"Sonuva bitch." Zhi glared out the window. The one time when she needed to be taken seriously was the time when she wasn't, of course. It suited her fine to play the part of an adolescent boy or a teenage girl when she was out and about the markets but -- the scrag hadn't answered her rutting question. Useless. Still, it probably wouldn't have worked to her favor if she had managed to somehow intimidate him; Joz might not be a wilting flower in front of Styrm, but she sure as shit wasn't a hardass. Her stones wouldn't be that large, even if Zhi herself was willing to ply the edge and risk getting swatted out of the air.
Nothing to it but to empty the pans and move the blankets as far away from the puddles as she could. She'd have to get more pans. She might have to stomach living in shantytown, but that didn't mean she had to let it be any worse than it had to. Gods, hadn't she at least gotten past the point where she was forced to stay in such crap locations? Oh, it was better then huddling up in doorways, but . . . she was probably going to have fleas again by the time she was done with it. No matter. She would have Lalataru's book, eventually, and that would be the end of it. That was the only thing she had to worry about. That and her own rutting notebook. She broke away from the window and went to the pile of blankets. Once she was nestled into them she took up the grease pencil and started working.
Until she made progress or ran out of pages, eh? One way or the other, it didn't much matter to her which one she hit first.
It didn't.
Nothing to it but to empty the pans and move the blankets as far away from the puddles as she could. She'd have to get more pans. She might have to stomach living in shantytown, but that didn't mean she had to let it be any worse than it had to. Gods, hadn't she at least gotten past the point where she was forced to stay in such crap locations? Oh, it was better then huddling up in doorways, but . . . she was probably going to have fleas again by the time she was done with it. No matter. She would have Lalataru's book, eventually, and that would be the end of it. That was the only thing she had to worry about. That and her own rutting notebook. She broke away from the window and went to the pile of blankets. Once she was nestled into them she took up the grease pencil and started working.
Until she made progress or ran out of pages, eh? One way or the other, it didn't much matter to her which one she hit first.
It didn't.
