<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/>Ilhan neither cared nor worried for attention. To live in the Crimson Fort was to draw enmity and interest wherever one went, and to be invisible was no different than being dead. His tribe may wear masks, but they didn't hide. His name and his house were matters of pride for Ilhan, even at the cost of discovery by a hidden enemy within earshot. If the other Djaffiri knew him, Ilhan did not know him back, and only the Nefasi had his interest - her master not until he spoke again of her shaman powers.<br/><br/>"It has no value. Such things are blessings of the gods, and not to be traded," he let out in frustration, waiting for the pitch to end. Ilhan did not like what he saw or heard. The market was a terrible place to be for his mood, and beautiful or not he found it difficult to ignore her binds. But behind his mask he looked to be emotionless, like a customer who was unimpressed by Zidir's wares and unlikely to be convinced of any exorbitant price he might name. "But, are you not overwhelmed in this market, where spirits must surely disperse? Would that I could see as you see, in peace and quiet away from all this."<br/><br/>Ilhan raised his hands to the market all around them, and as his coin pouch jingled he seemed less a customer fit for the piers and instead one of Zidir's more upscale clientèle used to private showings and trades. Even if not, the bustle of this slavers market was no place to hear the voice of the gods, to have it drowned out by the coarse haggling of the other Djaffir and Zidir's merchant beside them. For a moment Ilhan even stepped back, and made to turn as if having lost interest, but he mostly wanted to escape.