RP:The Consequences of Heavy Drinking

From HollowWiki

Background

Katya, fresh off duty as a caravan guard, heads off to find a cheap and nasty watering hole for refreshment and maybe some entertainment. There she makes the chance acquaintance of a woman deep into her cups, prior to learning a mutual dislike for the antics of some haughty swordsman.


The ways of those raised on the steppes are are impulsive and strange compared to those of the city, and from the meeting a new family of sorts is created.


The Hook and Bait


Hook and Bait, from the outside, looked like the type of establishment that one day hoped to be deemed worthy of the name 'shack'. It was a place hobbled together from broken dreams and kept standing by spit and the effort of its scarred and twitchy owner. It wasn't an overly large establishment, its interior cramming in enough seating for a score-and-a-half of people without the need to sit cheek and jowl -- more on especially busy nights. Most nights weren't especially busy. It was the place to go if you were looking for the sort of cheap liquid garbage that was easily affordable and only smelled marginally better than the small canals of liquid waste and rainwater that sluggishly made their way out of the unpaved slums and into the ocean itself. Nothing sat flush to the ground in Hook and Bait: stools were uneven, sometimes missing a leg and held up by what seemed like magic, tables were constantly juddering and bobbing as patrons put or removed any form of weight onto them. The walls were coated with grease and grime from numerous sources of smoke, be it from what customers clamped between their lips or from the dubious space in the back that served as 'kitchen'. Not that people went to Hook and Bait to eat; the alcohol was dangerous enough to one's health without going the full step into certain vomiting or worse later. The floors and surfaces were sticky, gritty, and there was a lingering odor compounded of piss, rotting meat, sweat and alcohol that hung about the place.


The dangers to men from cheap drink and dubious women

It was, in Thistle's estimation, perfect. She'd donned a shabby, mostly free of holes shirt that draped down to her knees, all full of stains and thin spots. Her hair had been pulled into a tail, but it'd long since begun to come out, sticking up in odd spots and giving her a faintly harried, unkempt look. There was dirt on her face, on her hands, and her feet were caked in mud. The floor itself was muddy, for that matter. She sat at the bar, a mug between her hands and filled with something that smelled right powerful. It'd have to be, because the chances of the mug ever having seen anything more than a cursory swipe with a dirty rag was on the slim to none side. She was presently glowering at the man who'd sat next to her, seeing as his open-mouthed laughing had seen fit to splatter her with something he'd been chewing or sucking on since he'd arrived. It smelled foul, and left little yellow splotches along her hands and clothing. He, for his part, didn't seem to notice her disquiet.


Katya sauntered into the bar with a friendly boot to the rickety door announcing the mercenary's entry in a loud bang of protesting timber. The elf was straight off the caravan, her leather armour and duster still coated in dust, sand, and large swathes of dried rusty stains. She'd been three days without vodka, care of some mu'dak arrow hitting her last bottle, and had better things to worry about than her state of appearance and strong scent of horse, sweaty leather, and iron. Katya chouted "Barkeep! darling! wodka! Am parched like nameless desert, da? Give me bottle, unopened." Katya casually shouldered her way to the bar, blithely ignoring the many glares and leers sent her way. She just as casually planted an elbow in the face of one drunkard who took the liberty of letting his hand wander lecherously in the path of her chestplate. The mercenary kept up her directives to the barkeep "Be making it ready now da? Will dry up like old corpse at this rate. Pay you double." Magic words, to a barkeep, and likely to get the elf woman the unopened bottle she'd requested. Katya passed a cursory glance at the bar lineup, and makes a swift decision. Thistle, whether she'd been ignoring the obnoxious elf up to now or not, would find herself a new barmate as a black gloved hand grabs the man she was glaring at by the hair and hauling him backwards off his chair, dumping a silver coin on the shocked man's chest. "Thank you for keeping my seat warm, darling. Have a drink on me. But somewhere several feet away, you are understanding me?" The elf patted the sabre at her hip, and sat herself down, placing her buckler on the bench in front of her. Katya nods affably in Thistle's direction "You are having new neighbour. Am apologising if I interrupt deep and philosophic conversation, darling." Katya spins two silver coins to the barkeep and narrows her eyes above her somewhat dangerous smile "Unopened. Bottle. Da?"


Thistle had leaned forward a little, head turning sideways to better be able to give a proper stinkeye to the completely oblivious gentleman to her right when the sharp crack of wood hitting wood momentarily eclipsed all other sound in the tavern. She straightened -- just to look, definitely not because she'd been startled, never that -- and twisted in the same movement, blearily looking for the source of the sound. The source of the sound found her, as the decidedly un-Cenril-based woman took care of her problem. A smile for that same woman, as Thistle lifted her mug in salute. "He smelled worse than a week dead corpse. You smell better." 'Better', of course, was not further quantified. An improvement was an improvement right? The sound of chatter and laughter resurged in the wake of the door slam, filling all the empty spaces in the tavern with banality. Thistle leaned a little closer to Katya to catch her words, gave the woman a once over only made slightly crooked by what drink she'd already consumed. "You from around here?" The follow up was a little late, a little awkward for it as if Thistle was trying to remember how to make nice with another person capable of thought.


Katya makes herself comfortable on the atrociously balanced barstool, keeping half an eye on the polished boss of her buckler. She'd known orcs who'd make better stools while asleep. The barkeep decides humouring the silver-bearing woman for now might result in more of the same coin later and fetches an unopened bottle of cheap vodka. While he does, Katya shifts around to face Thistle. "Definitely not from around here, darling. Would not want to be. I grew in Ruslva, amongst the herds and ships, not in stinking city. But currently I live between Gualon and Cenril, guarding caravans. Is good life, much fighting! Except when some bandit-suka breaks last bottle of wodka with arrow. Then life is not so good, but at least there is the fighting." It is with evident relief that Katya snatches the bottle of clear liquid from the barkeep. A knife drops into her hand from some hidden sheath and the mercenary cuts through the bottle's seal before secreting the blade away once more and taking a deep swig "Ah, now I am officially survivor of latest trip. Was close call, I tell you. And you, darling, are you being local?"


Krice wasn't a man who seemed of the highest class by any means, but he certainly didn't look like he belonged in a place such as this. He was dressed casually but looked smart, with the top-two buttons of his black shirt undone for his neck to breathe, and the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a katana sheathed against his right hip. Though his hair was a mess, it kind of wasn't at the same time. His features were strong, chiseled, and still symmetrical despite that only his right cheek bore a faint scar whilst his left did not. The warrior was dignified in a tavern full of undignified buffoons and drunkards, and somehow, at some point, undetected, ended up behind Thistle and Katya. The latter drew his interest as she spoke, but it was to the former that he spoke next, interjecting into their conversation. " I'd like to talk with you, Nas," he said quietly, calm for all his stoicism, but with the firmness of a man who would not find pleasure in receiving a negative response.


Thistle's eyes had begun to glaze over the slightest at Katya's words, though the other woman hadn't spoken much or for very long. It didn't matter how much Thistle learned of what passed for language in the city, in any local area -- there was always one more person from a distant land who had all sorts of fun syllables packed away and ready to unleash upon Thistle without any sort provocation on her part. And then, oh then, was the familiar voice. It'd been some time. A blissful period of time away from moral quandaries and the self doubt that came with them. All the same, Thistle said with something of an absentminded tone, "Yes," towards Katya, but she was turning around on her wobbly stool, head tilting up and up. "Wall." Curse the Souls and their no doubt cackling glee at that rutting exact moment. The mug was still in her hand. The thought to throw its contents at Krice was there, foggy and distant, but her lips decided to rescue it from such a terrible fate. She drank. Turned towards Katya. "This is Wall. He disapproves of drinking." She spoke carefully, mincing past the slur that otherwise would have turned her enunciation to mush. Krice had never actually indicated that he disapproved directly to Thistle, but it seemed an appropriate sort of dislike for the man. Her head swiveled back to Krice, and she blinked and squinted up at him with something like frustration glimmering behind the slackness of her expression. "How d'you rutting find me?"


Katya was certainly feeling more cheerful now that the familiar comforts of home had been received in bottled form, but even so she was less than pleased with the attitude of the self-absorbed swordbearing mu'dak. "darling, is this man being troublesome, rude, interfering vyrodok? I am disliking his tone and interruption. Is he being local thug, perhaps?" The latter question sounded almost hopeful as the elfmaid grabbed a dirty glass from the counter and poured a measure of vodka into it from her bottle, placing it next to her buckler. The mercenary looked Krice up and down with a critical eye, making note of the line of his katana and the calluses on the man's hands. The casual tension to his muscles indicated something more than local muscle. Not the kind of man Katya would want making demands from any of her acquaintances without her around to stand guard. "What are you wanting with my friend here? You are interrupting pleasant conversation."


Krice 's eyes watched Thistle as she turned toward him, and then fixated on her face with a hint of expectation in their crimson depths. Did he consider the possibility that she wanted to throw her mug of crap at him? Quite probably. Before he addressed the woman in front of him, he spoke to the foreigner beside her - in perfect dialect. " Moe delo ne s vami." Perhaps he came from the north as well? Somewhere very close to Katya's originating country, if not the country itself. Those crimson eyes slid sideways toward Katya to warn her without words not to interfere with him, but it was a subtle warning, subliminally communicated and no doubt received by those who were perceptive enough to give a damn about their safety. Krice looked at Thistle once more and said, " I followed the stench." A nod back over his shoulder preceded, "Outside. Now." Despite the demanding nature of his words, he did not speak them with angry command; just firm suggestion. Once Thistle showed sign that she would follow him, the man would turn to exit the bar.


Thistle made a noise deep in her throat as she exhaled, body facing Katya. She put her elbow up on the bar, rested the left side of her face on it as she listened to Katya talk. Sure, the woman was saying something meaningful but every now and again there were words she didn't understand, and she kept getting hung up on them. The woman also kept calling her darling. Which, Thistle decided as she probed at an irritating piece of gristle between teeth with her tongue, was probably better than the casual insult Krice flung at her. "He's Wall. Don't bother," Thistle said to Katya, her words starting to blur into each other. "I've done my share of getting handled for the week," back to Krice. "If y'got a problem get in line." My, but she was saying that frequently. She hunched her shoulders and turned back to the bar, mug held between her hands in a white-knuckled grip. She glared into it.


Katya was somewhat surprised at the dialect, one eyebrow quirking upwards. It was very similar to that of the Ruslva "It is being my affair now. I am not caring what your relation with this woman is being, Wall'suka, but how about you be leaving and minding your own business. Your intentions are being suspicious, perhaps perverted, and I'll not be letting this woman out in your company." If Krice's perception were of equal value, he too would notice the well-used state of the elf's buckler, and the sabre at the mercenary's hip was the likely cause of the patterning of rusty stains currently adorning her less-than-fresh and oft-repaired leathers. It would be anyone's guess as to who needed to worry most about their safety at the present time. Katya shifted her weight slightly, in anticipation of potential aggression on behalf of the loutish individual confronting the two women.


Krice shot a sideways look at Katya in lieu of her words, her posturing, but Thistle's dismissal of his 'request' earned her his attention again. After a casual, calm inhale through the nose, the warrior said, " I'm not going to manhandle you, but I'd appreciate your company outside. We can do this now, or I'll just stalk you until you're ready to talk." He gave a nod to indicate the Ruslvan. " She could become an irritant, but not a deterrent. She won't chase me off. My business with you is important, Jur." Didn't he call her 'Nas', before?


Thistle stiffened, muttered something down into that mug that started at the end of Katya's words and continued through the beginning of Krice's. It had to do with kicked bulls at the post, and something else about no calves in springtime and sickly lambs. There might have been a few other words interspersed that had no language barrier: the mixed slurry of cursing sailors picked up and never quite fully understood, regurgitated into a mess of incomplete phrases. Katya's seeming protectiveness might have earned a snort and a laugh at another time, but Thistle's mood had plummeted down past her muddy feet. Krice's insistence and irritating way of using what passed for her name was noted and finally broke through the muzziness. She scowled. Thistle's series of names was something she didn't pay attention to -- half the time she couldn't even remember the offhand syllables she passed out like bones at a shaman's casting. It was a personal thing, something she simply didn't expect others to pick up on or care about. It wasn't the change of name, therefore, that had her tucking her chin in and muttering, again, foul things, but the use of the word 'important'. "Forming contacts isn't? I haven't involved you in anything so go kiss a mule for all I care."


Katya smiles inwardly. She was used to men thinking with their second swords and underestimating her. It was a positive boon in her line of work, so she never bothered to join in on their verbal pissing contests about skill. People learned the truth of matters, sooner or later, when they actually drew blades. But this 'Wall' would find it sooner, rather than later, if he changed his mind about manhandling her drinking friend. Katya remarks offhandedly to Thistle after the half-pickled woman finishes her diatribe "I am thinking your friend Wall is needing to get laid, darling. He is seeming very tense and cranky. Do you know any massage houses with pretty boys he can use to take his mind off things? That way, maybe he will be leaving two honest drinkers in peace, da? I'd make a recommendation, but the Satin Hall lads are being very expensive, for they are well-bathed and inspected by healers."


Krice's jaw twitched. Thistle was being especially difficult, more so than he was used to, and not to mention he had a lapdog nibbling at her heels and defending her against something she didn't need defending against. After a thoughtful glare slid Katya's way, and a simple, " That's all you trash ever think about. I'm grumpy so I must be deprived of sex." With a snarl edging the top of his lip, he murmured a disgusted, " Pathetic." Glancing at the back of Thistle's head again, he concluded, " You're endangering my friends. You endangered me. I saved your life. You owe me more than you can pay." Another sideways glance sent to Katya as if to say 'no, that doesn't mean sex'. He let the message linger without the confirmation of words before, again, he looked at the back of Thistle's head. "I'll leave you to your piss of a drink, but rest assured that you and I will visit soon." It wasn't a threat, it was a promise. The warrior took a single step back from the pair of women and turned to depart, his stride ferally strong but graceful all at once; a man in perfect control of the faculties at his disposal.


Thistle didn't relax any at Katya's words, didn't laugh or otherwise show appreciation for the woman's wit. She turned her head slightly, confusion and something like apprehension contorting her features into an odd, pinched expression. "You what?" The mention of boys and massage houses abruptly pulled a memory of Seriis from the fuzzy depths of Thistle's mind, and the women who'd been prepared to take their minds off of things using him. It'd been amusing. But that wasn't the point. What was the point? Krice was talking. He was -- what? Her mouth opened. She almost fell off her stool she swung around so fast to look at Krice. Oh hells no. There was his back. His rutting broad shouldered back atop a body that was perfectly suited to fighting. Jealousy at a birthright that -should have - been hers, rage at his insinuations, and atop that the chasm that opened beneath her stomach at his insult -- intended or not -- of her honor. The confusion, the uncertainty at Katya's jibe and whether or not it was entirely proper had fled. That left only the mug in Thistle's hand, Krice's back, and the pull of her muscles as she flung the damn thing spinning towards him. She was probably speaking louder than she intended, because the man Katya had displaced, crowded in alongside them and giving them nasty looks every so often, suddenly looked pleased. It was a mean sort of pleased, the type of look that follows the 'serves you right' sentiment. "Then you should tell your rutting friends to stay away from me! I haven't asked anything from you, and if you think -- if you rutting think I've forced anyone into anything you're long past reasonable or logical. You don't need anything from me, and I'll take the stain on my honor. I'll take it! Get out, you rotting umkhii novsh!" She was off the stool, empty hands bunched at her sides, pulled upright so not an inch of her height was wasted. At least she hadn't fallen on her face, despite the presumption of telling Krice what to do in an establishment that was not hers in any shape or form. Unfortunately, half of what she said was lost to the slur of her words.


