01 | OPEN

[shri]

WHO: Lakshmi & You!
WHAT: Out and about events, catch all for the month, etc.
WHEN: Today to the end of the month??
WHERE: Kirkwall and the surrounds
NOTES: N/A at present.

i. ( training )
Each morning, Lakshmi's pattern is incredibly similar: she rises, goes about getting ready for the morning with quiet prayers and as little sound possible to disturb anyone she might be sharing her quarters with, and goes down to the training grounds. It has been years and years since the only weapons she relied upon were sword and shield - if ever. Disliking a pistol in her youth wasn't the same as not having it. Even so.

There is some secret thrill, to having nothing but the joy of Shivaji's weapons, to be like the stories of her grandfather's time. Fighting by Bajirao's side.

But stories they were, and the years since she had been taught the weapons, there had been rifles, thermite and Tesla's electricity to fill the space where those skills had once been sharp. Time to start at the beginning again. First with a spear, dressed to turn the long material of her sari to wrap her legs like pants and tuck the rest in tightly to a waist belt. The Inquisition light armour over the top.

Enough to train in. Taking up the spear first - and beginning to move with it - a series of long movements as she begins to turn it like a pinwheel between both hands, over her head, another full circle. Then again, and speeding up as she goes. Stepping in turns as she passes it between hands, one at a time, puncturing it with long thrusts, the practised strike of a spear into flesh mimed and pulled back from. Feet turning in the dirt in precise movements, turning on her heel the lessons of her father, sharp in her ears, it is speed, more than strength, a fast lion's swipe than its bite is how Shivaji triumphed, and it is - big, flashy, more dance than strict combat. But as much concentration as either. Fixing in the middle distance with the effort of keeping it up. Until the spear in her hand is spinning as fast as she can manage it, from behind her back to in front of her, holding it for moments it above her then, then across from one side of her body to the other as she turns into each step. Breathing hard, the sting of sweat on her brow. Then faster again, until her arms felt the ache of it.

Until when it's over, far more suddenly then how she built up to it, the spear is thrown down, tip to the ground and she bobs down. Arching on her toes, balancing there as she touches the ground, the reaches up to mime the touch near her face. I've gotten slow, father. Rolling up to standing after that, she goes to pull the spear out of the ground. Absent gestures - leaning her face down and pushing her shoulder up to wipe her brow clear.

Nothing for it, she returns the spear to the stock of weapons, then reaches for the sword and shield closest to her own preference - a long eye cast on the other pieces she sees. No, no, not worth it. Not yet, not until she knew her pieces perfectly. Shaking out all her limbs. The long sword was no talwar. This was not the lightness that she was used to exactly. Didn't curve against her palm right. But if this was what was most commonly available - then it was what she was to get used too.

Better than sitting around stewing over other matters she could not change - like still being here, or what Kitty had said to her. And to that - she gladly takes the offer of anyone who might want to the spar. Whether it was overeager Inquisition soldiers ( some she beats, some she does not ). Or other Rifters and her grin is quick and easy -

"And you? Fancy a match?" Her laughter with it, she likes being this - more than she likes just about anything else. It's simple, and easy, and knows quite plainly what and who she is.

ii. ( bathing )
Not a single time after training for however long she does so - that it isn't immediately followed by gladly throwing herself to be clean. Nothing more utterly blissful as that, especially after the recent years. ( Scrubbing in cold water on the worst of winter days left little to be desired. ) So glad that at least here, for all she might not want to stay here, had something decent.

Took the same sort of discipline to it, even if it was a sight more eagerly done than perhaps was necessary. Unravelling all four feet of hair from where it was pinned to the top of her head ( - ought to cut it, like she had before this place sore fit to give her reminders she did not want and with it the memory of why she had not until need demanded it. ) Taking the only truly selfish item she had purchased so far with the gold from trading some of her bangles, the bottle of perfumed oil. Tipping it onto her palm to coat her hands before she cards fingers through all that hair. Kashi would shudder for the rough care. But it was better than nothing. Scrunching it with rough hands at the ends. Whatever is left on her fingers is rubbed into old wounds, the bullet hole above her heart, the lycan bite on her middle, the claw marks on her legs.

Then gladly sunk in down until the water went over her head. Half intent on drowning herself, it seemed. Scarred skin softening with the moisture and all that hair wafting like an ink spill in the water. Only until she can't hold her breath anymore that she sticks her head back up and takes to resting against the side of the bath with both eyes shut. Not intent on moving for a good long minute. Her strange radio firmly discarded. If anyone wanted her, they could come to find her if it really mattered.

At least until someone else does arrive - and she cracks an eye, seeing who it is and whatever they might so, she hums and does her best to move over to give space if they need it. Still early, the sun ought to rise soon but - not busy in the day yet. "I'll be out soon - " in case they needed the place to themselves.

iii. ( lowtown )
A merchant here was as decent as anyone she could find in Hightown, she reasoned, and at least here - there was a great deal less fussing involved. Even if she did dress and behave differently, her veils drawn as ever. If they were going to insult her for the mark glowing in her hand, they would do it to her face.

