Who

Zisiene

What

Title says it all. Zisiene is still running.

When

It is before dawn of the nineteenth day of the second month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass. It is the forty-ninth day of Winter and 34 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day

Where

Shadowed Alley, Lake Shore

OOC Date 05 Feb 2018 05:00

 



Shadowed Alley

The moonlight casts fitful beams of light into the area, spreading hopeful fingers towards the alley's adobe walls, but fail to reach its depths. Instead soupy darkness coat the walls and uneven pavement of the fetid passageway, and the midden's usual stench is strong as it competes with the spices and musk from the animal enclosures. A fitful gleam from a nearby corner's torch lends a half-life to crude graffiti on the walls, an uneasy mishmosh of stick-people and malformed dragons. Further on, a maze of small walkways and tiny houses choke off any attempts at casual identification of location, and what scurries in the true darkness have even the tunnelsnakes fleeing.


The chill of the predawn settles into the slight frame of the woman that's making her way through the alleyways of the bazaar. Zisiene stops to rest, the apron that Ravene had always worn when working is wrapped around her shoulders in an attempt to keep the chill out. The rolled canvas is carried carefully in the tube she'd found. Rolled into the canvas is a lacy blue party apron. Another treasure from her past.

How long has it been? She is moving slowly as the bruising on her feet start to grow worse. She's certain she'll have to start over again with her training. Provided she isn't just kicked out. Kicked out of the spyling training. Kicked out of the Zingari. Not that she really cares that much at the moment anyway. The shadows of dragons have her ducking into alcoves, and hidey holes. Does she even want to return to the caravan? It had felt like home there. What's changed? Has anything changed? So many questions to answer, and only she can answer them.

Lake Shore
Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens.

Maybe she could talk with S'ayde? Her feet are already moving her in the direction of the lake, and the weyrs to be found there. Will S'ayde even want to see her? Listen to her? Yet she found herself outside of S'ayde's weyr. The woman, rather than approach S'ayde's home, finds a place to sit. She's cold, her feet are bruised, blistered, and starting to show signs of mild frostbite and yet she stubbornly holds her ground well away from the home of the one person she knows she can probably talk to about stuff without being judged… too much.

As she makes her way out onto the lake's shore, Isie pauses. No. This is her problem to deal with, and the best way to do that is to go back. Javid will of course have a few things to say to her, not the least of which will be that she's dismissed from training. She's simply missed too many lessons. Zisiene sighs deeply as Nimble drops onto her shoulder, and wraps around the back of her neck adding a little warmth. She's not sure where Adorbs is, but she's sure he'll show up.

Zisiene makes her way towards the caravan grounds, where she'll find some place warm to curl up and sleep. After that she'll find Willimina, then Javid. At some point she has to stop running. That point may as well be now.

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