Katya laughs merrily at the sudden escalation and advises Thistle as she hurls the mug "I like him. He is entertaining like tomcat in heat, all spiky fur and hissy attitude! We will cross blades at some point, he and I, and it will be glorious!" Katya prods the now-standing Thistle in the ribs with absolute lack of tact "You, too, I like! You and I, we are now friends of the bottle, da, for you will bring me to fights and fun! You are lodestone for trouble, I can tell, and killing bandits has grown boring to me." Katya pauses a moment, and comes to a decision "Da, Thlag can do without my company for a few months. He has been complaining like old man again that I am noisy, which is good time for brief seperation. When he complains again of quiet, then is time for he and I to once more fight together. Thus it has always been." Katya picks up her buckler, and takes a brief swig from her bottle before placing it next to the glass. "I am being Katya. Is real name. You, I am guessing, have many names, but is okay. Pick one for me to use, and we are then riders in same vois'ko"


Krice ducked, plain and simple. A swift movement that barely told an excerpt of his skill. The mug sailed overhead, but some of its liquid sloshed out and he pulled his head back - as he straightened to his full height - to avoid it. Silver strands blew in the breeze of his movement just an inch clear of that liquid, which fell to the floor with a quiet, wet slap. The mug hit the shoulder of a drunkard seated at the next table over, but he was too wasted to care. He slurred something about it 'raining copper indoors', but went on to other less discernible rants thereafter. Krice turned, fixing a disapproving stare on Thistle's face for her assault. That expression softened, however, in lieu of her angered onslaught of words. If he felt sympathy, however, he didn't outwardly show it. Heaven forbid he should give a damn about this pissy little brat with too much ego for her tiny little body to handle. Kayta's words to Thistle earned her a sideways glance, which was stoic once more, devoid of any emotions that would tell of his inner thoughts. So she thought that they would cross blades one day? An amusing prospect, but not likely. After a final, lingering glance at the disheveled tomboy, the warrior turned and ventured away from the bar, nudging the door open with the tip of his left booted foot. It was too grimy to touch. Soon enough, the world outside took hold of him and he was gone from the vicinity, cleaned of stench by the fresher salt-air of the ocean to the east.


Satisfaction of some sort, if one without resolution, had Thistle reclaiming her stool. She muttered something that probably had no root in any language whatsoever, whatever it'd been intended for, and she gave Katya a dubious length of her attention. "Drink, yeah, drink." That was what the other woman meant by bottle, right? At the moment, that was the thought that flooded Thistle's consciousness. She wasn't drunk enough. Because now she had another memory she desired to be wiped clean for the evening, and due to its freshness there was no telling just how many mugs she'd need. She slapped nearly smooth copper coins down on the grimy surface in front of her, bellowing for a refill. That too, maybe, wasn't entirely within bounds of a single given language, but with the nature of clientele being what it was in Hook and Bait, the bartender knew what she meant. Thistle almost drank it all, right there, still full of fuming energy with nowhere to go. Her brain sluggishly processed more of what Katya had said, though it kept circling back to things she couldn't remember. Blissful numbness swam through her head. Maybe it was because of that numbness that Thistle named herself with the full syllables of an animal's name -- something that should have been improper, shouldn't have been used at all. "Call me Qarajin." Such was her largesse that she slapped silvers down on the bar for added measure. "Oy, more! More!" She stabbed a finger in Katya's general direction, though she'd been aiming for the bottle. Oh well.

Memories of the Steppes, family, and the bond of the Blood Oath

Katya spins back around to face the bar, instantly dismissing the loutish man from her mind. "Da, drink! Fermentation is gift of nature! Drink, to live; live, to drink!" With this old-fashioned Ruslvik wisdom, Katya downs the vodka she'd poured into the glass, as it would no longer be required as a potential weapon this evening. "So Qarajin, you are dwelling in lawless city of arrogant and uppity men, da? I am going to play guessing game: you hide... three knives on your person at all times! Now, you tell me 'Less' or 'More' and then it is your turn to guess!" Katya had never been one to concern herself over trifling matters of diplomacy or personal space. She made a living out of terminally invading people's personal space, after all, in a most undiplomatic way. "Is good game, da?"


Bar games. They were still a new thing to Thistle, and she was giving Katya a dubious glance over the rim of her mug as she finished it off. She didn't even choke. "Good knives're expensive," was her reply, after a space of time spent in consideration. She took in Katya again, struggling to recall exactly what had been said when the woman had first saddled the stool beside her, and failing miserably. "Where'd you come from, again? I don't. . .knife fights're shit. You though, huh, what, five?"


Katya thumps the bar in appreciation and takes a swig of her vodka "Close, close. Is currently six, because of mu'dak bandits running away with daggers still in them and Caravan master refusing to stop, but normally I am carrying ten." Katya grins "People are always thinking 'Girl with sword and shield on horse, I will stay out of sword range', but then they are sprouting new noses in face. Is hilarious, da?" Katya paused to take another swig of her beloved liquor "I am belonging to Ruslvik people. We are few, but ride the plains and waves like wind. Maybe I was not born of them, but I was raised Ruslvik, and that is what matters." Katya grins "That, and Wodka. Wodka matters too! And fighting! Is bad week if not fighting! Life is good when kept simple, da?"


Thistle snuffled a little, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She'd dribbled a little of her drink, and it'd spilled down her chin to add in to the stains already present on her shirt. "Plains. Steppes? Huh, you have. . ." Thistle blinked, and her brow scrunched up in thought. "North? You're from the north? Ah, tell me you have a proper eye for horses, thin-skinned knob-kneed dandy horses they keep 'round here. Rather be out riding than fighting, no room for a proper bow in this rutting city." She sniffed again, and said, "Kumis, that is a proper drink. None here." And there was a mournful cast to her expression at that, the memory a dreamlike prospect that taunted her at the worst times. She tapped her fingers against the bar, and only looked slightly disgusted when they had to be peeled free.


Katya laughs "Not north as such. But I am thinking perhaps the Rus may have had trade with the riders of the north. Or war. Is easy to get confused on little details." Katya grins "To reach here, the Rus must use horse of the sea, boats. But you are being correct about local horses. Too thin, too narrow, too highly strung. Ruslvic warrior rides the broadshouldered chestnut stallion of the steppes. We outride the wolves! Horse is almost as tough as Rus warrior!" Katya takes a swig of wodka. "I am not sure of your north riders. It would depend on the saddle, Qarashenka. We of Rus have different saddle. Is like wooden throne from which we rule the battlefield. But if you are looking for better horse, you need to visit Gualon. The orcs too need tough horse, and although they lack the Rus' horse stamina, they are sturdy and responsive. Calm and trainable too, darling, which is being very important. I get my horses from Gualon, with bandit money."


Thistle 's interest picked up considerably, even as she waved her mug around for another refill from a tap that discharged liquid slightly better than water unfit to drink. "Gwa. . .lon?" The 'n' hadn't been fully sounded out, and Thistle was shaking her head. "No saddle. You have to control with knees, with knees! It's easier to lose your balance." Thistle thought, and brightened somewhat mid drink. She swallowed in a hurry, more liquid glistening around her mouth. "The southern tribes, they had a saddle, stiff, it is easier to keep a seat on the horse that doesn't hurt their backs, easier to use a spear with it." Thistle made a jabbing motion, and grinned. It was an easy expression, and it wrinkled the skin up around her eyes. "I prefer bows. From horseback, aie, I was feared. I want to see these horses. What was your name?" Thoughts, too many for her muddled state of mind, were bubbling up faster than she could rightly separate them. She was leaning towards Katya with her barely restrained enthusiasm, both elbows mired in the sticky surface of the bar.


Katya grins "Not southern saddle either. Ruslvik ship saddle, of the wooden prows! Is hard to perform jighitovka, the war tricks, without proper Rus saddle. Hard too to cast javelin and wield sabre in Ruslvik way." It was either the vodka, patriotic pride, or both which prompted Katya to stand and state with a thump of hand on chest "We dance to the tune of the horse gods and the wind gods, and none can match the Ruslva horse to horse! When I make obryv, heads fly on the wings of my sabre!" Katya sits back down and takes another swig of vodka. "But that is in past, in Ruslva. Here, is not the same. Here, all the riders are thinking of horses like wagons. Stupid riders, stupid horses. Has been months since I needed to perform obryv. Is disappointing."


Thistle said, very matter of factly, "On horseback, with bow, few can match me. Could. Aie, I wither here." She pushed the dragging sleeve of her right arm up, to show Katya what Thistle privately considered to be a depressing lack of muscle. "Now, what I can pull wouldn't be more than a child's bow, at home." And then, horses dominated her mind, and the stiffness in her body eased further than it had even when Katya had first entered, before sir righteous asshole and all of his unwelcome preachings. "My horse was stolen by bandits. There were too many." She pushed her lips out, decided she didn't want to remember that, and let her throat be the pathway to oblivion. On the tail end of that as her mind twisted and spasmed in protest of her muted revelry, she muttered, "Didn't you say you were gonna stick around?"


Katya pokes Thistle in the arm muscle presented "I cannot use bow, and am having respect for those who can fire one horseback! So, I am proposing solution: We steal you a horse." Katya waves a hand in the face of whatever protestations may begin "I am knowing it will not be -your- horse, and thus not as smart or responsive. Is curse of living in strange place surrounded by stupid people. But in Rus, if your stanitsa is lacking in resources, the warriors gather, and ride out to claim that which the stanitsa lacks! So, you are lacking a horse and bow. I am knowing exactly where to find horses and bows." Katya pauses, mercurial, and answers Thistle's question before continuing on her earlier theme "Da, I am staying around. Thlag can handle the Caravanserai with the other swaggerers. Besides, after the number of bodies we left in the Milous foothills, that clan of bandits will be licking their dirty wounds." Katya stopped, and returned to her earlier train of thought "But, what if: you travelled with us as far as the foothills, then you, Thlag and I make a little detour to where we left the bandits lying in their own blood. Conduct a little raid into their encampment and nab you a horse, da? That would be fun times, da?" Katya could also, truth be told, take a more honest route, but she had always felt that a person appreciated things they'd stolen with their own two hands.


Thistle was bemused at the thought, and as her mind slowly cranked 'round the idea she had just one complaint: "Where would I keep a horse?" That theft had been something Thistle had never resorted to didn't pose a problem: petty theft of items was one thing. Raiding on the plains? Oh, that was a time honored tradition, especially when it had to do with the very sort of men who'd taken her beloved Pojin from her, had -- Souls knew what had happened to him. The thought brought the anger back to the front of the thoughts. She almost spat in disgust, and that singular action required quite a bit of that emotion before she might be tempted to do it. "I don't even have a place of my own." Horses. The thought of riding had taken her along, her dual protests nonwithstanding. Caught up in the idea of a horse, her gaze went a little distant and the mug was, finally, neglected.


Katya takes a thoughtful swig of Vodka. "Is good question. In Cenril I am always stabling mine with old mercenary friend in north of city. Gerard is being reliable, and I am normally only in city for short time, so stabling fees are normally low. But here is idea: A horse is freedom. Home is where the horse is. Between Gualon and Cenril is good pay for mercenary. Chance perhaps to rebuild strength of arm and draw of bow, da? It is true one can find blood-gold in Cenril too, for people are always wanting other people dead, but such fighting is in dark places, whereas I am fighting under open sky!" Katya slaps the table "But is plenty of time. We have but drunk together once! And the next caravan doesn't leave for a small while." Katya, her voice starting to show a slight slur, adds "And I can get Thag to loaning you one of useless bows and nags we looted from the dead people bodies. It will be doing for temporary, until you can steal better horse, better bow. Thlag is just going to sell them anyway, the greenskinned miser."


Thistle fidgeted with the edge of her sleeves, which was unusual for her. She hated to see the habit in other people, and were she less drunk she'd've kept herself properly still and considerate. "Gotta stay here," she mumbled at the parts of her sleeve now coated with the remnants of whatever skicky remnants had once accosted the bartop. "M'brother has my sisters. I'm family head. I'm trying to find him, 'shard. But if you say. . . if there's a place for a horse, I'd--" Her face was heating, she could feel the prickling flush crest along her cheekbones and spread unwelcome down the back of her neck. She ducked her head more, if that was possible. "I'd like that. It's just real dangerous right now. I'll drag you into the mire if you stick around." Thistle's faint smile was humorless, but there wasn't any self-pity in it either. Stubbornness and stout determination, that was the bones of Thistle.


Katya laughs "There is no danger I will not face with blade and buckler. Did I ever tell you time I was in dark lands of Vailkrin? Now there was a mire, Qarashenka. No, in Cenril, is just nasty men who die easy. But tell me..." And here came the cold edge of Katya's Ruslvik pragmatism "How are you to be hetman if your drawing arm is withering!? Is not how things are done!" Katya slapped the hilt of her sabre "You conquer life, or not, at the tip of sword or arrow! If you need to be finding someone, you need to be strong enough to cut down the obstacles, da? So! You are out of practice, that is fine. We get you INTO practice. On stupid bandits. Is no good to find family and then lack the strength to defend them. Is pointless. I know this. I have cut down those too weak to protect their families. Is violent, in Ruslva. Pitiless, like cold ocean wind. So, you and I, we shall ride. You shall steal better horse than Thlag's horrid bandit nag. You shall steal better bow than Thlag's looted shortbow. I shall speak to Gerard, and make arrangement. And in return..." Katya grins in predatory fashion "You introduce me to all this 'mire' and 'trouble'. For I am bored with bandits. Bored! Boredboredbored!" Katya emphasises this with a strange and almost immature stomping of her booted foot. "But your trouble sounds interesting, da, and I am interested in interesting. So I find you horse and bow darling, and you find me fantastic fights and interesting trouble so that I do not die of boredom! Is deal, da? Be saying yes. Boredom is a terrible burden for Ruslvik warriors to endure."


Thistle laughed, stopped as if startled by the sound, and then decided the Souls could drag her down to the otherworld. She laughed. "Yes," spoken as if there was no other possible answer. Then again, she was fairly drunk at that moment, bad memories banished into the shameless fog of it. But there was more. "I'll gladly give you my honor, proud warrior of the Roos--" the rest of the word was mumbled, guessed at, like as not to be forgotten as soon as she crossed the threshold either at night's end or whenever the bartender chose to chase her out, "and I'll show you the men to hunt. A proper warrior!" The mug was reclaimed and Thistle lifted her head, chin going overly high so that her face tilted upwards. The mug was not a bowl, not the proper form of alcohol to bond over, but it would do well enough. Thistle was, really, too drunk to care. About anything. And that made her happy for once, deliriously so. "To the destruction of our enemies!" The mug, in turn, was held aloft and brandished at Katya.


Katya grins and holds aloft the bottle of vodka with a raucous "To the destruction of our enemies!" Katya takes a long swig, emptying the bottle of the final drops "I tell you, Qarashenka, killing is like riding horse. Once learned you never forget. And decimated group of bandits is being good practice." Katya put the empty bottle down. "Tonight, I shall introduce you to Thlag. There is spare bedroll in Gerard's guestrooms. You are honored guest as new member of vois'ko. Thlag will complain like grandmother, but you are to ignore him, for he only stops complaining when asleep - and even then he is sometimes complaining in his sleep. Complaining is like religion to Thlag."


Thistle sucked down the liquid, wobbled a bit on the unbalanced stool, and turned a wholly shameless smile upon Katya. "Ah, then! Ah, when I've a proper yurt I shall host you as my guest for months, months! And every night, a feast in your honor!" Never mind that she had no herds, and her stockpile of money was still not so large, though at the very least her work had earned her something more than scrabbling at dirt for a living. She flexed her right arm, her draw arm, heedless of the fact that it was also the arm connected to the hand that still held the mug. The last few drops went flying free, spattering Katya and Thistle both. Not that Thistle cared, for she was too busy tapping at the dismal display of flesh. "When I've recovered this, I will shoot rabbits, and falcons, and make you a fine hat! A very fine hat! To feast in!" Thistle was wholly overwhelmed with excitement, the dregs of emotion she'd visited earlier swallowed whole with the current trend of ebullience. It was likely to dive again, later, perhaps even result in some form of screaming anger -- such was Thistle's way with alcohol. But right then, she treated Katya to a mood that had last been shared with her brothers and sisters, and before that the close members of her team. The posing was abandoned as Thistle impulsively reached out to clasp Katya's forearm with a firm grip weakened only by the drink. "This I'll swear a blood oath upon! A blood oath!" Her attention wavered down as she began fumbling at the sash at her waist, a crude attempt to bring out the short knife she used for everyday tasks.


Katya nods, and her demeanour is suddenly deadly serious "Is bloodoath, between riders of the steppes, though the steppes be in different lands. From this day forth, we are family, riders in the same host. Your enemies are my enemies. My enemies are your enemies, and only death shall end an oath between sisters" Katya drops her right arm a moment, and the same dagger used earlier to open her vodka appears once more. Raising her left arm with palm open, Katya drew her daggertip slantwise across her palm, crossing the lifeline in accordance to the Ruslvik tradition, allowing the blood to well up in preparation for Thistle's response.


The knife was rescued from where it'd lodged up in a fold of shirt under sash, and Thistle spent a moment poking at a hole before she had it up, out of its simple leather sheath. She held it up, a triumphant grin on her face. She was still slurring, though she tried to speak a little slower as she fumbled the knife across the base of her palm, as was custom for her people. It bit her a little deeply, gave her more blood than she'd strictly bargained for. "A sibling, mine as I am yours! Blood feud to our enemies, partners together, clanmates in truth! We shall share the same fire, and the Souls take any who try to drive us apart." She reached out then for Katya's left forearm, the blooded knife held upright in her other hand as she pulled up the floppy sleeve of her shirt. Her teeth gleamed in what light was visible, her expression fierce and reckless.


