Atnorsa's tumble onto the scabrous dank of the alleyway's paving stones does not go unnoticed.  Nor does her cry.<br/><br/>Standing in the square, a pair of pirates supervise the slow incineration of Kumyurt's men.  As Atnorsa shouts, one of them looks over.  He's a man with thin limbs set on a burly frame, crossed, bare arms showing the mottled, rugose texture of old elephant flesh.  Over breeches and a sea-leather tunic that look like they have been stitched and restitched a thousand times, sits a girdle with an 'H' shaped belt buckle.  The band of the wide girdle has crimson notches radiating out from the clasp - the bright color striking upon the drab material.<br/><br/>His manner is luminous and restive like the torchlight that exposes it.  Atnorsa's shout makes lips with a deep notch in them snarl in contempt; the anxious wires of his neck pull taut.  He barks at her in her tribe's tongue and a terrier's tone.<strong>"We'll be making your Great Mother's cunt our ash bin, slut!"</strong><br/><br/>His companion can't force out a nervous laugh - as much as his pasty, young features attempt it - and so the older pirate does it for him.  Then the both of them sink into a tense silence, watching Quintus with an eerie glaze of forlorn hope brightening their dark eyes.