Which is how things end with this merchant - as it turned out. Most people seemed a little less guarded, the benefit of the tournament. At least meant no one went out of their way to avoid them. But she could feel the taste of being ripped off for the prices she was being offered on the plain bolt of cotton she had her eye on. Something of Myira perhaps, or Bronach, when she felt the urge to sit and sew again.

"That much? That was twice what you offered the man before me. Is my coin not as good as his?" Her voice is pitched, brittly angry. Deliberately loud enough for anyone else walking by. Never suffered anything quietly when it was like this, and it ripples an anger through her. Did they think she was an idiot? The response the same: that was the price.

Her teeth grit, pulling up to her full height. Ready, absolutely ready to pick a fight in the middle of the street. She could be quite decent at holding her tongue, walking away, at least until her temper got the better of her. Her fingers flexed cooly at her side, ready, ready, ready. That flickering dull green light on her palm that apparently what deserved this when she had never asked for it and once more punished for that which was never her fault.

Might be a good time to stop it.

iv. ( wildcard )

Got something else you want to do that we talked about? Want to do something, drop me a pm or a message over at aeneia.

Comments

[shri]

She never expects kindness, not from strangers, and certainly not here. Where half the words whispered are of demons and spirits. Nor does she even bother to imagine she's doing herself any favours by dressing and acting so decidedly different to them. But she was passed an age or care for apologising for it either. Even if it would make moment's like this, easier.

Her mouth opens - ready to spit out something foul at the man's face when she seems to have a saviour. Or at least, someone who did not fancy the altercation breaking out. Torn, utterly, in thanks at being spared humiliation, or ire that the merchant should get what he wants.

"You should not pay him." Her fingers tighten on the edge of her veil. Pinched hard between her first to fingers. "He deserves not a single coin."

[hornswoggle]

"Probably not," John agrees, though the cutting judgement in his words is more about the vendor's inability to consider the long term benefits of a return customer rather than Lakshmi's pride. John's never been much for any kind of business that doesn't yield immediate results, but he has a general idea of the ways profit stacks up.

"I will point out he's not your only option. There's no harm in finding someone more appreciative of your coin."

Which at the least would get her away from this man before he said something stupid and she hit him. Minimizing the potential for physical conflict seemed like the best thing to do in the moment, especially considering that John had a more limited number of tools at his disposal to manage it.

[shri]

"You are right." It's removed, practised at being so. A gaze she slides off him, to the merchant. "I am sure all his fabric is nothing but rotten anyway."

It's impeccably, imperiously sneered. She might not be worth much alive here but damned if she would let people play her a fool simply for existing. And it gets the effects she wants, the man looks furious, about to say something - but she had what she wanted from him, insult for insult.

And not wanting to linger, even to talk to a kind stranger, she simply turns and marches off.

[hornswoggle]

John sighs audibly before snagging his coin purse and turning to follow. He's gotten better with the cane. It's not as taking to keep pace as it was before, even with how fast Lakshmi's going.

"The trick is to walk slowly, and give him time to reconsider," John huffs as he falls into step with her. "But you've certainly made a point."

Though John wonders how much the fabric had even mattered in the long run. He's not about to ask at this point.

"Do I get to know your name sometime before we flee the marketplace in search of better options?"

[shri]

She has at least a conscience enough to slow when she realises he's catching up with her. Not that she'd asked for him to follow her -

"Rani Lakshmi Bai," and then because she will and must always be - "the Queen of Jhansi."

She looks out though, at the option he gave, of finding someone else that would not treat her such a way. "He had the colour I wanted." It's a long-suffering sigh. "I had found nothing quite that brilliant green as that."

[hornswoggle]

Ah. Royalty.

John is unavoidably taken aback by the weight of that title, though he recovers quickly enough. He'd pegged her as upper class, but queen hadn't exactly been a first guess.

If she is a queen. If her title comes to anything in this place, with that light in her hand marking her as something very wholly other.

"There's ways around paying him that price, if you're determined to have it," John tells her, tone light. "Find a proxy. Give them some coin to buy on your behalf."

This is a more benign suggestion than John's first instinct which had been: steal it. He'd used tricks before. A tug and pull of magic at the right moment to distract, and he'd usually been able to walk away with anything he'd set his eyes upon. But it usually pays to keep a thin veneer of respectability at the outset of any acquaintance.

[shri]

She shakes her head, stubbornly determined. No, she will not be belittled, and she will not be forced to hide. Not for anyone. Not after so much.

"And reward his smallness?" It's a palatable disgust to the notion. No, she would not. She would not give a coin to someone like that. Nor ask anyone else to give it for her, either.

Bitter, maybe, old sorts of pain. Of being struck in the face when she was already on her knees. Behind her veils, her brow knits up in a scowl for the thought. "Take everything else off of me, but give me my pride."