Katya grasps Thistle's hand, and their blood mingles. "Sisters now, and forever, bound in blood. Witnessed by the spirits of wind, spirits of horses, it is so sealed." A moment later Katya grabs Thistle in what passed for a bearhug from the muscular elven mercenary. "And now, Qarashenka, I take you to Thlag, and he will feed us, and complain about feeding us, and we shall rest. And then we shall discuss the raiding of bandits!" Katya still reeked of horses, wodka, sweaty leather, as well as blood old and new, so it was a fair trade for any odours clinging to Thistle.


That wasn't quite the blood oath Thistle had expected, but what did she care! Katya's words, especially the bit about the spirits of horses, distracted Thistle both from the clasping of hands rather than forearms and the dubious statement of sisterhood. The hug itself, unexpected and unlooked for, drove it completely out of her head. Like as not she'd not remember it in a few minutes, and already her attention had drifted away. She pressed her arms around Katya in any case, still grinning like a fool. "Shall we feast?" Thistle asked the question eagerly as she untangled herself from the other woman and popped herself off the stool. Then, of course, she almost faceplanted to the ground. She caught herself on the sticky bartop, and laughed at the stool as it fell instead. They both stunk, assuredly, but in Hook and Bait they were but foam atop the sea of unhappy smells. The part of town they were in wasn't particularly pleasant, either. The blood was left to smear as Thistle sloppily wiped her blade onto her shirt (it was a lucky thing she hadn't cut either of them in the hug and her near fall) and after the third try managed to get it back into its sheath. Settling it comfortably in her sash took a bit more concentration than even that, but she was marching for the door anyways. It was crowded enough that she kept stumbling into hapless and likewise drunk patrons, and a minor miracle that she made it there without injuring herself or anyone else.


Katya nods, collecting buckler and slinging it over the clawcatch on her belt. "To Thlag, and a feast!" The orc, Thlag, was used to Katya's antics after years of working and fighting side by side, and would undoubtedly be able to rustle up some kind of stew on short notice. Katya catches up with Thistle and surreptitiously takes the lead, elbowing folks out of the way where needed with a pat of hand on sabre. She looked forward to getting her scimitar back, though, but the repairs it required took a delicate touch, and it would be another day or two before she'd have its comfortable weight in her hand. Already, the elven mercenary's mind was clicking through ways and means to assault a bandit encampment. Thlag's input would be helpful, as the orc was good at picking holes in her plans. Took delight in it, the manky green skotina... "Yes, feast and rest! For we have bandits to raid!"


"Feast, and rest, and raid!" Thistle repeated dutifully, still overly loud. That she'd told Katya not so long ago that she really shouldn't be leaving the city was no longer so important. Horses and raiding was something she understood so much better than all the weak milk she'd been engaged with since Iron had taken her girls. That was the natural way of the world, wasn't it? Eating, sleeping, fighting. Thistle kept up at Katya's side as the elf lead the way, attempting to sing something in her native tongue that was an unfortunate exercise at best. At worst it earned them several shouted insults and a few calls to shut up. Thistle couldn't stop grinning, or giggling to herself over nothing. Her skin had darkened further than its natural color, and her eyes were quite glassy. It was a wonder she hadn't vomited or fallen into a useless heap by the time they made it to Thlag.

The Morning After


Gerard's Place, as his unique and typically invitation-only clientele referred to it, was an imposing facility on the edge of the wealthy district. It had evidently once been a mansion, but old scorchmarks on some of the stone would give a clue as to the fate of the aristocrat who'd dwelt there. The walls surrounding the mansion grounds had been rebuilt in thick stone and reinforced to a military design. The vast ornamental gardens had been torn up and leveled to enlarge the stables and provide a wide enclosure for horse breaking or to let a guest give their mounts a chance to stretch their legs. The gardens left contain herbs and vegetables, supplemented by a large chicken coop. The result was a strangely fortified form of hostelry. For all that Gerard's property bordered the wealthy districts, it had a bad reputation with the locals, described in muttered tones as 'Thug Fortress': for Gerard's clientele were all, apart from some few exceptions, mercenaries and caravan guards of all shape size and variety. Gerard himself, a giant of a man, had once been a very successful Caravan guard, earning the nickname of 'Skullshatter' amongst his peers. He had then become an even more successful caravan operator, before 'retiring' a rich man. The savvy businessman saw profit in providing a rest stop for those of his professions. His contacts allowed him to order supplies cheap from Gualon, and his price of tenancy undercut most of the more expensive inns. The critical supplement to Gerard's dealings, though, came via the thriving black market trade. Weapons, whether looted from bandits or brought in cheap from Gualon, sold well locally via a network of fences - as did other commodities. The nature of his perpetual 'guests', and Gerard's own reputation, made all but the stupid or insane take Gerard off their 'to rob' lists. Those few that had thus far tried to rob Gerard always ended up dumped in southern Cenril, a corpsified mass of broken bones.



Katya was up bright and early. Personally, the mercenary had some doubts as to how much memory the pickled steppeswoman was going to have of the previous night. Certainly, Thistle's consciousness at the time Thlag poured soup down her throat was arguable. The orcs complaints to Katya "Since when is Thlag nursemaid to Katya's strays?" and the brief argument which ended with the phrase 'Bloodoath" might have filtered through in some fashion. In any case, the cock had crowed, and Katya and Thlag were performing the morning's weapon and armour maintenance in their spacious guestroom, as was their habit the morning after arriving at Cenril. Thistle would be prodded first, and a bowl of cold water poured over her as an immediate second measure, accompanied by Katya's cheerful "Is sunshine, bloodsister! Is no time to be wasting! Up! Up with the sun! We are having string wax and string, but you are needing to work on your own bow!". In the background comes Thlag's muttered "...loaned bow, Katya. It is a loan, because you twist arms too well." This would be followed by a steel pauldron tossed at Thlag. "You are like old woman! Is already agreed on!" The pauldron returns to thwack Katya in the back "And you, elf, resemble an annoying child. In size and temperament." Katya hurls the pauldron back "I put you on ice like dead fish!". Thlag catches the pauldron with a muttered "Only because you are cold like old nun." Katya seethes momentarily, but changes her mind and returns to prodding Thistle "Qarashenka, be getting up! Is no time to be sleeping!"


It hurt. Pain upon waking wasn't altogether foreign to Thistle, especially not in recent weeks, but that would be to lessen the impact of that single statement. It hurt. It was also cold. 'It' would be Thistle's body, because at that first wrenching state of consciousness it sure didn't feel like her body. Someone had stuffed a rag or two between her ears, and there was a thickness to her throat that she didn't recall. Her mouth tasted like ass, and movement was a limited prospect at best. Taking stock of a body that no longer seemed quite hers was spent with eyes squeezed shut. Next was opening her eyes, and recognizing that she was in a strange place and what sounded like very strange people and she was rutting freezing. An attempt at asking who the -- what the -- whatever had happened, in any case, turned out a rather piteous moan. Thistle started to struggle upright, and the thickness in her skull turned into the first gentle touch of a hammering headache. A touch of nausea. A sense of dizziness. "Whosat?" Slightly more comprehensible. Thistle had most of her weight over her arms, which she'd locked so as to not crumple back to her. . .bedroll? She got a knee under her, and stayed like that, head drooping. Her hair was sticking to her face. She was sticky. Why was she rutting sticky? Reluctantly, Thistle lifted her head and caught sight of Katya, and then Thlag. She whimpered.


Katya grins when Thistle mutters something unintelligible and turns to Thlag triumphantly "Hah! See! Ignorant orc, I was telling you she is not dying on us overnight! People of steppes is tough, like Katya. Perhaps Orcs is dying easily of liquor." Thlag rolled his eyes at the rehash of an old challenge "I have yet to lose drinking match to you Katya. Orcs outdrink elves. It is the way of nature." Katya grumbled, unable to dispute Thlag's superior ability to metabolise alchohol, and returns her attention to Thistle. "I am seeing you are not yet awake. This always works!" Thistle would find the bad taste in her mouth ameliorated somewhat by the second bowl of water dumped in her face. Warm water, this time. "See, I am betting you are feeling much more awake now, bloodsister! Now up! Up! You have bow strings to wax, and a horrible shortbow to get used to! You will need it to get better bow, so no complaining of quality, da?"


The water had to stop. Really, it did. Thistle attempted a glare, but found the attempt compounded by the gummy state of said eyelids, and the fact that it felt like half the bucket or whatever had held the water had gotten into one of her eyes. Her butt took the brunt of her weight as she got her second leg under her and sat back on it, and the heels of her palms went up to her eyes. Which hurt more. Thistle hissed as she pulled her left hand away from her face, and froze when she saw the cut there. Jagged, sure, but that spot. . . bloodsister. The woman had said bloodsister. Thistle didn't remember cutting herself or being cut by anyone else. She dimly remembered going to the Hook and Bait, and feeling appreciative of a woman who'd tossed some idiot who'd been irritating her. Which maybe was the woman in front of her? Thistle swayed a little bit, and started dragging her body upright despite its protests. She opened her mouth to demand answers, and instead found herself asking in a rather whiny voice, "I has t'piss?" Which shouldn't've been a question, really. She stared through watery eyes and gummy, sticky lids, past stringy hair towards Katya.


It would be Thlag who immediately, almost hurriedly, states "Door behind me. Privyhouse is the wooden building next to the garden." It was, in fact, one of the few wooden buildings on the property. On account of it being easier to burn and replace the damn thing when it got too vile than it was to find someone willing to regularly clean it. But it was better than the more public affairs, and people used to defecating where they work are used to keeping those spots as tidy as possible. At present time, although it had the expected reek of nightdirt, the facilities would be relatively tolerable. Katya, however, tossed a curved wooden thing at Thistle. It was a shortbow, unstringed, of barely adequate quality. The kind of thing made not by a bowyer, but by someone who knew how to use a bow but not quite get the making of one right. "Is best you start getting to know it now, Qarajin. We raid within a couple of days. It is like crippled cousin of proper bow, but it is consistently inaccurate. Good archer can adjust to error, da? We are having target set up, for when you are having breakfasted." The path through the room to the door Thlag had indicated would resemble an armoury more than a sleeping quarter, with various pieces of armour and weaponry strewn around. A bench is set up with leatherworking tools, and a dishing stand and hammer are also present. Thlag is sat by the latter, and has a helm with a sizeable dint in one side in his hand. It could be counted as a small blessing that the large scarred orc had waited for Thistle to awake before starting on that task. Indeed, the moment Thistle reaches clean air, the ringing sound of hammer on steel would commence.


Thistle didn't catch the unstrung bow. To be fair, she made an attempt at catching it, a sort of openhanded grasping that ended with it hitting her in the pelvis and clattering across the floor. Thistle frowned down at it, then up at Katya. Rather than attempt a more civilized response, she grunted, turned and stumbled her way stoop-shouldered to the door. It wasn't blindingly bright outside, not yet, so she made it to the privy more or less intact. She completed her business there more or less neatly. The thought passed her mind to flee the strange place -- hadn't she seen something like it before? It seemed somehow familiar -- but when her stomach pressed tight against her spine and told her in no uncertain terms that wandering around in any sort of hurry wasn't going to cut it, she decided to trudge back to where she'd come from. She spat a few times along the way, too rutting tired and thick-headed to much care that she was wasting water. It helped clear her mouth of the tacky feeling, and when she opened the door . . .Souls help her, the noise. She almost closed the damn thing, had started to do just that, but stiffened instead and stepped inside. Both eyes had been mostly picked free of stickiness, rubbed as clean as her dirty hand could make them. This allowed her to give Thlag a mutinous glower as she made her way towards Katya. Souls, it hurt. "Who're you, and what d'you want with me?" She was staring at Katya when she said it, the seriousness of her question marred a pinch by the strange sculpture sleep and bad grooming had made of her hair.


Thlag brought a temporary cease to his hammering, if only to emphasise the profound 'I told you so' look the Orc gives his rash elven compatriot. Katya rolls her eyes, picks up the fallen shortbow, and mutters "Is what happens when people don't drink wodka. The impurities are rotting their brains." The elven mercenary pokes Thistle's left wrist with the short bow, then raises her left arm to show the cut on her palm and streaked blood. "I am Katya, of Ruslva. You named yourself Qarajin, of the steppes. We swore bloodoath. My family is yours. Your family is mine. Your enemies are mine, and mine yours." Katya once more tosses the shortbow at Thistle "...and your drawing arm is withered. This is to stop, as of today! Today, you are warrior woman of steppes once more, and you are going to be stringing bow. Now eat, and be breaking fast!" Thlag would toss over a small waxcloth package to Thistle containing dried meat. Katya continues "In three days time, we are raiding bandits, and you are stealing proper horse, and proper bow, and then you can regain path to becoming Hetman, da? Is simple." Katya starts running a whetstone across the broad curve of her sabre.


Thistle jerked her wrist back from Katya, pulled it down and slightly behind the dubious shield her body made. Qarajin. That was a name. Thistle never used animal names, just single syllables. It wasn't right. It was presumptuous. An animal's name, but -- she'd what? "I what? I did what? We're what? I did -- no. No." The denial was firm, but even as Thistle spoke it she pulled her wrist up, to look at it. Which was the only way she managed to catch the package, and even then she almost dropped it. "We're what? Doing what? I can't -- where am I? No, this isn't -- I didn't --" She looked down again at her wrist, the increasing pressure and throbbing pain in her skull doing nothing for the muddied ditch that presently contained her thoughts. Without the slightest amount of consideration for the fact that Katya was holding a sword, she took a few steps towards the other woman and reached out to yank her left hand free for inspection. "No, no, no," she was muttering, her mouth forming a rather lamentable shape.


It was perhaps unfair, and certainly tactless, but Thlag starts laughing. "I can now see the family resemblance, Katya. I am sorry to have doubted! You are both madwomen, yes! It is clear in my eyes!" Katya sends a withering look at the Orc, now shaking with laughter, but lets Thistle examine her left palm as the elf locks her eyes on Thistle and repeats the steppewoman's words from the night before back to her "A sibling, mine as I am yours! Blood feud to our enemies, partners together, clanmates in truth! We shall share the same fire, and the Souls take any who try to drive us apart". Thlag turns around, pretending to inspect the pauldron earlier used as a missile, but the tremors to his back indicated the laughter continued unabated. Katya adds "And you were saying you have many enemies. You are not ready for them, Qarashenka. But you will be. You are among warriors again." Releasing her sabre for a moment, the elf picks up the bow a third time, and slides it into the crook of Thistle's arm.


Thistle was, of course, stiff as a board as soon as Thlag started laughing. Katya's arm was released as if it burned to touch her, and Thistle turned her head to lever a red-eyed stare at Thlag. Even with a pounding headache, a body that felt wooden and the bad taste in her mouth, Thistle wanted a drink at that moment. Desperately. The bow stuck where it was placed, as Thistle turned from the stupid, foolish orc to look at Katya. "I made a blood oath? With you." Disbelief was the foremost flavor in her voice, and on its heels was a dismal little noise at the back of her throat. She pressed the palm of her right hand against her mouth, her fingers half curled and bumping against her nose. Over the ridge her fingers made, Thistle stared forlornly at Katya. "I made a blood oath? Blood siblings? A blood oath." The words were muffled, spoken into her palm as they were, and then the fingers uncurled and were pressing into the spot between her eyebrows. "Why did I? And this? This. . ." the hand dropped to the unstrung bow, and she held up both package and bow. "I have a bow? I do. It's in one of my safe spots?" Her expression, the way she stood, the way her voice kept rising at the tail end of her sentences as if each was a question all served to make her look, for a moment, like the stupid child in the group. The one who got smacked on the back of the head often. The resemblance was not helped by the fact that she was undoubtedly an adult.


Thlag was definitely enjoying this strange turn of events far too much, in Katya's opinion. Only his lack of further speech stayed her hand from pelting him with a bent belt buckle requiring repair. Katya examined the steppeswoman with some perplexity. "I am not recalling dropping you on head last night, Qarashenka. I am thinking that Cenril liquor is even worse than I thought at making people stupid. Now sit and eat, darling, and maybe memory will be coming back to you. You have a temporary bow, and temporary horse. And soon, you will be riding out with Thlag and I to raid bandits. And then you will be stealing proper horse, and proper bow." The flatbow currently in the steppeswoman's hands would be different enough from the recurved bows of the steppes for any confusion to quickly evaporate, Katya hoped. Or maybe food would help. In a worse case scenario... Katya pours some clear liquid into a bowl. Wodka. "Drink this, but only this much. It might also be helping memory." The vodka Gerard kept in stock was of high potency and price, which was why Katya had gone seeking something cheaper to recover from her three-day lack. But having done so, she had reverted to her preference for a purer, more distilled variety. The Ruslvik woman believed the burning sensation helped destroy illness. That she never got ill only cemented her superstition.


