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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2gIgED2:
After endless proofreading and never enough time to post, here is, finally, the second bit of the latest Lost Kings story (link is to chapter on AO3), which has a lot of juicy emotions in it, and bonus background OCs. I made this lady just to have an outsider perspective and now I only want to write about her forever and ever. That’s how it goes. (Don’t worry, she’s just got this one third of a chapter or so.)
At least no livestock gets processed in this one.
Patra sighed. “I will go,” she said. Kubira reached over and put her hand on Patra’s arm, and they sat like that for a long moment. At last, Patra got up and walked away, and Kubira turned her head so as not to watch her go because that would be unlucky.
Turning her head meant she looked at Dameron. Kubira and Patra had been speaking in their own people’s patois, but it wasn’t such a thick dialect that the average traveler wouldn’t be able to follow it, and from his expression, he had understood.
“I know it is futile to make you go,” she said to him.
He managed a thin shadow of a smile. “It wouldn’t do any good,” he said. “I am not enough.”
“Have you lost everyone, then?” she asked, understanding him; it wasn’t likely a two-month-old baby had been his only relative on Alderaan. He nodded, closing his eyes, and she clicked her tongue, shaking her head. The skin around his eyes was thin and bruised-looking, stretched over the bones of his young face.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to an elder as I did,” he said softly, haltingly; speech was clearly difficult for him.
“I’ve heard worse for less cause,” she said, “and it was truth. The Death Star is coming.” She couldn’t recall, now, if they knew that for sure. She shook her head. “To destroy a whole planet– it is obscenity.”
He nodded slowly, wearily. A ship came in overhead, too fast, darting in with an impossibly tight curve to arc into one of the loading bays. It had a bright shiny logo on the side, and Kubira recognized it as an Alderaanian logo. She glanced over at Dameron, and saw his face twist as he recognized it too. There’d be a lot of that about, she knew; Alderaan hadn’t had any military of its own, but it had supported a lot of vessels, many of which would still be out there.
He looked down, and she could see that the tea wasn’t working well for him; he was fighting nausea. “There’s a basin,” she said. “Should you have the need.”
He nodded tightly, taking deep breaths and staring down into his teacup. She reached over and patted his shoulder. “Dameron,” she said. “If you survive this, whatever happens, we are the clan of Unshira, related to the Oranshi. We’re independent, not beholden to the gangs. Patra will remember your face. You can apply to her for protection.”
He glanced up, and made the sleeve-rolling Fronteras protectorate gesture. She nodded. “That is fine,” she said, “we have no quarrel with them for the most part. May I see your marking?”
He nodded, but instead of rolling up his sleeve, he bent his head forward and tugged at his collar. She stood, and bent, gently pulling at his shirt collar to bare the skin at the top of his back, below where his neck met his spine. There was a larger tattoo extending down into his clothing, but the Fronteras sigil with the distinctive decorative detailing of the Essin clan was right at the top of it.
“Essin,” she said. “Titaba?” Last she’d known, that was their matriarch.
He sat back, breathing deeply, and nodded. “If I survive and you don’t I’ll speak to her of you,” Kubira said. “So she knows.”
He nodded again, and a tear slid down his cheek. He was clearly well-raised, someone’s treasured boy, now adrift and alone. And he was right. You couldn’t rebuild, with just a man. A woman could build a new life inside herself, could rebuild a people, could build a family around herself, but a man alone had no choice but to beg a place with strangers, and couldn’t truly be a part of a new people. Not even a respectful, well-raised, hard-working man.
After endless proofreading and never enough time to post, here is, finally, the second bit of the latest Lost Kings story (link is to chapter on AO3), which has a lot of juicy emotions in it, and bonus background OCs. I made this lady just to have an outsider perspective and now I only want to write about her forever and ever. That’s how it goes. (Don’t worry, she’s just got this one third of a chapter or so.)
At least no livestock gets processed in this one.
Patra sighed. “I will go,” she said. Kubira reached over and put her hand on Patra’s arm, and they sat like that for a long moment. At last, Patra got up and walked away, and Kubira turned her head so as not to watch her go because that would be unlucky.
Turning her head meant she looked at Dameron. Kubira and Patra had been speaking in their own people’s patois, but it wasn’t such a thick dialect that the average traveler wouldn’t be able to follow it, and from his expression, he had understood.
“I know it is futile to make you go,” she said to him.
He managed a thin shadow of a smile. “It wouldn’t do any good,” he said. “I am not enough.”
“Have you lost everyone, then?” she asked, understanding him; it wasn’t likely a two-month-old baby had been his only relative on Alderaan. He nodded, closing his eyes, and she clicked her tongue, shaking her head. The skin around his eyes was thin and bruised-looking, stretched over the bones of his young face.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to an elder as I did,” he said softly, haltingly; speech was clearly difficult for him.
“I’ve heard worse for less cause,” she said, “and it was truth. The Death Star is coming.” She couldn’t recall, now, if they knew that for sure. She shook her head. “To destroy a whole planet– it is obscenity.”
He nodded slowly, wearily. A ship came in overhead, too fast, darting in with an impossibly tight curve to arc into one of the loading bays. It had a bright shiny logo on the side, and Kubira recognized it as an Alderaanian logo. She glanced over at Dameron, and saw his face twist as he recognized it too. There’d be a lot of that about, she knew; Alderaan hadn’t had any military of its own, but it had supported a lot of vessels, many of which would still be out there.
He looked down, and she could see that the tea wasn’t working well for him; he was fighting nausea. “There’s a basin,” she said. “Should you have the need.”
He nodded tightly, taking deep breaths and staring down into his teacup. She reached over and patted his shoulder. “Dameron,” she said. “If you survive this, whatever happens, we are the clan of Unshira, related to the Oranshi. We’re independent, not beholden to the gangs. Patra will remember your face. You can apply to her for protection.”
He glanced up, and made the sleeve-rolling Fronteras protectorate gesture. She nodded. “That is fine,” she said, “we have no quarrel with them for the most part. May I see your marking?”
He nodded, but instead of rolling up his sleeve, he bent his head forward and tugged at his collar. She stood, and bent, gently pulling at his shirt collar to bare the skin at the top of his back, below where his neck met his spine. There was a larger tattoo extending down into his clothing, but the Fronteras sigil with the distinctive decorative detailing of the Essin clan was right at the top of it.
“Essin,” she said. “Titaba?” Last she’d known, that was their matriarch.
He sat back, breathing deeply, and nodded. “If I survive and you don’t I’ll speak to her of you,” Kubira said. “So she knows.”
He nodded again, and a tear slid down his cheek. He was clearly well-raised, someone’s treasured boy, now adrift and alone. And he was right. You couldn’t rebuild, with just a man. A woman could build a new life inside herself, could rebuild a people, could build a family around herself, but a man alone had no choice but to beg a place with strangers, and couldn’t truly be a part of a new people. Not even a respectful, well-raised, hard-working man.
