(this post takes place after Control and Art of Shamelessness)
So much could change in five days' time. And change, in Zhavi's experience, was almost always a bad thing; Nald'thal being as keen to tip the scales as he was on the side not to her favor. That sometimes they did go in her favor was more a product of his ever-present cruelty than any indication of kindness. The gods were never kind. Fair, maybe. Just, certainly, sometimes. Hard-edged indifference, however, with dashes of spite and hatred was more their thing.
That was what she knew.
She'd wrapped herself up in a tatty cloak, had flicked her crooked and tender nose twice to provoke tears and pain (and oh, gods, had she sworn up a blistering streak for that necessity), and had settled herself outside of Lalataru's door. She looked pathetic. More than usual, she looked like one of the wretched that clung to the skirts of the city, occasionally shaken off into the drink to no one's pity.
Jager'd tossed her room a day after he'd beaten her all to hell. Rather, what little there was to toss. What small valuables she'd to her name (the books, mostly) had been given over to Jager. Then she'd gone down into hiding, avoiding contact with all who knew her. For four days she'd been out of Styrmsthal's way. He'd have been to her room. He'd have seen the damage. He'd have told Lalataru, who should be back. If he wasn't, well, she'd be right proper fucked, and would have to adjust her plans.
In the meantime, she waited: body bruised, scabbed, and miserable. Her right eye was still swollen to all hell, and her face a right mottled mess. She favored her right hip, and contusions marked her head to toe.
If ever there was a young woman who might elicit sympathy out of a kind-hearted and protective man, well. . .it probably wasn't Zhi. But she could, maybe, come close.
Hopefully.
So much could change in five days' time. And change, in Zhavi's experience, was almost always a bad thing; Nald'thal being as keen to tip the scales as he was on the side not to her favor. That sometimes they did go in her favor was more a product of his ever-present cruelty than any indication of kindness. The gods were never kind. Fair, maybe. Just, certainly, sometimes. Hard-edged indifference, however, with dashes of spite and hatred was more their thing.
That was what she knew.
She'd wrapped herself up in a tatty cloak, had flicked her crooked and tender nose twice to provoke tears and pain (and oh, gods, had she sworn up a blistering streak for that necessity), and had settled herself outside of Lalataru's door. She looked pathetic. More than usual, she looked like one of the wretched that clung to the skirts of the city, occasionally shaken off into the drink to no one's pity.
Jager'd tossed her room a day after he'd beaten her all to hell. Rather, what little there was to toss. What small valuables she'd to her name (the books, mostly) had been given over to Jager. Then she'd gone down into hiding, avoiding contact with all who knew her. For four days she'd been out of Styrmsthal's way. He'd have been to her room. He'd have seen the damage. He'd have told Lalataru, who should be back. If he wasn't, well, she'd be right proper fucked, and would have to adjust her plans.
In the meantime, she waited: body bruised, scabbed, and miserable. Her right eye was still swollen to all hell, and her face a right mottled mess. She favored her right hip, and contusions marked her head to toe.
If ever there was a young woman who might elicit sympathy out of a kind-hearted and protective man, well. . .it probably wasn't Zhi. But she could, maybe, come close.
Hopefully.