Eating sounded good. Normal, even. Thistle sat crosslegged, just like that, putting the bow beside her and the food in her lap to unwrap. The alcohol in the bowl was comforting, extremely so given that everything else in her life was just so strange. Nevermind that Katya was one of those things, Thistle took the bowl with both hands and gulped. That was a bad idea, the gulping. Even hungover and lightheaded with the news that Thistle had gone and done something so perfectly stupid that there really were no words for it, Katya was at present the host. You ate and drank what the host gave you without question. Spitting out anything offered would be an insult of the highest degree. Which would be why Thistle instinctively went with the option of choking on the burning potency of the vodka rather than spit it out as her body promptly demanded. Kumis, the fermented mare's milk her people preferred, was a mild, milky beverage. Alcoholic, yes. But alcoholic to the point that it felt like the flesh in her throat was being burned away? No. Souls take her, she swallowed it. Coughing, choking, eyes watering and nose suddenly running, she hadn't tainted the hospitality she wasn't quite enjoying. Thistle whimpered again, and put the bowl down. Sniffled, unwrapped what appeared to be meat, and started trying to get it down. She was still coughing on occasion, though she tried to stifle it. When she'd managed to force half of it into her decidedly uncooperative stomach, she looked once more at Katya. You couldn't take back blood oaths. It didn't matter that Thistle had been drunk enough that she couldn't even remember the damn event. The words Katya had parroted at her were definitely the sort of words Thistle would say. The cuts only confirmed it. To say Thistle wasn't happy would be to say her head only hurt a little. Thoughts were marshaled, but there were no strategies that could fix her present issue. She tried to be coherent. She really did. "I already have a bow, one I bought -- yeah it's s*** merchant shill, and I think I got taken because it's the sort of craftsmanship a horseless, motherless clodhopper would construct, and I wanted to make my own but I still don't have the materials for it and so I am -- I don't need this." Thistle sucked in a breath, and pointed at the bow beside her. "Did you say we're going to raid bandits to steal a horse? I can't -- I can't leave the city. I have. . .stuff! To do! I -- blood sibling. You're my rutting -- Souls." The last word was a tiny, pathetic sound, and Thistle's eyes dropped back down to her lap.


Katya nods approvingly as Thistle manages to drink her 'medicine'. "Is good! You drink like the Ruslva! There is strength in you yet, da?" Katya waits patiently as Thistle stumbles through the same arguments she'd raised the night before. "Darling, it pains me to be the one who says this..." An outright lie "...but you are in no condition to be rescuing family or facing enemies. You have lived in stinking closed-in city for too long. You are thinking like city person. Is unhealthy. You are forgetting the smell of others spilled blood, and the feel of horse and weapon. If you stay longer, you will become citywoman, not steppeswoman." Katya's face hardens slightly as she pokes Thistle in the breastbone "This. Will. Not. Be. You are my bloodsister now, and by the horse spirits, you will remember these things!" Katya sits back "You must remember these things now, before you forget them forever. No waiting. No cityman dithering. No 'Tomorrow or next week'. You have stuff in city to do? It will wait, Qarashenka, until you are strong enough to get it done. And if it doesn't wait, and you do not become strong enough fast enough? Then I will make certain you are strong enough to bring vengeance. For your enemies are mine. And the enemies of the Rus do not live long." Thlag had the good grace to stop laughing halfway through Katya's diatribe. Having fought with the elven mercenary for years, he was aware of her prowess, even if her personality was, in the orc's opinion, atrocious and overbearing.


It had been some time since someone had aggressively told Thistle what she should and shouldn't do. Shiv had been her mentor in the old days, had been the one to stomp on her temper and curb her rudeness. He had been, in some ways, like a father to her, and that had been one of the few things to stop the child she had been from turning into the headstrong, stubborn, rude individual that Thistle had in the end become. Katya's bearing, her overpowering manner and certainty, the wildness in her that bespoke the wide open sky and the thunder of running horses was enough to make her shut up and listen. But more than that, it was the sense of need, of belonging, of a person to share the fireside with, to drink and dance and sing war songs and horse songs, and howl success and failure at the night sky. To share yurt with. Family. Maybe it was just the hope in Thistle, as she watched Katya talk, and move. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe it was the deep, gut-wrenching hunger for a home that had been denied her, that she so rarely talked about but missed with the bitter regret of the exile. Whatever it was, it didn't matter, because Thistle was looking up at Katya and nodding. Thistle didn't want to be a slow city s***. She wanted to be what she'd been before. Before everything went bad. And she opened her mouth to share that feeling with Katya, to give her the breadth and width of that sudden, fragile piece of life that almost broke inside of her. It would have been beautiful, those words. It might even have let Thistle regard Katya as a true sibling, rather than the person who had stolen her blood oath from her and would probably become a bothersome and oft-regretted burden. What came out, however, was not at all what she wanted. "I have many honor debts. I. . .might have recently sworn an honor debt to a warlord. He might kill me if I don't visit him. I said I would." Thistle was staring at Katya. It was almost rude. "But we can uh. . .I guess I need a horse?" No, no she didn't need one. Not in the city. "And uh, raiding. I, uh, haven't done that in . . .awhile. I, um, just one raid, you hear? The things in the city, you know, they can't, uh, wait. . .for that long?" Thistle withered under Katya's certainty, and as she spoke the firmness in her own voice was slowly but surely whittled down to something that sounded rather like an excuse.


Katya nods seriously. Honour debts had to be paid. But the steppeswoman was in no position to do so right now. Katya came to a decision. "Darling, you are right to want to pay debts of honour. This too is way of the Rus. However, to pay a debt of honour is something a warrior does. You must become warrior again to properly repay debt. This warlord, if he is being impatient and makes approach to us, will have to deal with me first. For I am your bloodsister. But I will be diplomatic, and only kill him if he is offering insult of honour." This was quite a concession, as far as Katya was concerned "And if these things in the city cannot be waiting that long, darling, then you had best be getting used to that temporary bow. And we have temporary horse for you too. It is useless nag, also used by bandit, but it will do until you steal proper horse and bow. For you are now family, and we ride together. Thlag, he is perhaps brother. Very ugly and stupid brother. You will get used to him." Thlag snorted in the background, but kept his opinion of the matter to himself. Katya passes across several bowstrings and some wax. "Now, prepare your strings, practice your draw this morning. After lunch, you will pretend target outside is enemy, and stick it full of arrows. You stay here, and remember, and become steppeswoman again."


Bets, beds, daggers and decisions


Gerard's enclosure was sizeable, and noisy. Thlag and Katya were not the only guests, and along one large stone wall were set up numerous targets. One small man, his swarthy skin suggesting he hailed from the Gualon swamps, was competing with blowdart against a man hurling daggers. Several other off-duty caravan guards stood around cheering, laughing, jeering and casually passing money around as petty wagers were won and lost.



Katya had set up a target a small distance down the wall, prompting an amiable exchange with one of the other guards, who had enquired "Hoy, Katya, what, are you practicing your ability to spit like a camel?" Katya had responded with an orcish gesture and curse loosely translating to "Wild pigs eat your groin for breakfast" prompting general laughter. Katya grabbed a stack of cheap target arrows, and dumped them about sixty yards from the target. Thlag looked at Katya dubiously. "The bow, elf, is terrible. It is known that normal bows of that design can be comfortably accurate at ninety yards. But that is not normal bow. It is dung in bow form." Katya shrugs "So a few arrows will be shattering on stone, it is not mattering. And if she sticks one of the others with one, well, it's as good as a visit to the Satin Hall boys, da?" One of the other guards spits and calls out "I'll convert you from the Satin Hall, Katya. Come visit my room some night!" Katya laughs "I am in no mood for hearing poetry and weepy tales of childhood, Ulric. I am being nobody's mother. Besides. You never bathe!" An old exchange, that, almost a ritual. Katya turns to examine the spot then realises Thistle was still at the doorway of their rooms. Katya calls out cheerfully "Sister! Qarashenka! Is time to be returning to battle! Bring bow, we have arrows, and that big target, although circular, it is actually being in shape and name of hated enemy! Is fantastic, da? In meanwhile Thlag and I also prepare for battle."


Thistle was definitely on the side of flabbergasted. The flatbow -- a miserable excuse for a bow if she'd ever held one -- had essentially been chained to her hand. At least, that was the impression she got from Katya's nonstop energy and talk. Had Thistle ever met a more chatty woman? Possible, maybe, but assuredly none quite like her. She stepped from the doorway with the cringing gait of one expecting her foot to be caught in a trap or someone to unleash a hell of punishment upon her. She ran her fingers over the length of the wood, looked from Katya and Thlag (she hadn't decided whether or not she wished to forgive him his laughter or that wretched hammering, short lived though it had been) to the arrows and the target. The thought of trying to explain, again, that she really did have an alright bow tucked away while she'd been out carousing. Most people didn't go drinking with bows on their backs, and in any case she'd not desired to bring any sort of attention to herself. But, facing the strangers and her, Souls, bloodsister had that desire for speech dwindling down to the sort of navel-gazing introspection she'd been known for at home after one of her spats with Shiv. She picked up a few of the arrows, looking them over with a frown. Despite their dubious construction they were still of higher quality than what she'd been given. The upper limb was slightly warped, made of a wood that was, in Thistle's opinion, too soft. The cross section was . . . oddly shaped, to say the least. Thistle gave one long suffering look towards Katya as she slotted two arrows between her fingers and used the proper grip on her arrow hand rather than the fussy, prissy pinch she'd seen other archers in Kelay use. Not that she'd seen many, but she'd seen enough. The draw was lighter than she'd expected, the weight of it gentle on her fingers. She sighted for the target, feeling an oddness in the way the bow took the tension. When she released, the arrow went wildly off mark. Embarrassingly, it also went short of mark. Thistle stared at the arrow that had betrayed her, lowered the bow and stared at it too. She turned to Katya so her full body was facing the other woman and bowed. It was a curt, perfunctory sort of bow; it was a polite nicety followed shortly by a clipped, "No."


Katya arched one eyebrow "No? What, you are giving up after just one failure?! I am already feeling pity for those you are seeking to rescue, bloodsister! No, it is I who shall be giving to you the 'No'!" Katya points at the controversial piece of archery equipment "Unless you are having second bow hidden in uncomfortable place on person, you are having little choice in weapon. It is for the warrior to be succeeding with whatever is at hand! Be it rock, stick, or poxy bow made by cackeyed bandit. Keep trying, Qarashenka. Be making no excuses. Whining is for city people! For warrior there is only success, however long it takes, or death. Is simple. No need for thinking. Only doing." Katya grins "Is more fun that way!" Katya starts limbering up as she talks "Now I too am preparing for raid by sparring with Thlag." An evil thought occurs "If you are preferring, you can spar with Thlag, and I will shoot arrows at wall with horrible bow. Is up to you, darling." Thlag, having had a chance to repair his helm, breastplate, and left pauldron, was decked out in full military apparel. Some men wore chainmail over their leathers or quilted gambesons. Thlag dressed in steel with mail underclothing. Even for an Orc, Thlag was large, and his breatplate looked like it could withstand a lance. And, from some of the marks on it, possibly had. He protected his neck with combination of pauldrons and reticulated gorget. His arms had light chain to protect from glancing blows, rerebraces covering much of the shoulder, and thick steel vambraces with a small scything hook or blade towards the elbow. His gloves were leather with scalemail backing to protect the hands while wielding his preferred weapon: a vicious Halberd with spiked butt and haft.


If there was one single thing that Thistle was that had not changed in the intervening years since her exile, it was that she was a bow snob. Calmly, still staring at Katya, Thistle bent, putting the cross-section under her bare foot. She grunted, and pulled. The upper limb, having been weak and badly formed (or twisted somehow after its formation, Thistle wasn't so sure)broke off first, with the lower limb taking a bit more force and strain to properly snap off. She stooped to pick up the piece beneath her foot, and held the mess complete with sagging string out to Katya. In this, Thistle had lost the quivering kicked-dog look that had haunted her face and posture since awakening. Some things, despite hangover and certainty that the Souls were going to strike her down, would not change. "No," Thistle repeated, and then said to Thlag, "I have a bow I bought. While it is not the best, it is still. . .functional. When I have better it will be yours to replace this," a nod was aimed at the bow in her hand, before she looked back at Katya. "This was not a bow. It was firewood pretending to be a bow. Mine is in Cenril, in one of my safe spots. I'd like to go get it now. Please." Something in the act had strengthened Thistle's flagging courage, and she tacked on a cool, "It's best if you don't call me sister. Call me sibling, or bloodbonded."


Katya grins "Ahh! There is being fire in your voice now! Pride in your weapon!" The elven mercenary claps her hands excitedly "Is good! Yes! Go get better bow! Thlag and I shall wait, bloodbonded sibling. Be swift, like wind on tundra, for time not spent preparing for war is time wasted! The guards shall let you back in."


Thistle had expected something of a fight. "Oh," she said. She dropped the now-trash onto the ground and said in a rather more dismal tone of voice, "Where are we?"


Katya points to the main gate "We are in northwest quarter of Cenril. If you follow road from gate to the east, you will find dried up fountain with broken statue of longdead person. If you are following the south-heading road from the fountain, you will be reaching Beloy street, near the funeral house and Cathedral. Here. Let me show you poxy nag you will be raiding on. Is best you get to know him for now. He is not having good manners, being brought up by useless Milous plainsmen". Katya would then lead Thistle to the far end of the stables, where a malnourished, evil-aspected gelding was cloistered in its own corral. "I am calling him Skotina, for he is beast in truth. Thlag, he is calling him Glue, and enquiring at knackery for pricing if he cannot be sold as is. Skotina will have to do, until uou are raiding better horse." 'Skotina', or 'Glue, depending on who you asked, had a simple saddle hung up on its rack, and basic reins. The bandits evidently didn't go in for fancy tack. Katya grins "Have fun. I will be seeing you when you return! Be hurrying, though, because we are halfway through day already!"


Thistle sucked at her teeth, a sour expression overtaking her at the sight of the beast that had been crowded in under the label of 'horse'. While Thistle loved the sight of a herd, and had a well-formed respect for animals and their necessity in the grand scheme of things, she was at heart a practical person. While sometimes favored animals were spoiled and given accolades, animals were not pets to her people. They were lifeblood, to be revered and respected, but not as a general rule loved. Which was why, as she looked him over, she said in a rather unimpressed tone, "If he doesn't fetch much of a price, you'd be better off slaughtering and eating him. For trail jerky, not for feasting." He was too underfed to do well for feasting. Thistle shook her head, and her tone of voice went a little angry, "We will kill these bandits. They do not respect horses. I'm not taking that into the city. I'll walk." And she did just that without waiting for a reply, out of the stables and the compound and back into the city. It was at that point that the real opportunity to escape made itself quite clear to Thistle, but one simply did not run out on family. True, she didn't know Katya from any diseased beggar in the street, but it didn't matter. What was done was done, and running and hiding from a blood oath would be dishonorable even past what Thistle was willing to stain herself with. Katya was not, in the end, totally wrong, Thistle supposed; whether she found Iron now or later she would still have to prepare herself to be ready to meet the challenge. Being able to defend herself and sisters without relying on anyone else was the proper attitude to take. Those were Thistle's thoughts, circling and nipping in her head, as she took the long walk to her various hidey-holes in the middle and south-central areas of the city. When she'd collected her belongings she had the bow scabbard and quiver strapped to her back, the bow strung and placed there. Her blanket, bedroll, winter deel and religious idols were carried in her left hand. By the time she reached the compound again she'd come to the conclusion that she would capitulate in some ways to the woman and take charge in others: there were some things that would not wait. Not for long. She returned to the practice area, thinking somehow that Katya and Thlag would still be there despite the fact that it had become night. Only a few men lingered in the area, passing a bottle between themselves. Untrustworthy, she thought. Katya perhaps most of all.


