When the northerners sang, of a king they had crowned

Shaamah

POSTED: Fri Sep 14, 2018 12:12 pm

Helena Troy Lykoi

ooc

The pale haired man found her in the crimson light of early morning. He was a stiff figure in her periphery for long strains of time, until she saw fit to address him -- the long nosed face turned to capture him fully in sights. He scowled so terribly, those dark brows drawn to tightness above his gleaming pewter eyes. She was unmoved and unafraid, there was not much she feared within Salsola.

"What news are you bringing me?" The regal lady was unruffled, calmly poised in her lean against the broken stone wall. She was waiting for the Serf to return to her, from his journey to the city.

"No luck, not for the type you wanted." There was a wariness in his eyes she thought, as he gave her undesirable news, uneasy feelings that settled like grease congealing atop a cold stew. She tsk'ed lightly, running the tongue across her teeth.

"What about the eastern man? 'As 'ee bothered to inform you on zhe current climate." Now he was less reticent and regaled her with the eastern male's tale. Helena was a middle-woman to many of the goings on in the nearby places, she made herself the ear to listen to whispers. She listened as he spoke, occasionally nodding her head to show he still had her attention but eyes looked out towards the ocean, contemplative.

Emmett broke off a short time later, both turned to look and observed the black Serf as he traversed the distance from the treeline to the tower. Phobos shot an apprehensive look at Emmett, who crossed arms and frowned but at Helena's confirming smile Phobos began to speak,

"Lady Apprentice.. the merchant man, his letter has finally arrived." She pushed herself from the wall, the intensity of her expression stopping the Serf just shy of reaching her. The woman's fingers slid along his jawline,

"Merci, mon cherie." She whispered, feeling an odd fondness blossom. It turned her black lips down in ever slightness as she momentarily contemplated over its meaning.

The letter was more important though, she unfolded the missive and for long moments she was silent and both men shuffled uneasily as the crooked, wicked smile burst to life on her pretty face.

A third man was now heading towards her, she was just a busy little bee today. The towering grey giant was not an uncommon sight against the backdrop of the ocean behind her towering home. Helena smiled, sharp and terrible.

Feel the heat of my breath
Hear the furnace in my chest
Helena Troy Lykoi

Salsola
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Jace
Luperci Conserje, Cocinero Mate to Calla and Till

POSTED: Sat Oct 20, 2018 6:09 am

Before the sun ever dared to threaten the sky, Shaamah had been awake. He and his Indentured Servant had visited the training grounds in a very different mindset than they had before. Shaamah was no longer interested in teaching Zetsu to forego ignorant choices and learn how to properly defend his claim. No; Zetsu was a living, breathing boxing target and Shaamah was honing his skills. Granted, there wasn't much that Zetsu had on him in terms of skill, experience, weight or cunning, but a moving target was unpredictable. Preemptive strikes would not always meet their target and strategies needed to be quickly made in a tight spot.

Least to say, Zetsu had headed back to the communal slave quarters with a black eye, quite a few bruises, and nursing a nick that stained the silver of one cheek red. Shaamah, on the other hand, had his blood pumping for the day and was ready to begin doing what it took to lift him through the heights of Salsola. He parted ways from his servant and moved through the territory to a familiar tower that loomed to the NorthEast.

It seemed everyone needed a piece of Helena today. By the time Shaamah had approached through the visible expanse toward her pillar, it seemed the two in her presence were already tense. Whatever it was the 'Yote had up her sleeve wouldn't sway Shaamah so easily. Perhaps she knew that? Or perhaps, this little trio had been conversing of him before his arrival? Fastidious trust did not beg for an answer that he could find out with patience; keen as Helena was, Shaamah's distrust would not allow her to cross the boundary between the woman she had been with a pen in her hand upon a death warrant. The only difference now was what she decidedly was called and her rank above him.

“Apprentice,” Shaamah bayed her titled, ears rolled aft, but nothing more was earned in their introduction. Whatever she was busy with, be it her merchant work or conniving plans, he didn't seek to interrupt them enough to have them frozen in time until he parted. His eye didn't shift between Phobos and the other Salsolan, remaining static to Helena. Wandering eyes were a key note to seeking minds. Disingenuous direct attention was given the woman without fault for reason not to believe that his unspoken, yet inquired errand hand anything more to do with his presence here.


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