little box into the hollow behind the small of her back.
"And try to dream of memories, Daq. If you lose those, then what do you have at all?"
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Daq's return to the scrapyard had a different feel to it. Daq's attitudes, the ones he'd thought he needed to share, seemed more distant. He worried about the threat of bacteria or of sharp objects hidden amidst the clutter, but not to the same degree as before. When Pagusel instructed him on where he was to be sleeping, the thought of lying down on the rubbish wasn't repulsive as it had been before.
What did worry him was the prospect of sleep. Somewhere between the first oil slick that they'd navigated around and the heap of junk the goblins had been picking through, it had occurred to him that he hadn't yet slept in his new body. Morax had spent a long time reading about sleep. Different thoughts and associations of his flitted through Daq's head, but they seemed to be separated from his working consciousness by an impenetrable film. Daq reasoned that it was the inebriation, but he had his doubts. He knew, for instance, that Morax did not sleep himself. There were times when he had dreams, but they were infrequent and lucid, filled with portents and little snatches of reality.
Indeed, Morax had not bothered to share in Bekkar's subconscious as he slept. There were brief breaks in the memories, sunsets and sunrises with nothing in between, but those only raised the possibility that sleep had occurred. Daq took off his coat and spread it on the ground where he intended to lie down. It wasn't as deft of a motion as he had envisioned, but he eventually arranged it to his liking.
He bunched up the collar of the jacket and rested his head on it. As he closed his eyes, he had a brief and terrifying thought. What was there to guarantee that he would awaken at all? He'd meant to open his eyes and sit bolt upright, but the motion never came to pass. The effects of the alcohol and the long first day he'd spent in his new body had put him fast asleep.
What did worry him was the prospect of sleep. Somewhere between the first oil slick that they'd navigated around and the heap of junk the goblins had been picking through, it had occurred to him that he hadn't yet slept in his new body. Morax had spent a long time reading about sleep. Different thoughts and associations of his flitted through Daq's head, but they seemed to be separated from his working consciousness by an impenetrable film. Daq reasoned that it was the inebriation, but he had his doubts. He knew, for instance, that Morax did not sleep himself. There were times when he had dreams, but they were infrequent and lucid, filled with portents and little snatches of reality.
Indeed, Morax had not bothered to share in Bekkar's subconscious as he slept. There were brief breaks in the memories, sunsets and sunrises with nothing in between, but those only raised the possibility that sleep had occurred. Daq took off his coat and spread it on the ground where he intended to lie down. It wasn't as deft of a motion as he had envisioned, but he eventually arranged it to his liking.
He bunched up the collar of the jacket and rested his head on it. As he closed his eyes, he had a brief and terrifying thought. What was there to guarantee that he would awaken at all? He'd meant to open his eyes and sit bolt upright, but the motion never came to pass. The effects of the alcohol and the long first day he'd spent in his new body had put him fast asleep.
Re: The Hustle
Morning in the junkyard was frigid. It would take a few hours of sunlight before any warmth would set in. The chill of the night had settled indiscriminately, on every nonliving surface, into a fine dew. Warm-blooded cheeks were spared, but fabric and wood alike were cold and clammy against the skin. When the sun got higher, the scrap metal would be the first to heat up, and the dew would rise off it as mist, a parody of tropical warmth in the junkyard.
When Pagusel woke, the sun had been up for nearly an hour. Its light was well established, but its warming rays lagged behind. She sat up, if only to remove herself from the damp wood of the armoire.
Some audacious adolescent rats still scurried around in the early morning light. They darted from one hillock to the next in search of tidbits. As Pagusel stirred, those nearby disappeared, in a great flutter of haunches, under old rugs and cracked boards.
She exhaled a lungful of warm breath that turned to fog in the cold air. She inhaled, exhaled again, produced no fog this time. The air tickled her windpipe, and she gave a small cough. Her blood vessels prickled beneath her skin as her body attended to the need of warming her lungs and extremities. She stretched her arms above her head. The stretch through her abdomen triggered a twinge of hunger.
In less than two minutes, she turned herself into a cockroach, searched around her home for the cache of library paste she'd discovered the night before, scraped up a small meal with her voracious mouthparts, taken some time to chew, and arisen again. If the public could ever get over their grudge against shifters--not to mention vermin--then magical scholars might pay notice to and hope to replicate their most exploitable talent: the ability to survive on extremely limited resources. For the most part, Pagusel could carry the benefits of nourishing her cockroach body over into her human body, at least in terms of her caloric requirements.
Her human stomach no longer twinged. She sat on the edge of the armoire and glanced down at Daq. He probably didn't want to eat library paste for breakfast. She could easily recall the times in her life when she was more often human, when she ate at a table with a knife and fork. She hadn't, however, done much of that at all since coming to Thar Shaddin, and she realized, looking upon the lump of Daq's shoulder, that she didn't really know what humans ate around these parts.
She nudged his foot with her toe. She needed him to get up if she was going to be able to reach her pipe inside the cabinet.
When Pagusel woke, the sun had been up for nearly an hour. Its light was well established, but its warming rays lagged behind. She sat up, if only to remove herself from the damp wood of the armoire.
Some audacious adolescent rats still scurried around in the early morning light. They darted from one hillock to the next in search of tidbits. As Pagusel stirred, those nearby disappeared, in a great flutter of haunches, under old rugs and cracked boards.
She exhaled a lungful of warm breath that turned to fog in the cold air. She inhaled, exhaled again, produced no fog this time. The air tickled her windpipe, and she gave a small cough. Her blood vessels prickled beneath her skin as her body attended to the need of warming her lungs and extremities. She stretched her arms above her head. The stretch through her abdomen triggered a twinge of hunger.
In less than two minutes, she turned herself into a cockroach, searched around her home for the cache of library paste she'd discovered the night before, scraped up a small meal with her voracious mouthparts, taken some time to chew, and arisen again. If the public could ever get over their grudge against shifters--not to mention vermin--then magical scholars might pay notice to and hope to replicate their most exploitable talent: the ability to survive on extremely limited resources. For the most part, Pagusel could carry the benefits of nourishing her cockroach body over into her human body, at least in terms of her caloric requirements.
Her human stomach no longer twinged. She sat on the edge of the armoire and glanced down at Daq. He probably didn't want to eat library paste for breakfast. She could easily recall the times in her life when she was more often human, when she ate at a table with a knife and fork. She hadn't, however, done much of that at all since coming to Thar Shaddin, and she realized, looking upon the lump of Daq's shoulder, that she didn't really know what humans ate around these parts.
She nudged his foot with her toe. She needed him to get up if she was going to be able to reach her pipe inside the cabinet.