In the hours that would inevitably pass, with the stubborn steppeswoman taking the slowest possible method of travel, Thlag delighted in speculating to Katya's ire "It is clear that she is not returning. Though evidently insane, I am betting you five silver that she is not mad enough to ride with you, Katya." The elf would grind her teeth and respond "Zhatknis, skotina orc'suka! Is not like that. Stupid oathsister is not taking horse. Will be as slow as cripple in returning. Aya, such time wasted." Thlag would then comment "She was not taking horse, so as not having anything to return." This cycle of arguments lasted an hour before Thlag, recognising a hint of bloodlust in the elf, decided to ride out and purchase provisions for their raid. And even with the two hours he took, he returned earlier than Thistle would. "I have bought trail rations for three. But I am thinking I will get to have seconds at each meal." A screech and thrown chair was all Thlag got from the sulking elf. "I am going to be angry. VERY ANGRY, Thlag, if I am losing excuse for raid on bandits. And all this 'Mire' and 'Enemies' and other fun. Is bad to be without fight for too long." Thlag kept his opinion on that to himself. For the orc, it was bad to be without pay for too long, but the fighting could come and go as it pleased. "I bought you Vodka, Katya. Be calming yourself." Katya expelled air in a frustrated sigh. "Alright. I am being calm. Thank you for the wodka." The elf starts tossing throwing knives at a target on the opposite wall of the room. Between vodka and thrown daggers, Katya would mutter "Where is she?! Time is wasting. Wasting!"


Thistle was hot and irritated, even with the stars out above her. The air did not stir with any breezes, and the result was that her sweat stayed sticky on skin that was already coated in spots with bizarre accumulations of gunk that Thistle had no right idea where it'd originated. She wasn't one for baths, typically, but after having gotten a few sidelong stares through Beloy Street and until she hit the not-so-prim parts of the city, she decided that maybe she was due for one. Which was all a very nice way of dithering as she stood in the spot she'd attempted to shoot and arrow from and wondered where Katya and Thlag had gotten off to and whether or not she'd be in mortal danger should she attempt to go wandering off to find them. In the end, with her health in jeopardy, she decided to ask the men who were drinking. After a few false starts and a single, tense moment of silence in which Thistle was sure knives might be drawn on her, a list of places to check was forthcoming. Not that she felt any better, as she strongly desired to tell the men that they were drunken idiots (having no proper recollection or the desire to meditate on what exactly she was when she went drinking), but she turned and walked for the the only 'probably' in the list, and that was where the whole hellish day had begun. Her headache hadn't really abated any, and the sense of cotton-mouth had only gotten stronger. Thistle was in something of a dull Mood, capital quite purposefully there, when she opened the door. "Considering your words, I elected to bring the rest of my belongings. I hope I am not infringing on your . . .hospitality." She bowed, the words formal and grudgingly polite. 'Hospitality' was, of course, up for debate, but Thistle wasn't in the position to start tossing around insults. Then she took in Katya's apparent lack of composure, in the strictest sense of the words, and Thlag's nonchalance. "What?" Enough caution was in that single word to keep henpecking mothers supplied with for a month.


Thlag looks up at Thistle's entry, and tosses five silver at Katya. The orc comments in cryptic and inscrutable fashion "You are bad for my health, archer. I might have died." Katya, having just lodged another throwing dagger in the board on the other side of the room, turns "Hah! I am telling you she is not running away! People of the steppes are not running away!" Katya prods the orc, mimicking him "It. Is. Known." before turning a peeved glare on Thistle "How was that fast? We have wasted entire day! Many arrows could have been shot at target by now! Many! Manymany!" Thlag, with a broad sweep of his massive arm, knocks Katya's feet out from under her, dumping her unceremoniously back into a seated position. "Calm yourself, Katya. It is but one day. There are two remaining. The bandits, they will still be there even if we leave in four, five days. You are too impatient for one of the longlived". The elven mercenary grits her teeth, unable to dispute the logic of Thlag's words. 'Tch. Thlag is right. I am being ill-tempered. I am apologising, sibling." Thlag, never one to let such a moment pass unrecorded, raised both his massive eyebrows in mock startlement "Someone, be running a message to Gualon! Katya has let the forbidden word starting with A slip from her infallible lips! My mighty heart may fail from the shock, my sanity be ripped from my thick skull as the world turns upside down!" Thlag ducks into an ungainly roll as Katya's next dagger clears the air he'd only just absented. With booming laughter Thlag rolls out the door before regaining his feet out of Katya's line of sight. Inbetween bouts of merriment, the orc calls out "Archer woman, calm her down with Vodka. I shall return when I can breathe again." Katya, caught between vodka and the desire to bring Thlag harm, was at a loss for composure. Slapping her own face with both hands, Katya restores her own equilibrium and takes another look at Thistle "Ah, yes, that is being better bow, darling."


Thistle 's lips parted, and her eyebrows drew down as she looked back and forth between Katya and Thlag. She scrubbed at her forehead with her right hand, some strange idea floating into her head that by taking Katya on as a bloodsister she might have added a whole roster of people. Surely not. As quickly as the flurry of wit and counter wit began, it was over and Thistle was left facing Katya. What to say? Thistle knew what to do with her own sisters: she'd raised them. To be wives. While all women trained as warriors, only maidens went to war, and there were not so many who remained maidens long enough to go to war. Womanhood was marrying and children and being amidst a big, boisterous family with many aunties and grandmothers, daughters and sons, and menfolk who meekly accepted that their rule over herd and moving times didn't extend into the yurt. Dealing with a woman as a sister who had clearly not been raised to that was. . .strange. Difficult, because this woman was now part of her responsibilities, and Thistle did not know her. At all. Except that vodka seemed to be as important a drink to her as kumis was to Thistle. And she never seemed to stop talking. Which was all well and good, except that Thistle was momentarily paralyzed with indecision about what to do and how to handle Katya. Or, as seemed more likely, what to do about being handled by Katya, who seemed to overrun Thistle's present subdued manner. Not that it helped her at the moment, burdened with weapons and belongings and standing dazed like a stupid goat. "I'll make a better one," she said, after far too many seconds had passed. Like she'd just been thawed and hadn't been staring at Katya in a manner that would have been extremely rude for anyone not family -- she was still a stranger though, and a host, and aie Thistle's mind was going to pop with the pressure of so many new things. "Where should I keep my belongings?"


Katya was saved by Thistle's moment of shocked inaction, as it gave her a chance to regather her own thoughts. "Ah, of course, your bedroll is being that one. I was putting it near door, because I am thinking you are liking thought of being near exit, da? You can be putting your things anywhere by that wall." It was quite a large room which, prior to Gerard's functional renovations, had housed the previous owner's private art gallery. Now it simply housed space for bedrolls, and the workbenches set up for the minor repairs caravan guards always needed to make on their equipment after a successful run. Katya, for her part, had none of the concerns for propriety that Thistle wrestled with. She had spent her life riding with the men and women of the Rus; all were considered equal if they could perform jighitovka. For Katya it was simple: a warrior fought with other warriors. Only those warrior women who became with child were prevented from riding. But once a child was born, they were raised by the elders, leaving the warriors to their tasks. Not all women of the Rus were warriors, nor all men. Those not skilled in jighitovka performed the other tasks of the stanitsa: farming, mending, passing down the trades from one generation to another. But Katya was a warrior, and war was her trade. "It will be good to make your own bow, da. Perhaps you will instead be raiding for profit, to sell off your loot and purchase materials. Is what Thlag does. Thlag is very successful mercenary. If also being big stupid loudmouth orc."


"For profit?" It wasn't so strange, really, not in an objective sense. But the act of selling, of not making use of loot earned and keeping it as a means of displaying power to subordinates, to show the strength of the leader and his men, seemed somehow wrong to Thistle. Odd enough, at least, that she didn't consider the suggestion for long. "I don't know what I'll do when I regain my sisters. Take my vengeance on half the city?" She'd meant the words as a joke, but they came out with a serious, dark tone. She looked away from Katya, choosing the emptiest stretch of wall she could find to set down her things. She puttered about with tidying them just so until the stack was steady and didn't take up too much space. The belts that held scabbard and everything else was undone, the bow taken from its scabbard and carefully unstrung. Having no case to store the unstrung bow in, she instead wrapped it in a blanket. There wasn't much else to do then but turn around and look again at Katya, but somehow Thistle felt better with her back to the other woman. Again, it was behavior that bordered on rude.


Katya grins, returning to her previous activity of tossing daggers into the board on the wall. The direction a person faced meant little to Katya, whose casual approach to basic etiquette had often caused scandal in her earlier years. Thistle may well be relieved that her bedroll was by the opposite wall to the target. "Da, for profit, Qarashenka. Some people, when looting those who try and raid the caravans, are doing it for spare equipment. Some, like Thlag, are looting to increase the pay from a trip, and thus become more wealthy. Thlag owns his own home in Gualon, did you know? But I am mercenary because fighting is what I am loving best in life. If wind is not rushing past me, and there are no enemies before me, life is being very dull. I am not liking dullness. If dullness was a person, I would be replacing its eyes with daggerhilts, darling. Dullness is my enemy." Katya sends another dagger into the target board with a sharp 'thock'.


Thistle considered that, as she eyed her meager belongings. "I suppose I love my siblings best in life," Thistle said, because after the murdered dreams of a child she hadn't really had anything else to focus on besides survival. Everything had been very cut and dry, and once that'd been taken away. . . "Maybe I will try your way of life, when I have finished my duty." She sat back on her butt and spun around, taking a keen interest in the target board. Thistle's skill at thrown weapons had always been on the lower side of barely proficient, and she could admire Katya's restrained violence for what it was. Especially when it wasn't aimed at her. "Is that all you want?"


Katya purses her lips at the question as she sends another dagger to form a trio of embedded blades. It was not the kind of question she was often asked, and one even less answered. "Is silly question, moya dikobraz. The wind does not race, asking itself where shall it go next, or if being a wind is all it wants to do. It is simply the wind. The wind is the wind, and Katya is Katya." Another dagger plunges into the wooden board. Katya lounged, the last two daggers hanging lazily in one hand as she eyed the target board, looking for a likely spot for the next knife.


Thistle slid her eyes from the target to Katya. Again, she let herself spend some time examining the other woman: the expression on her face and the set of her body, the musculature that was visible and the way she held the knives. Thistle had never really had female friends, back home, and though she interacted with women fairly regularly in Cenril, it was the stock way she interacted with foreigners as a whole: like they were dirty, unapolegetic animals. But this one, this foreigner whose people were so like her own, was now her sister. That changed things. "You didn't want to marry? Have babies." Thistle's back curved as she set her elbows to her crossed legs and put her weight on them, watching Katya.


Katya laughs in pure amusement "Me, Qarashenka? A mother? To spend almost a year forbidden from riding? from jighitovka? from fighting?!" Katya laughs for a few more moments, before sending her fifth dagger into the board. "No, being a mother is not for me. And being my child would be no easy thing, seperated from the elders of my stanitsa. Should I leave a child with orcs to grow? Hah!" Katya sends her last dagger with a grin "Is funny idea, but no. I would not spend a year without jighitovka, a year without fighting." Katya noticed a shadow by the door "Now Thlag, he would happily do so, if he could. He is being like old mother already, always nagging, nagging." Thlag's grouchy voice comes from the door "Nobody is dead. That is good. But this talk is enough to drive me to drink. So I shall return to Ulric, and drink more." The shadow recedes. Katya smirks "He thinks he is so sneaky, but I know him. Sound of laughter is like dinner bell, he is thinking no more daggers flying, and is safe to come back. Next time I see him coming back, is time to turn conversation to moonblood, yes. Such talk is also way to keep privacy from Thlag for at least hour." Katya vaults to a standing position to retrieve her daggers, and looks at Thistle. "I am thinking you are a person who is doing a lot of thinking, sibling. Perhaps too much thinking, da? Thoughts can be like slow poison, crippling."


Thistle dipped her head down, the start of a smile plaguing her own face. Thlag's appearance almost killed the smile, but Katya was too infectious by far for it to go down so easily. Had it been any other way, Thistle would have slipped off, would have left without looking back. "No horse, my family taken from me. What else do I do but think? Now though, I must get to know you, my newest sister. A strange sister. A wife, a mother is for good, you know. To defend the yurt, and the children, and the old ones -- that is what it means to marry and have children. Everything is so strange here, so backwards. I could keep it out, but now I'm drifting through the dirty foreigners, and their strangeness stains me." The smile solidified, and found itself an edge.


Katya plonks herself back down, and ponders. "Is hard situation, da. You are like person from Barezhky's Stanitsa, sundered and scattered at completion of sanctioned blood feud. Having to find new Stanitsa, where everyone is being a stranger. But here there is being no custom of adoption, is not so easy." Katya starts on the target board anew, sending a dagger thunking into the wood. "Is not good to think these thoughts in city. To think in city is to think like a cityperson. Is like thinking inside little room, forgetting the open sky. Is unhealthy, I say" Another dagger thoks into the wood "If you are needing to be thinking, Qarashenka, then it is to be done under open sky, on horseback or bedroll. Then you can be thinking big clean steppes thoughts, not cramped and dirty little city thoughts." Katya grins "Or just stop thinking, and be like wind!" Katya waves a hand "Of course, you must be finding family and paying honor debt before being like wind. And for that, you must become warrior again. But is fine! You have a bow, and tomorrow we start preparing. And you will be waking up with the sun, and the entire day shall be spent properly this time."


Thistle muttered, "Your words are so muddled, half the time I don't get what you want to say." Louder, she continued, "I dream of the open sky, and of land that rolls like the sea. Unbroken by these buildings, and so many people. . .there is too much water here. Too much filth, and stink. You are right, of course, but I'll tell you now that I'll do whatever it takes for my sisters, and my fool of a brother. So, a day of hard work doesn't scare me. I'm clean of the liquid rot that sings and lures me so readily. I'll trust you in this, and I'll show you my measure. I hope you can properly trust me, in the future, when I show you the trouble that plagues me." Thistle's voice went low, almost teasing. The smile had slid down into something that was still pleasant, but only marginally so. Thistle was mellow, not quite relaxed but not so tense, as if she'd found a place to settle. She pushed herself up, and padded past Katya to take her place by her bedroll. "No more water in my face in the morning."


Katya grins "See, you are already fitting in. Thlag is saying exact same thing all the time! 'Quiet Katya', 'You are not making sense, Katya', 'Ow, dammit, take your dagger out of my shoulder, Katya'..." Katya pauses "Well, that only happened once, but it was being his fault for being annoying orc'suka and calling me a useless pixie." That the concussion she received from Thlag's fist lasted a full day or two, Katya did not think worth dwelling on. "I am certain, sibling, that you will be showing your measure. Is not feeble person who breaks a big Orc's bow on matter of principle. I am thinking we will be getting along fine. And if you are missing stupid brother in the short term, Thlag is stupid enough for all brothers in existence." Thlag, announcing himself with heavy footsteps, adds "And Katya, it is known, is annoying and childish enough for all the sisters in existence." A dagger bounced off the orc's hurriedly intervening vambrace. "I told you, Katya, you will be paying the healer's bill next time." Katya arched an eyebrow "I have five silver ready, just in case, darling. From the bet you lost." Thlag grunted. "Point made. Welcome aboard, archer. Katya's introduced me, so you know I'm Thlag. She mentioned you're cagey on names, so I'll call you archer until you decide to give me something you're more happy with." The orc starts removing the steel parts of his armour. "Tomorrow Katya, we spar. I think you need to get rid of some tension." Katya's eyes gleam "Then sleep well, darling. You will be needing the rest." Katya settles on her bedroll "As will we all, I am thinking. And no, Qarashenka. No water. Unless you are failing to wake with crow of rooster."

The early bird disdains the worm

Without the blanket of alcohol to aid with sleep, Thistle found herself having a hard time staying asleep. She was tired enough for a full night's rest, but as with the holes she found within the city itself the strangeness of the place and the lack of trust between her and everyone else in her immediate area, Katya and Thlag included. She woke before dawn. Tired, cranky, hungry and still feeling nasty as anything, Thistle resolved herself to a sweaty and miserable day as she went to her belongings. Moving with a natural quiet, she checked the bow (as if something disastrous could have happened to it overnight, but considering how suspect she found its quality it was possible the humidity of Cenril could be in the process of seriously damaging it, if it was animal glue and not fish glue as she'd been assured it was), strung it, and then removed her leather tunic. Whatever Katya's and the rest of their intentions regarding her may or may not be, there was no point trying to disguise herself with the disreputable clothing. She put on her deel, tied her sash, and placed her knives and daggers within it. The mess of her hair was tied back with a leather thong. She breathed deeply in through her nose and out through her mouth a few times, and then considered herself ready to face Katya. She turned around.


