<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/DcoPfKF.png)</div><hr/><strong>Name:</strong>Ilhan<br/><strong>Race/Culture:</strong>Djaffir<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Slave piers<br/><strong>Day/Time:</strong>Yaus al-Niwt (Day of Houses), Amt (first month) of Alak Paret (Harvest Season), Mid-Morning<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>N’ebthe, Zidir, Open<br/><hr/><br/>Coffee - now was the perfect time for a cup just before the last of the morning chill vanished, at least for Ilhan who justified a leisurely and late excursion after an early morning sleeping in. Today he couldn't help. Normally he was up on his feet at dawn, but a restless night spilled over into his morning as he awoke in a minor sweat. A dream, perhaps, he couldn't remember anything of note, and as he sat up from his bed he stretched, yawned, and looked down between his legs. An unpleasant dream, then, for his usual excitement wasn't there. The past week in Sha'ib had been as lonely as they were meditative, with days spent in quiet reverence for the view of the ancient city from his window, and nights dreaming of a life he still couldn't let go, not completely. The Sevim maid had been on his mind throughout his journey, and his regret in not taking her with him only fueled his guilt and longing each morning after a night of dreaming. Perhaps today he was completely expunged, purified even.<br/><br/>Wiping his brow Ilhan rose from his bed and dressed. Today he'd explore, no longer confined to his room and his lingering regrets. The apartment he'd rented from the aged master on the caravan was a natural lure for any man to stay - finely furnished and ornamented it tempted one to lounge and indulge. But as with business, there was only so much to do alone. To reestablish his name in a foreign city required legwork, friendship, and greasing coins into palms, none of which he could do from here. Gathering his knife, ledger, and coin and bills, Ilhan left the merchant's quarter down the busy arteries of Sha'ib, headed for the Bazaar and its coffee houses. Next time he'd chart an alternate route, because he didn't expect to land at the slave piers on his way there.<br/><br/>Ilhan touched his mask, as if instinctively trying to reach his nose and guard against a putrid stench. Whether it was the chattel, dirty and repugnant from neglect and abuse, or the house slaves doused in offensive amounts of perfume, the smell was overwhelming. He whispered a prayer to break every chain here, letting his breath fill his mask and drive out the scent of slavery, and walked at a brisk pace ignoring call after call for his attention. He did not relish lingering here long enough to lose his appetite. Yet passing by one platform, he could not help but stop, and stare at a fellow Djaffir merchant haggling poorly. Whatever house he was from, he shamed them with his approach, barely keeping up with the dealings and very obviously being sold a slave he couldn't even afford.<br/><br/>He took another step, then stopped. He listened closely to the slaver, and watched him touch a Nefasi beauty by her shoulders. A sin to sell her indeed - she was queenly and above the degradation of slavery. All men and women were, even Nefasi, though he'd met so very few in the crimson fortress. But what kept him there, when he should and would have moved on, was an offhand pitch about her sight beyond sight. If Nefasi were rare, a shaman of the tribe was even more so. The next time he blinked, there he was standing on the platform, having passed both the other Djaffir and the lesser merchant he haggled with, and faced the Nefasi and her slaver directly. Behind his mask Ilhan must have seemed a statue for a moment, but underneath his robes he was very much alive.<br/><br/>"What do those eyes see?" he asked, a question for the Nefasi more than her master, but the difference was impossible to tell with his mask on.