Katya swung upright into a seated position as Thistle gathered her things, already grinning with the excitement of a new day "Is shame, I was so looking forward to water waking you again, Qarashenka." Instead, Katya lifts up and dumps the bowl of water she'd set aside on Thlag's face as he rolled over. With a splutter the startled mercenary cursed in orcish for several seconds before grumbling "Katya, I will dunk you in a fountain. Or a pond. Or a pool. Or a muddy puddle. This is a promise." Katya laughed "You will have to be waking up earlier, then, Thlag darling. You are slow, see? Qarashenka and I are all awake and being full of energy! You are tired old bedridden man needing retirement." Thlag, running a massive hand over his soaking face, crinkled his brow and muttered to himself "...one day, in the river. Like an unwanted cat." Katya cast aside her blanket, directly into Thlag's face, and rolled backwards, uncurling to bounce upright. "Is no time to be wasting! Be breaking fast, yes, and then we are setting up targets!" Thlag hurled Katya's blanket back at her, adding his own blanket to the mix, hauling his massive form upright with a lot less enthusiasm. Thlag grumbled at Thistle "This, archer, is what you have to look forward to. Every day. Feel free to stick her with a dagger. It might curb her unsightly morning cheer." Thlag lumbered out of the room in the direction of the privy, letting out a rumbling belch to greet the dawn sun. Katya laughed as Thlag exits, gathering her padded undertunic and leathers, wasting no time in preparing for a day of heavy activity and physical training. "I am hoping you slept well, Qarashenka. Is best you be stretching, da? Is not good to be risking damage to joints if you are being out of practice."


A shame. Yeah. Thlag's discomfort momentarily lifted Thistle's spirits, and she indulged in some pettiness as she watched him come awake and threaten Katya. The two suited each other, she decided as she buckled on her scabbard and quiver. The bow and arrows were brushed absentmindedly as she too stood. "At the least I won't have to worry about being caught in ambush with her," she said, unsmiling, though there was faint amusement in her expression. Always nice to see someone else struggling, as it was. She watched him leave. Then, towards Katya she shrugged. "Either way it'll hurt. I won't be injured from this. Where's the food?" It was uncomfortable being the one reliant on someone else for direction. Some time in the last few years Thistle had gotten used to being in control, to knowing what was going to be the plan for the day and having others listen to her direction. It made her restless to suddenly be thrust back into the role of follower, and she found herself watching Katya with a little more intensity than strictly intended.


Katya stopped the process of fiddling with the harness of thongs, latches and bladesheathes in her vambrace and undersleeves for a moment "Food? Da, da, of course. I am thinking last night that Thlag was mentioning provisions." Katya starts rustling through the packs, dragging out an assortment of calico and waxcloth packages. "We are having dried fruit, dried meat, suspicious salami which I am not recommending, and Thlag is also finding goat cheese." Katya takes out a conservative quantity of jerky and dried apple. The elven mercenary also pulls out two bottles of clear liquid, commenting "Boiled water and wodka. Is healthier for the training." The elf pours one part vodka to four parts water in two mugs and dumps her own share of jerky into her mug while passing Thistle 'breakfast'. "We save cheese for later. We are breaking fast today with small meal only. We shall pause at every second gong of Gerard's bowl to eat a little more. Enough to prevent loss of focus, da?" Gerard's bowl was a Gualonese timekeeping device, consisting of a metal bowl with a small hole in the bottom, placed in a cylindrical copper vase. The bowl would fill over approximately an hour and fall to the bottom. Gerard had paid to have his enchanted to that the normal dink of bowl to bottom in fact generated a gong to resound throughout his compound. If anything, it encouraged moderation in his guests' night-time activities, knowing as they did that the blasted gong would ring out joyfully the daylight hours.


Two glorious words. "Fresh goat cheese?" Interest piqued, Thistle took what she was given without a twitch of her eyelids, and stooped to sit cross-legged on the floor to consume it. She didn't bother softening any of her dried food, but began chewing on it immediately, pulling the jerky to snap off bits of it. She put the extra fruit and meat she wasn't eating onto the taut material of her deel in her lap, and looked at Katya, considering. "I don't suppose your friend keeps horses for milking?"


Katya laughs, bouncing down into a squatted position over her toes. "No, Thlag is not from horse tribe. And people in Cenril, they are not having many good horses, for milking or otherwise." Katya ponders a moment, eating a segment of apple "Larket is place for fancy city horses, but their horses are not like Rus horses. Slender and pretty horses in Larket, so I do not bother but to look. They also have big big big destriers, being for Larket knights. But if you are wanting horse milk, you will be needing to find mare and milk her yourself, darling." Katya takes a piece of the vodka-and-water softened jerky and chews on it, slightly muffling her next words "Thlag though, he is liking goat cheese very much, so we save it for later, or maybe he end up take sparring too seriously, da?" Katya freed her mouth of food to finish her thought "Certain things must be held sacred in friendship, this is wisdom. Between Thlag and I, there is rule: he is lord of goat cheese, I am lady of vodka. And thus Qarashenka, we are having no conflict! Is clever, da?"


Thistle crumpled a little, and it showed in the lowering of her eyebrows and the small frown that briefly twisted her lips. "There's so much I haven't had, and I miss -- the cheeses here are," she broke off and made a gesture implying incompetence. She snorted at Katya's last words, and stared down at the food in her lap as she chewed and thought. "Is he your family? Or a partner made in blood?"


Katya waves a hand "Is plenty of time to be finding such things. Is wait which makes them better, da? For example, I waited three days for wodka, and even the terrible cheap bottle is being like heaven. Imagine waiting years!" Katya stopped, a momentary look of distaste flashing across her features. "No, I think I would grow potatoes first, then distill them. Da, just so. Otherwise is pizdets. Forget I am saying anything, Qarashenka. Maybe you will be finding mare on raid, for milking. Probably not, though."


Thistle stared at Katya. "It's been years. I've started wondering if I'll start liking the shit that passes for food here better. Aie, it doesn't matter. I don't need food from my home to raid or kill the cowards here." False bravado came in so many colors. Thistle hid hers in a bracing drink of vodka-laced water.


Katya nods "As saying goes, Qarashenka: is not mattering where the hay is from, so long as it is not made of the stinging nettles." Katya muses over a piece of apple. "It would be funny thing if we went sneaking into horse herds to milk them." The stomp of heavy orcish feet would give the sign of Thlag's return, accompanied by the orc's despairing "What is this now, elf? Another mad idea? I would much prefer to raid a minotaur camp than watch you milking random livestock." Thlag grabbed a large salami out of the pack Katya had raided earlier. Katya comments "I am thinking only you would eat those salami. There is being dark rumour about them." Thlag shrugged "I have always said they tasted better than usual. Now, if only the butcher would add elf flesh, then it would be a delicacy" Katya grinned "Oh, Thlag, Qarashenka here is asking if you are being family or bloodbonded!" Thlag bit down on salami, savouring what he always swore had a hint of human flesh in the meat mixture. It was also a very good way to resist the urge to say the first thing which came to his mind. After a reluctant amount of chewing, Thlag helpfully supplies "Neither."


Thistle was almost, almost offended. "Kumis would be worth the milking -- and not bloodbonded, but partners in the fighting. Shared blood. Not blood oath. . . .There's a difference." She looked back and forth between the two, the volume of her voice steadily shrinking. There was something about the two of them together that was almost. . .intimidating. Thistle had hung around some very powerful men and women of late, yet somehow none of them made her shrink in her seat quite like Thlag or Katya. Was it that she couldn't escape? She busied herself stuffing more jerky into her mouth to endlessly chew, not sure if she wanted the answer to that. Instead, she changes topics altogether. "Do any of the raiders have yurts?"


Katya grins until Thlag calmly and responsibly shoved the elven woman off balance. As Katya whirled in a graceful display of acrobatics designed wholely and solely not to spill a drop of vodka, the orc mutters. "It is important, archer, to remember one thing if you plan not to kill her from sheer frustration: Katya is an insane bitch. You were very drunk, so may not have realised this: but Katya does not differentiate drunk from sober. Because she never stops drinking." Katya, having regained the inertia of the swirling liquid in her mug and drained half of its contents to prevent another near-crisis of wasted vodka, casually plants a snapped-out kick on the back of Thlag's shoulderblade "If I am bitch, you are old lady!" The orc grunts, almost choking on his food, but continues on his conversation with Thistle. "I am familiar with oaths of blood, and I am not sure what led you to choosing this reckless lunatic as family, but obviously something clicked, or you would have cut her, and not your palm." Katya mutters "I'll cut you, mu'dak orc'suka! Spoiling my fun with your tedious logic and talktalktalk of tedious things." The elven woman chews spitefully on another piece of jerky. Thlag, taking a moment to rub his shoulder, and loosening his neck with a pair of cracking sounds, continues unperturbed "You are seeming, archer, to be a person who has not only heard the word 'responsibility' but, unlike Katya, comprehends it. So it is best to think of it like this: I am responsible for Katya. And Katya, in her way, is responsible for me. The enemies I cannot beat, Katya normally can. The enemies Katya cannot beat, I normally can. And if there is an enemy that neither of us can beat, then I hope that it is slower than us. Otherwise, we will die fighting it. We are an effective team, and our work together has brought us both profit." Katya, making using her hand to mimic Thlag, rolls her eyes. "Is more simple than that! We fight! It is being fun, so we fight more! Very simple! And we get paid, so is better!" Katya pauses a moment "No, the raiders are not having yurt. Just tents. These things of the steppes, you will have to be making yourself. So you will be needing to buy or steal material. Which means money or fighting! So, is all very easy, da?"


Thistle stared. It was well-established by this point, if only in Thistle's mind, that politeness was going to be a hard sell at best. Something very like hopelessness lurked in her eyes as she listened to Thlag talk, and compared his sensible words with Katya's antics. The very neutral words Thistle had started to apply to Katya, like exuberant and enthusiastic, began to take on the cast of naivete. But, surely, Thlag would remain in the picture, because Thistle very simply did not know how to deal with someone like Katya long term. She had thought, perhaps with desperation, that after the raid Katya had insisted upon things would go back to normal. Katya would become reasonable, biddable, and would behave in a fashion that might lead to them being bloodsiblings in truth, perhaps even partners in a livelihood Thistle hadn't had time to think about -- she couldn't go back to living on the streets. That was obvious. The what, the why, the how, the question of Katya and the big fat uncertainty of her life now that she was permanently attached to the woman -- Thistle sucked down her glass as if she was dying of thirst. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and chewed on a piece of dried fruit. "My siblings," she muttered at Katya, before looking back at Thlag. The wheels were moving behind her eyes as she churned up the thoughts his words had stirred with ponderous intent. "I am going to. . .I'm going to be blunt. You come with her?"


The big orc cleaned out an ear while he thought the question over. "Yes, and at the same time, No. We work together, yes. But we do not spend every hour together. Because then I would have to kill her." Katya made a face "I too am not wanting big clumsy Thlag with me all the time. He is like having stanitsa hetman with you all day, nag nag nag. And he is lacking sense of humour." The orc responded drily "It got knocked out of me the first time you bludgeoned me with a tankard, elf. Blame yourself." Katya, finishing the last of her meal, bounces to her feet. "I am setting up targets now. I will be waiting, Thlag." The orc doesn't stir as Katya springs out of the room. "Katya attracts trouble like blood brings sharks. That she is so energetic so soon after one job is finished, this tells me you are the blood in the water. It is up to you to speak, archer, but is it trouble strong enough that you would perhaps want my presence alongside Katya's" Thlag does not phrase it as a question, leaving the polite possibility of no answer at all to his statement.


"I wonder about that," Thistle replied as she flipped her left hand over to look at the scabbed wound. Thistle looked at the path Katya had taken out of the room up to the door that had let her out. "Though I'm getting used to trouble all on my own. Maybe mine will cancel hers out." Thistle took another bite of jerky, and after a little she added, "It doesn't matter what I want. I have no sway over you. I'm not here to . . .disrupt her life. Or yours. It's happenstance. A trick of the alcohol. Either way I'm sticking. A blood oath is a blood oath. So you tell me." Brave words, but Thistle didn't lift her eyes to look at Thlag, seal the implicit challenge with defiance or some other upstart emotion. She stuffed her face, instead.


Thlag nodded at the roundabout way the woman didn't answer his question. "Then I will not pry. It is no business of mine, archer, what you do in your recreation time. It is only on the field of battle that we will need to co-operate." Thlag picks up his helm, a simple openfaced steel barbute, and examines it critically, adjusting the leather coif and padding inside. "I must prepare my armour now, for Katya needs to calm down to regain focus, and only the clash of steel seems to help. Gather your bow, archer, and make use of the targets. We will have need of it, and a more restrained Katya, if this is to be a successful raid." The massive orc nods at the door and leans over to grab his breastplate, an almost palpable non-verbal cue indicating his focus would henceforth be entirely upon the task of gathering together his armour. Outside, Katya had set up the target and retrieved the target arrows. With that task done, and the morning's privy visit over, the elf was currently spending her time between the related tasks of stretching, and of exchanging wit and insults with other early-waking mercenaries.


Thistle watched Thlag for a bit, her own private doubts and thoughts on the verge of spilling over though he'd clearly dismissed her. Her own form of honor, and her inability to really pry, her instinctive respect for others privacy eventually won out and she gave up. The veil of drunkenness must have overhung that instinct, she decided as she made her own way to the privy. She couldn't help but wonder what she'd talked to Katya about with fewer inhibitions, with less care for tradition. With less care for anything, really. Thistle had never entered that wild state until entering Cenril, and that made her relationship with the city. . .unique. Not that it really mattered, she thought as she arrived before Katya and the targets themselves. The city had jack all to do with anything but that she'd made it a home on the back end of her exile when she'd been utterly clueless and too full of pride to consider any of the city-dwellers on the same level of her people. The only thing she would have done differently between then and the present, however, would have been to keep going. Make some hellish form of life elsewhere: Cenril could suck a bull's tit and be trampled for its effort. Her helplessness was set aside as she eyed the yard and its occupants, the set targets and stations, the smell of sweat that overcame the faint stench of the ocean. She pulled her bow free of its scabbard, the movement awkward; the scabbard was a matter of convenience, not a matter of ease. If you were expecting a fight, the bow had better be in your hands, because if you needed it immediately otherwise you'd probably be dead. Thistle picked up a practice arrow, and looked to the target. She made a stick figure as she turned her body, gripped the handle and looked at her target. She ignored Katya. She ignored everything. There was a certain peace in the routine of practice, and she held it in as she lifted the bow, arrow set towards the target, and drew. Her muscles strained; the draw was likely too heavy for her right then, and she knew there would be a chance of injuring herself if she overdid it, if she had to pull too often before giving her muscles a rest. She didn't care. Her face was blank, her demeanor focused. She sighted, let the air currents make their play at hampering her shot. Held, wait, breathed out, released. The arrow hit the target, but it had struck the outer edge of the target. Her draw arm and shoulder were quivering with the strain. She'd have to compensate for that somehow. "I'll do better," she said. That was a spoken fact. It damn well better be.


Katya nods in satisfaction, a moment of stillness from the normally frenetic elf. "Is good. Better bow, better shot. You were right to get this bow Qarashenka. Now darling, I will not be distracting you with questions or chatter. This is being important time. This is between you, arrows, bow and target. When the gong strikes twice from now, we pause for small meal." Katya continued her stretches "Thlag and I, we have appointment too. Is good for us. Thlag is always having trouble with swift fighters. I am always finding oliphaunt-like opponents big hassle. And so, we fight! Will be fun!"


Thistle looked sidelong at Katya, and picked up another arrow. She rolled back the right shoulder, then the left, feeling the first bit of weakness there, of unaccustomed strain. She knew soon there'd be tingling down to the fingers of her right arm. She smiled, and drew again. That was her life, for that inflexible, infinite amount of time. Her muscles, the arrows, the bow that she gripped as if her life depended on it. The motion was routine, familiar. Comforting in some small ways. Upsetting in others. Thistle hadn't had a proper target since buying her first bow so many weeks ago. She'd practice enough for the worst of the pain to have passed, but after she'd lost that other bow a few weeks after buying it, she'd been much less strident about ensuring her practice with it be something that was regular. She found her confidence slipping, and was therefore easily distracted by the third shot, hesitant to fully comprehend the completeness of her failure in falling out of practice in the first place. Bow still held as if she meant to do business with it, Thistle looked towards Katya and Thlag, and found herself momentarily caught at the sight of them.


Thlag had lumbered out of their room, armoured again in chain hauberk with helm, gorget, pauldrons, breastplate and vambraces. The orc gave his halberd a few experimental axe-like swings, at first with left arm and then with right, while Katya starts bouncing with an overabundance of energy "Ayaya, this is going to be fun, darling! Has been ages since we had good sparring match!" Something of an audience was gathering in the surrounding area as the off duty mercenaries sensed imminent cheap entertainment. Bets and wagers were flying amongst the men as the massive orc performed several squats to get his armour comfortably in place. Thlag grouched as he rolled his shoulders and neck, checking the articulations of his armour "I am wearing reinforced codpiece these days, elf. It will not be like last time." Katya gives a mock pout "But when someone approaches with big sword, is natural to deflect it with shield. Surely you are not holding Katya responsible for week of sore riding?". Thlag snorts "Of course I am. You are a vicious harpy, Katya. It is well known." The elf laughs as she collects up sabre and buckler and begins the slow, graceful movements of the wind dance, loosening up her muscles as Thlag continues to check on his armour repairs and movement range. Katya's movements become more flowing and sinuous, a spiralled rise and fall of twisting motion, of fluid shift in high and low stances, close in deflections and broadspanning cuts; the buckler and sabre dance as partners and a light breeze kicks up in the circle of Katya's dance. Katya finishes her warm up with a windpushed forward flip culminating with a downward slash at the apex, at just about the right height for Thlag's head, a puff of windkicked dust in the wake of her leap. Katya points her sabre at the orc with a grin and says "Maybe is time for me to help in beating your helm back into proper shape, darling!" Thlag grunts "And you wonder why I so quickly mistake you for a pixie."


Thistle had never seen anything quite like what Katya performed. She could scarcely take her eyes from the woman's form, but she forced them away to look at the gathering crowd. Their jockeying amongst each other, casual insults and flying bets gave her a clue that Katya was a common talent among them, a performer they'd seen many times before. The match was to be good, or at least eye-catching, for the level of committment they displayed was that of men who knew what was coming and yet came to watch anyways. Or maybe it was just the rivalry between Katya and Thlag. Thistle could admit the draw there, for they were oddly suited to each other, a balance that was hard to find. It was a good thing amongst men who were to fight together, either in training as they prepared for or on the field. Thistle picked up another arrow, and plied her fingers along the string, but though she intended to draw again she found her attention back on Katya and Thlag. She wanted to see. It was only with reluctance that Thistle gave herself permission to avoid her own problematic issue with the target by focusing instead on what Katya and her informal partner(that was what he was, Thistle didn't care what either of them said -- they worked well together and they obviously watched each other's backs, even if loosely) had in store for the crowd.


Thlag had never quite understood how the elf, so reckless and impetuous at all other times, could sink so quickly into the unnerving calm she had when fighting. It was not always the case though, the orc conceded, as sometimes the woman went almost berserk in her enjoyment of a brawl. Thlag carefully edged forward, starting with an orthodox two-handed grip on the halberd - one hand near the haft, one further forward for leverage. It was always slow, the start to their bouts, for Thlag had discovered that his first strike always found empty space, no matter how neat, fast, nor crisply executed the strike. So it was a strategy of determining the best way to strike, to encourage the elf to move into range of his next three or four attacks whilst not leaving himself open to her irritatingly acrobatic antics. Katya's demeanour changed the moment the orc shifted his grip, immediately adopting a strange guard, buckler out and sabre rested on her arm almost like a violinist placing his bow, her face losing all expression except for a singular intensity of focus. Katya lowered her stance somewhat, but otherwise maintained position, like a performer waiting for the curtains to raise. When the curtain raised here, it was in a swift angled thrust of halberd designed to pass through Katya's right shoulder, Thlag hoping to force Katya to move into a following slash of halberd blade. It was a powerful blow, not to be met force-on-force from one such as Katya, no matter how honed her muscles. Katya instead shifts slightly down to the side then up, thrusting both buckler and sabre blade into the halberd's head pushing it offline for the briefest moment. Katya steps in, pushing the halberd aside further with buckler as she frees up the sabre and starts to shift her body sideways again in preparation for her next move. Thlag continued his assault with large precise steps. Right foot forward with the thrust, he gathered his left to the side as the halberd's line is shifted by Katya, encouraging its new buckler-granted momentum to develop, stepping back with his right foot to bring the halberd around his head in a controlled sweeping strike, presenting the warpick edge of the halberd from his right to Katya's left hip. Katya, too develops her sideways motion into a twisting slantways roll under the line of the swung halberd, terminating the movement with a scything slash at the faulds of armour covering the Orc's hip. Thlag, glad that he'd not committed fully to the blow, shifts on his axis with a twist of his mighty hips, leveraging the haft of his halberd in the way of the sabre. The moment steel hits wood, Thlag extends that defensive guard down and uses the planted halberd head as a chance to regain positioning, using the halberd haft to offset Katya's followup slashes targeting shoulder head and neck before wrenching the weapon back into a guarding position while Katya leaps back and to the side, gaining free of the Orc's range. For a moment, excitement re-animates the elven mercenary's features "You are getting sly in old age, Thlag. Maybe you should continue using halberd as walking stick!" Thlag grunts "And you are less wary of the halberd head, elf. An improvement, albeit still reckless."


The bets flew, occasional moments of silence punctuated by catcalls and shouts. Thistle dropped the bow to point at the ground completely, loosing the tension she'd put on the string as she watched the fight. The words the two exchanged after the first flurry of movement only heightened the jeering, laughing mass of the still growing crowd. They were a favorite, those two, and they were paid with an undercurrent of adoration and the crashing wave of giddy attention. This was better than a paid performance, for the currency they were paid in was respect, though never crassly, never obviously. Thistle couldn't look away from Katya and Thlag, couldn't even though she wanted to break off to look at the group who awaited the next moves with the free eagerness of children. Well, not all of them; some really just wanted the flavor of the betting, the highs that came with the chance of near-equal skill, to participate in the fighting without ever lifting a weapon. It occurred to the back part of Thistle's brain that she was now inexplicably linked with them. All of them. They would find their way into her life, if she didn't find a way to keep them out. She watched, as the crowd watched, but she was silent. Her face, inscrutable.


Katya grins for a moment longer before returning to the task at hand. There was an ebb and flow to the way she and Thlag trained. It always started with Thlag making the first attack, to get them both in the mood, and then with each exchange the responsibility for making the first assault would shift from one to the other. And so Katya, with the faintest echo of her uncle's words droning in her subconscious, danced. The wind dance was a dance of void, quite unlike the Rus way of fighting, and yet the two complemented each other. There were patterns to the air, patterns which could be seen and felt and sensed in the slightest movements of it - patterns which could be altered - and she moved with them now, stray strands of hair rustling in a breeze that could not felt by those watching. Thlag shifted his stance to a broad position, holding the Halberd in a more casual guard, waiting to see Katya's movements before committing to a response. And then Katya moved, a swift sequence of running steps directly at Thlag, torso turned on an angle with buckler presented, sabre trailing to the rear - concealed from Thlag's vision by her body. Thlag grunted and stepped back with his left, sweeping the halberd head vertically down to form another orthodox guard, hoping the motion itself would check Katya's advance, or risk the structural integrity of her skull. Katya shifts course slightly, plants her left foot aside the halberd's path of descent, and punches out and up with the buckler. As the buckler meets the halberd haft, Katya barely resists its downward motion, retracting the buckler with a crouching bend of the left leg, and using the moment to swing the right leg forward to meet her left in a slight stomping flex of muscles, twisting her hips and right shoulder in a motion which swung her entire body around and over the halberd with a scissoring kick through the air. Given thought, Thistle would recognise the motion as vaguely similar to that of a person mounting a horse on the run, were the halberd's head at all horselike. Thlag, caught somewhat offbalance by the tactic, swings his left hand high, altering the angle of his guard in an attempt to lever Katya away like a child down a slide. The agile elven mercenary uses the orc's rigid guard and the scissoring motion of her legs to wrap temporarily around the angled halberd haft, ankles securing themselves against the halberd's head long enough to lean back in a semblance of the jighitovka obryv flashing a left-handed buckler-punch at Thlag's face. Thlag wears the punch to the front of his barbute with a clash of grating steel and a grunt, responding by releasing his left hand from its position on the halberd, stepping forward with his left foot to drop an angled elbow in on Katya's ribs below the extended buckler. As the Halberd swings down in Thlag's right-handed grip, Thlag heaves, propelling Katya forwards, momentum which the elf converts into a forward bounce, roll, before springing into a handstand and sidewards cartwheel back out of range. The elf mercenary rubs her ribs where the clawed end of the orc's vambrace also had lodged into her ribs. "Ayaya, is that any way to treat a lady, Thlag!" The orc responded "It is hard to tell if what I am hitting is male if there is a shield in my face."


It should have been eerie, strange even, the way Katya's hair was tugged as if by gentle, invisible fingers. It suited her, Thistle decided, and then thought became something else entirely as she watched the fight unfold. Katya was unlike anything she'd seen before. Thlag would likely do well on the steppes, especially in the wrestling matches, but Katya was too light, too airy. Thistle slowly turned to face them, mouth slightly open as her brain tried to keep up with what she saw. The bow's handle came to rest in front of her, gripped sideways by both hands as she watched. How long since she'd seen a good sparring match, flanked by cheering and jeering men who wore not the cruelty of strangers but the laughing faces of comrades? Too long, and for a moment she was swept back to other days of training, another place entirely with Katya and Thlag at its center. There was a small burst of catcalls and laughter at Thlag's words, and even Thistle found her lips quirking upwards a little. It was safe. They were safe. Dangerous killers, assuredly, but safe for all of that. What a strange cast of stones the Souls had seen fit to grant her. For the beauty of their forward and retreat, Thistle decided maybe she could find a way to tangle with Katya's behavior and attitude. If she got to watch this easy back and forth, this epitome of camaraderie. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. But that thought was swallowed as they rejoined, and the play of light and shadow and the twist and bulge of muscles overtook her and swallowed her down. Trapped. But maybe, just that once, it was a good thing.


Katya, taking a moment to massage the muscles in her side, notices the slim number of arrows in the target she had set up , and calls out "Qarashenka! No distractions, darling! The target, it is face of man standing between you and family. Be putting feathers in his eyes!" And with that piece of advice the elf nods her readiness to Thlag, who wastes no time in starting a swift forward advance, this time wielding the halberd more like an axe in short-swinging cuts and ripping slashes, making good use of the Halberd head's spike and pick to minimise Katya's efforts to slip into close range. The orc's approach to movement was methodical and involved a constant but simple shifting from right to left stances in a triangular pattern of motion. There were several moments where sabre clashed lightly on armour, or where Thlag sent Katya flying with a well-timed punch or stomping kick, but as yet the only blood came from minor cuts and grazes on Katya where she had made too fine an allowance for evasion, and from Thlag's nose, care of a more precisely aimed shieldbash. The sparring went back and forth, as did the betting, until the first gong heralded a brief pause, if not a meal break. Katya and Thlag paused a moment to splash water over their faces as well as drink a mug's worth. Winnings from the first hour of betting were being passed around and Thlag lumbers over to the pool of pundits to see how the wagers had gone. Katya would take that moment to wander over and see how Thistle's vengeance on the target was proceeding.


Thistle continued to watch the dueling pair even after Katya's chiding, but not for so long that she could be accused of ignoring the task that'd been set. Not completely, at least. Soon enough she'd turned away, and that was the real start to her hell. The second bow she'd bought, though she'd swear up and down that it was well beneath her standards, had a lower draw strength than the one she'd initially bought. At the start, she was drawing smoothly, feeling the tug. As time went on, her muscles warmed and eased, and she found herself scoring closer and closer to the points on the target she wanted to hit. But after enough time had passed, her muscles had tipped over the edge where the burn had gone from heat to scalding pain. The pull started wavering as her arm and shoulder shook with the strain, and by the time the bell rang she was damp and puffing out breaths. Two of her five last shots had missed the target entirely due to her shaking. She'd paused there, brows furrowed after her last arrow missed, again. She breathed. Exhaled frustration. Stalked forward to collect the arrows. Upon returning she went down into a crouch, carefully placing the bow upon the ground and rubbing at her right shoulder and bicep with her left hand. Her chest hurt on the left, but not nearly so strong as her shoulder. That bothered her, but she contained it as she crouched and stared down at her bow. Katya's approach was initially ignored, but when she drew close enough Thistle gave a grim little smile towards the ground. "How long do you think the raid will last?"


Katya, too, was in need of the brief respite. Although the elf was resilient and hardy from years of fighting, even Thlag's weaponless strikes were nothing to be dismissed, and the mercenary knew that the bruises she was cultivating would make sleeping an uncomfortable prospect. The elf stretched her arms "I am thinking, darling, that we are resting for an hour at next gong. Then we can talk about raid in detail, perhaps." Katya massaged her left hand "Do not be telling Thlag, because he is being intolerable when correct, but it is possible that he is right to suggest a raid in four, or five days time. We will plan for lightning raid, Qarashenka, as it is seeming not plausible to simply be taking time to kill them all and loot at will." Katya glances over to where Thlag was having a good-natured but loud argument over the results of one particularly close exchange earlier. "Distract, divide, and steal horses. That is likely being the best way to proceed. Thlag is good at distracting. You and I, we shall take horses."


Thistle listened to the sounds of the world around her, inhaled the scent of leather, sweat, and the sharp tang of metal. It enfolded her, encouraged her to roll her shoulder and wipe at her forehead. Her upper body felt curiously light and loose, and she knew her grip strength would be questionable at best on the morrow. She considered that, as she considered what words she had to speak. A few pieces of hair had come loose from the tail she'd tied them back into, and she pushed them away from where they'd plastered against her face. "There is one I am expecting word from. I need to make sure she knows where I am. You're pushing me on this. I don't like it, but I'll accept it this once -- I understand what you are trying to do for me. You honor me, but. . .aie, nevermind. A night raid?"


Katya chuckles "Darling, is only because you are now being my sibling that I push you." Katya takes a moment to tease with a grin "That you are seeming unable to think straight with alcohol, and are forgetting how we are becoming siblings - these things I am forgiving." The ache of her left palm from controlling the buckler was an unpleasant reminder of the cut. The elven mercenary's grin spreads with mirth "But really, you are being prickly like dikobraz! You are not being prisoner, Qarashenka. Get message to and from whoever, as you will it." The mercenary added "But do not be forgetting: to regain art of weapon, of war, is being needed for you to reclaim family. If it were not being so, you would have already succeeded - is this not the way of things?" Katya adjusted her leathers slightly, in preparation for the next round of sparring. "As Thlag was saying, raid can be delayed if necessary. Fight with Thlag is being very satisfying, so I am not so hurry hurry anymore. Is probably good thing, da?" Katya tugs at her vambraces "For we will indeed be raiding at night! And you are needing to practice. For when you are recovered enough, I am wanting to see famous shooting from horse!"


Hard to argue with the woman. She was almost reasonable, and Thistle wasn't sure if that was a good thing. The echoes of her small talk with Thlag still traipsed about in her head if she paid the thought any attention, and she wondered how much of his estimation was true. Was Katya truly so bad? Thistle looked up then, searching Katya's face for clues. "As you say," she said, voice nightwatch soft. Another few practicing ranged weapons further down the space took her attention for a small bit, and she made some harsh judgements about their accuracy, and how it played against her own. The result of that process left her voice thick with determination. "A year. A year it will take for the bow I'll make to dry properly. Then you'll see. Until then, it'll be no more spectacular than any other middling tribesman. Unless you haven't seen tribesmen shooting from horseback before?" Thistle turned her head back to Katya, and stood. Though Katya had come to her and not the other way around, Thistle already knew enough of the woman to understand that her lack of politeness wasn't on purpose. She lacked all of it. Thistle would have to be careful lest it rub off on her, since she had no intention of turning barbaric in her exile. Well, more than she already had.


Katya nodded "The others in the stanitsa, they would practice the bow. But when they were practicing bow, I was practicing wind dance. It was arrangement between my uncle and the Ataman." An arrangement which had always rankled, but her uncle had insisted upon her learning an aspect of her blood heritage, even if she had seemed incapable of thinking and behaving like an elf supposedly 'should'. "But it is not important, seeing others shooting from horse - it is important seeing you shooting from horse! And a year?" Katya struggled a moment to grasp the idea of waiting a year "Very well, in a year I am hoping to see proper bow of your people, and you using it, da?" Katya started stretching her torso with twists and bends as Thlag approaches from the other side of the enclosure "Be not worrying too much, Qarashenka."


Thistle snorted. "I always worry," she muttered, "I worry when the rains come, when they don't come, when there are too many flies or when my sisters' arms look too skinny. You'll get used to it if you stick around me long enough." She stooped to pick up her bow, and grunted on the way up. Oh, she was going to -hurt- tomorrow. She started shaking out her arm, sticking it perpendicular from her body to attempt to freshen it back out. There was possibly nothing more humiliating than missing a target completely from a distance so close. "You truly don't mind being bloodbonded with me, do you?"


Katya laughs merrily "You are funny, moya trevozhnyy dikobraz! You are indeed worrying over everything! If I was minding, I would not be making oath in first place, da? Life is being too much at risk of dullness for me to worry over every little thing, Qarashenka!" Thlag slowed his approach somewhat, so as not to intrude in the conversation as Katya commented "I was once drinking with Cenril legbreaker, and he was moaning about family. And he finishes by saying in mournful voice..." Katya mimics, badly, the sound of a depressed drunkard "You cannot choose your family" Katya waves a hand airily "I was of course telling him that he is being stupid, and of course you can choose family. I ended up having to kick him in the fork, because he was getting too friendly, but that is not point of story." Katya remembers the point she was trying to make. "My point is, family is about finding people who are being interesting and not afraid of being alive! Thlag would be good family, but Thlag is being narrowminded thickskulled orc with prejudice against smarter people." These words would herald Thlag's arrival, and prompt the orc's grouched reply "I am only prejudiced against childish pixie girls with neither sense nor manners." Thlag added drily "Besides. If I wanted to be a father, I would have stayed in Gualon." Katya quirked her lips with momentary displeasure "You would be the little brother. In diaper. Which you will soon be needing when I am kicking govno from you!" Thlag nods to Thistle and holds out a waterskin "Take this, archer. It is best not to dry up entirely"


Thistle made a small growling sound in the back of her throat, and took the skin. "You'll have to teach me the words of your people." She spoke to Katya, and looked between them. "Before we go back to --" a gesture was made with left shoulder and chin towards the larger practice area, "I was wondering. Your names. Are there meanings to them?" It was not a question Thistle often asked, and it was so carefully casual. That there was a chance that these people. . .she didn't want to risk it. It was best not to. She knew that. The yard, the people in it, the sense of something larger, something coherent and whole: this was a proper place for a warrior. It was there, tangible, no empty promises or half-assed words depicting a sentiment she couldn't appreciate. It was readily apparent to her senses in the glint of sun off sweat, in the bunch and release of muscles, in the food and water so freely shared between men. Even the betting, so different from that which her own people engaged in but for all that sharing a common thread. If -- that word was such a fragile thing, but Souls take her for it -- if this was a place that she could finally find her stride in the noisome tangle of people and animals and their stink that was life in the city and the surrounding area, then it was possible she could become what she'd been. It was hard to be lonely when you had the clang of metal, the sun on your face and the shuffle of feet and the gathered noise of cloth and armor. It had the flavor of the Kin to it, and despite the heavy overlay of bitterness, there was still something sweet under the burden of the years and events that had passed since her last taste. Thistle gave them the respect of her eyes, passed between Katya and Thlag evenly. They had her honor, even if it only lasted that day, that moment. Maybe then she could accept a little of theirs.


Katya thought about the question, perhaps longer than Thistle might have expected from the elf. It was Thlag who spoke first. "Thlag is the name given me by my tribe's shaman, as is our custom. Its meaning is derived from the claw of a bear. I was large for orc spawn." Katya nodded "And not because he is useless without rest of bear." The elven woman smirks slightly before also answering "Katya is the name I was given by the Rus. My uncle, he uses a different name for me, and it is having similar sound, but that is not my name. I am a warrior of Rus, and I am Katya." Katya nods decisively. "But you were asking what is trevozhnyy dikobraz, darling?" The elf grins "Dikobraz is animal covered in little spikes. It is being very adorable, but one is having to be careful in how it is being picked up. 'Trevozhnyy' is being worried. And so, you are being worried adorable spiky person! Is fitting, da?" Katya seems proud of the nickname she'd given Thistle, but Thlag covers his face with one massive hand, furrowing his brow. "I am not watching. If I remove my hand in a few moments, and Katya is filled with arrows, I was witness to nothing. It is known."


Thistle stared at Thlag for a moment or two, her brow furrowed. "I wouldn't shoot -- oh. Oh." Though late, she cracked a smile and even made a few strangled noises that could pass for a chuckle if imagination was used. Katya hadn't really answered her question, and that meant Thistle would have to struggle to remember. She'd done it before, she could do it again. It did help that the two might as well have been connected at the hip, and used each others' names frequently. "It isn't the worst I've been called. It isn't bad. Strange, but she is. . ." Thistle shrugged, as if the sentence needed no further explanation. She toyed with the string of her bow, and stretched her fingers out wide. "Bear Claw, and Katya. Thlag. I will remember your names. I'll fight at your sides. I will learn your ways and show you mine. Such is honorable. And once our enemies are nothing but smears, I'll show you a proper feast, with fire, and dancing and wrestling, and horse races." She lifted her bow, and grinned at the two of them. It was a weak, pitiful sort of grin, but it showed both teeth and a promise.


Katya grins "I am thinking is shame I was not named something more descriptive, rather than being given name of dead Rus woman who I was reminding the Ataman of. I am liking idea of 'Thlag-stomper'" Katya chuckles "Da, you can be calling us Bear Toe and Thlag Stomper. Is good fit." Thlag removed his hand. "Oh. You still live, Katya. Ah, but wait, you wanted a change of name? Thlag-stomped is a good fit, yes. Thlag and Thlag-stomped. Just like half an hour ago." Katya casually kicks Thlag's booted ankle and faces Thistle. "Alright, Qarashenka, it shall be just as you say! Fighting and feasting and smearing of enemies! But, it is perhaps being impolite of me, for I was always being told that if someone asked a question, sometimes it was to be hinting that someone is wanting to share similar information." Thlag rolls his eyes as he gives his ankle a bit of a shake and comments "You are always so subtle, Katya." The mercenary woman grins "I am knowing this! Is one of many charms, da? But as I was saying: I have been calling you by name you first gave me, Qarajin, though I am understanding you are having perhaps many names. Is there being special meaning to Qarajin?" Thlag covered his face again, Katya's obvious failure to understand the notion of 'subtlety' causing the orc the need to physically restrain an imminent outburst of mirth.


Thistle blinked. Held her hand up as if to ward the oncoming question, but it was too late. So the woman just arbitrarily decided to be polite the one time Thistle would have been fine with rudeess. That was fine, because she couldn't help the wary smile that kept sprouting every time the two of them snapped at each other. In the face of that, of the two of them, Thistle was very suddenly embarrassed for her circumstances. It was unlike her. "I was drunk," she hedged, and shrugged. "Calling me Qar is fine. Better, even. There's no special meaning." A distraction presented itself in their previous banter, and Thistle pounced on it with the force of a cat. "So he -- Thlag -- he beat you then?" Thistle smiled at Katya with perhaps a little too much bright innocence.


Katya paused mid-movement, for a moment an entirely shocked still-frame tableau of 'Wait, what did I just hear!?'. Thlag burst out with a torrent of bellowing laughter, despite the hand he'd had in place. Thumping his thigh in appreciation, the orc laughs even louder when Katya, recovering herself, pouts and says "He was not beating me! He simply stomped me. With a kick. Is not same thing! I will be showing you!" Thlag took a step backwards when he caught Katya's expression, and his thick steel codpiece proved its worth, as Katya flicked out her foot in a ringing collision of steelcapped boot on retreating groin. Katya nodded in satisfaction "See, I am now stomping Thlag! Is making sense, yes?" Thlag continued laughing as he backed off a few more steps, commenting in a voice choked with amusement "I am not knowing which is better: Archer's joke, or the expression on your face!" Thlag made his eyes go round in what was a grotesque facial expression, resembling in only loose terms, Katya's earlier appearance. Katya rolled her eyes "You are like big child, Thlag. I looked much prettier." Katya pokes Thistle with a grin "That is being good joke, Qarashenka! Your humour is like ambush! Joke is sign of relaxation - this is being a good sign! Worry less, relax more! Relaxed muscles work better." Thlag nods his agreement with further laughter "Katya looked very relaxed, lying on the ground after I kicked her." The elf retorts "And you were looking relaxed with shield squashing big fat nose!"

Thistle was impressed, despite herself. Both with Thlag's apparent precognition and Katya's speed. The poke put her onto a more uncertain frame of mind and the bit about joking made her mouth twist into a wry expression. She was good at joking around, though it'd been a long time since she'd engaged in the give and take of humor without having either danger or drink biting her ass for encouragement. "So who wins the bouts between you two? Even trade?" Of course she wasn't going to relax so easily. Just the thought of it had her stiffening a little, though she tried to hide it by rotating her arm a few more times, played her fingers on the string, looked down the range and back at the two of them. Her smile was a little less natural, but it hadn't become so awkward that it dropped off entirely.


Katya looks at Thlag, an eyebrow raised, as if to pass the question onto the orc. Thlag, still recovering from the bout of heavy laughter, raises a hand to deflect the question back to Katya. Katya grinned cheerfully "As you can be seeing, darling, I win." Thlag's skywards glance spoke volumes, and the orc clarified "We are fighting in different ways, archer. In theory, we are mostly even. Some days, Katya is more focused, and I find myself glad of armour. On other days, Katya is distracted or overly excitable, and learns to regret the lack of concentration." Katya rolled her eyes "My explanation was being easier. And better. Unless you are forgetting that on those days I win you are being beaten by, as you call it, 'little pixie girl'" Thlag grunted "You flit about like one, it is true." Katya hissed "I give you flit about the ear, mudak orc'suka!" Thlag raised both hands "It is indeed being about time for round two. Ulric is wanting to win back some of his losses." Katya, momentarily distracted by the new information, poked Thlag "Who did he bet on? What are they saying, with their weak eyes and terrible judgement?!" Thlag's expression was neutral as he responded "I will not say." Katya ground her teeth and appealed to Thistle "Do you see, Qarashenka, what I am having to put up with? I am telling you, I will be making him talk in next round!"


"He's talking now. . .." Despite the words, Thistle's eyes had squinted a little with her withheld laughter. "I begin to see why they line up to watch you two fight. If I wasn't so . . .didn't need to focus here," she looked away again, back to that beckoning target that Thistle had a feeling she'd be wanting to throw within the next few days. "How long have you worked with each other?" There was a thought, then, that maybe she wouldn't want to throw the target. She still had to touch the excuse for a horse that was, she reminded herself, being gracefully offered for her use. Mean, nasty beast that it was. The target, in comparison, seemed to glow just slightly with its benign potential.


Thlag grunts "Too long." Katya chimes in with "It is being at least several years. I am not one for keeping tally of winters. But it was not being all the time. Often we were on different caravans. Is only in past couple of years that we have been hiring onto caravans as partnership." The orc nods "It is as I said previously: Katya is reduced in effectiveness when fighting big opponents. I am not good at fighting small, fast opponents. In one-on-one matches, it is not so bad, such as in the Arena. But on guard duty, it is never just one. There are always several, waiting for an opening. So Katya fights the fast ones, and I fight the big ones, and we share the rest between us." Katya adds "And the one with least bandits killed pays for next drinks and meal. The one with most killed is also earning the splitting coin." Thlag nods agreement.


Thistle understood, in theory, the type of partnership they had. It was not a partnership in truth, but a mutual agreement between them that so long as the roads remained dry and the horses plentiful that they would continue doing as they had been doing. It didn't make sense. They were, in Thistle's slightly inflated self important opinion, perfectly suited for a more formal partnership. They could watch each other's backs just fine, they were at the same level, and there was much to gain. Why wouldn't they partner up? But then again, they were not of her people and she knew next to nothing about theirs. It was blindingly obvious to Thistle, but since many things that were blingingly obvious to her were stunningly not obvious to what seemed to be every single other person she'd met in the city, it was not so surprising as all that. She nodded along with Thlag, and said quite truthfully, "You're all strange. I don't know why it still seems so, but maybe I just want what I remember. I am glad, at the least, to find people who aren't so. . ." she shrugged again, and this time gestured in the direction of the exit to the compound, and the greater city beyond. "Whatever flaws you think in each other, you're still, how to put it, real?" It made sense in her head.


Katya grins "I am understanding only half of that, Qarashenka, which is as good as not understanding at all! But is not being problem. You are thinking the big worry thoughts, like Hetman and Ataman. I am not thinking those thoughts, and thus there is being difference. And in difference is always strangeness, da?" Thlag mutters "I am yet to be convinced you think at all, Katya. You have dragged Archer into a mercenary's compound, while she was drunk. And you are surprised that she worries." Katya paused "Yes, but..." It was, the elf had to realise, a damn good point, now that the orc had raised it so bluntly. A moment's thought later, though, restored her faith in the natural order of things "...but a-HA! She was leaving, and then was coming back! So I am not being the horrible imprisoner of drunk people you accuse me of!" Katya stood triumphantly, having completely forgotten the original point, and said to Qarashenka "Can you please be telling stupid Thlag I am not imprisoner?" Thlag opened his mouth to clarify, but thought better of it, closing it again with an amused snort.


Thistle shrugged, maybe just a little uneasily. "She told me earlier I could go out into the city to get done what I need to. It was reassuring. And it wasn't her fault. I don't know what happened that I lost control, but I doubt it was her." It would be nice to have memories to fill the blank spaces, but what could she do? Thistle looked at Thlag, and shrugged again. It was a little movement, a private concession. "Unless she goes out and commits blood oaths with strangers often?" Which would be disturbing if she did, and Thistle decided she didn't particularly want to know if that was a Thing, capital and all, for Katya. Thistle rather liked the compound, and Thlag seemed a decent enough sort.


Thlag rumbled out a clarification, as it appeared one was needed. "It is fine, Archer. There is no need to explain. Stirring up Katya is a form of entertainment. It is like throwing flashpowder in flame - always different, always interesting." The elven woman rolled her eyes, and started another round of stretches while Thlag talks "If it helps, Archer, Katya is not the type who goes out and adopts people on a whim. Especially not those who are drunk. Normally she robs them as a lesson in learning to handle their liquor." Katya grimaced and interjects "I only do that to annoying drunks Thlag, you know that." Thlag snorted "But the point remains Archer, that Katya is not fickle in choice of battle brothers and sisters. It is a shame you do not remember what you said. It obviously left an impression." Katya begins some leg stretches with a snide "You are sounding jealous, Thlag. Are you now wanting to cut palms?" Thlag retorted "That is not the way of my people, Katya, and you are knowing it. Our gods do not honour oaths made with non-orcs." Katya giggles then stops to say "You are realising I hope, Thlag darling, Qarashenka, that we have now had plenty of rest? Almost too much rest! Is not good to let battle vigor drain completely from body in the middle of sparring."


Thistle should have been used to feeling awkward around these strangers and their ideas, but she wasn't and it showed in the way she stood. There was no obvious difference, but for someone looking or sensitive to such things it'd show in her minute movements, the barest shift of her expression and the way she watched Thlag and Katya. Thlag's words were almost complimentary, and with him being something that was not quite something in Katya's life, and what that might mean for Thistle's own acquaintance (was it so wrong to hope for a new life that mirrored that of the Kin?), Thistle found that some time to think things over was a possibly welcome thought. "Long as I don't injure something because I'm so out of practice," she muttered, but she was already bending to pluck up another practice arrow, was turning away from the two partners-who-weren't-partners. Over her shoulder she tossed a casual, "We do bear similarities between our people. It is lonely, in the city." But then she was drawing, holding, and releasing on the edge of her breath. She gave herself four more shots, at the max, before her muscles gave out on her again. She gave a mighty grimace, and scowled at the bow. Some terror of the Tribesmen she was.


Katya grinned "Darling, it is not in the city that you will get to see the similarities. The narrow streets and walls and enclosed spaces, there are all making person think city thoughts, and having city fears. It will be on horseback, on open roads and plains, that we shall see the family resemblance! When we are on horse, riding to battle, then shall there be no strangeness!" Katya pointed at the target "Remember, target is face of man standing between you and family." Katya performs a couple of quick squats then bounces to her feet and knocks on Thlag's shoulder pauldron. "Alright, you big oafish zagovorshchik, it is time to make you regret telling my sibling about lessons taught to drunk people. Now she will always be worrying too much to drink! Is cruel, Thlag, very cruel!" The orc kept wisely silent, merely adjusting his pauldrons and vambraces as he lumbered over to where his halberd was propped against a wall. As Katya collected her sabre and buckler, there were some catcalls and cheers, with Katya shouting "If I find out you are not betting on me, you are owing me drink!"


The arrow was more or less where she'd wanted to put it. Mostly. Thistle looked back at Katya as the other woman walked away, and then at Thlag. Every time she thought maybe she might have slipped into their stream of living, she felt pushed back onto the banks. It was only the second day. The thought of spending years tied to Katya was no more reassuring for the factuality of it, though, and Thistle turned back to her arrows and the target. She made it to the third arrow before her arm was shaking and wobbling her aim all over the Souls cursed place, and rather than shame herself with another wild shot into who knew where, she decided to take a longer break. She'd do none of them any good if she tore the muscle, and the fight that had started between Katya and Thlag was a lure. Perhaps she would watch them until her shoulder firmed a bit more, and then she'd go wrestle with the beast lurking in its stall. She slung her bow over her left shoulder and went to join the lingering crowd that had not quite fully dispersed after the break had been taken.