Welcome to Gaia! ::

Detraeus frowned at the text before him.

“I can’t read.” Detraeus remembered snapping it, frustrated, though his cheeks had heated immediately after with regret for the admittance.

Martrae’a brushed it off with nary a blink. “You could, I’m sure. If you wanted to lear—”

“I don’t.”

“And that,” she had responded, “would be precisely why you can’t.”

Detraeus pursed his lips, and narrowed his focus on the letters. It was late evening, waning into early night, but his goddess’ gift to him made that point irrelevant, and he didn’t bother wasting oil or candles on light as he traced his fingers over the shapes of the letters, copying them over diligently in tiny, broken scrawl on the sheet of parchment beside it. Tiny not because his hand did so naturally, but purely to save space on the paper.

Over the years, Martrae’a had gradually introduced him to the letters of the Soudulian alphabet, and then the more widespread Common that most inter-continent traders used to communicate with. Mostly this was to make him better equipped to identify things by their lettering and, eventually, run small errands in the market, but it helped to have the knowledge now, and he had no doubt that, beneath it all, the woman had known he would want to develop the skill properly, in his own time. He recognized Soudul’s letters with more ease, though, and the actual scripts used on Eowyn differed from area to area and even within a single area. But Detraeus was not to be deterred.

Pride aside — or perhaps partly thanks to his pride — Detraeus wanted to learn. He hated feeling cut off due to an unspoken barrier from such a massive wealth of information, not to mention the day to day inconveniences. He felt mocked by the shapes of letters that spoke to everyone but him, and now that he had the physical strength and prowess to feed, house, and dress himself reliably, he had the luxury of pushing himself in other areas. Privately, of course.

He was still loathe to admit his ineptitude to anyone, and who would he ask, even if he’d wanted to? He had no one on this continent, and that was how it needed to be. Thus, soon after arriving, he had purchased a small stack of paper, one quill, ink, and the single cheapest book he could buy. With it, he promised himself a half-side of parchment filled with practice scrawl each night, after his hunting expeditions. So far, a good four cycles of the moon since leaving Soudul, he had yet to miss a night, and his practice had built up into page upon page of horrid — but gradually improving — text, copied letter by letter, sentence by sentence, line by line from his book. He still did not, unfortunately, know what the book was about, but at least he recognized all the letters well now, even the occasional word, and his fingers copied the shapes with notably more ease than months ago. Familiar, almost.

It was well past an hour later before Detraeus finished with his self-appointed task. After setting aside his quill, he stoppered the ink, blew over the wet, just-finished scrawl, and frowned, marking his place in his text and stretching his fingers before glancing about his room. His living space was exactly that: a single, tiny room. The cheapest place he could find to rent long-term with an available bed. Nothing functioned to speak of other than the lock on the door, and that only because Detraeus had seen to fixing it upon arrival. Damned if he was going to live anywhere without a locking door.

When his stomach gave a demanding churn, Detraeus stood, careful not to bust the back of his single chair against the thin cot that — between the rickety desk and itself — nearly filled the entire room. Then, layering the most recent product of his ‘studies’ beside the stack of previous nights, he maneuvered around his limited furniture, gathered up and strapped his weapons to his person, and moved out, latching the door behind him.

He’d brought in a small nest of kiandri orbs for the day’s hunt, and a large pelt — accidental though that encounter was — more than enough to cover his costs for the next week or more, and while his shoulder still stung with the claw marks of one of the beasts, it would heal on its own. Detraeus preferred not to spend coin on a healer unless absolutely necessary. Regardless, he’d paid well enough attention when Martrae’a had seen to his occasional wound on Soudul, and knew how to clean a cut. For now, all he needed to concern himself with was an evening meal.

That in mind, he left the small complex where his quarters resided, stepped out into the dingy streets of the surrounding area, and tugged his hood in close, weapons closer, before heading off towards the more habitable, market portion of town.

Detraeus ate as he walked, food purchased and already half-gone. Eventually, he knew he ought to buy some of his own to keep with him, but without the means to cook properly or the extra coin to spend on fresh ingredients, it would be a long time before he worked himself off of the convenience of street vendors. Halfway or so down his route back into his ‘section’ of the town, sharp conversation gave him pause, and he glanced towards the source of the commotion.

A man — large, dark, and horned — looming over what looked to be a woman, though Detraeus’ view was mostly blocked by the man’s back from his current angle. Two other men stood close at his sides, though, and as the context of the words hit him, Detraeus felt his gut coil, knotting with tension and repulsion.

“Come now, Alim…I’m sure the lady doesn’t want to smell your horrible breath…”

“Don’t touch me,” the woman’s voice rang out, sharp and fierce with as much disgust as Detraeus felt itching beneath his skin.

“Tch. Don’t want to be touched by a hybrid scum, hmm?”

“I wouldn’t want you touching me even if you were pure blood.”

Detraeus heard the strike that followed, even from his distance, and from there on out the conversation was lost on him, his feet moving for him and hands already reaching for his bow as he stepped. He knew, distantly, that oughtn’t shoot them outright. Even in this more deserted section of town, he didn’t need murder charges against him. But that did not make it his responsibility to sit back and do nothing.

Stringing his bow, he breathed, drawing a full breath, and releasing both simultaneously. Two arrows a fraction of an inch from the hybrid’s feet.

“That was ‘polite.’ Touch her again,” he snarled, “and we’ll all find out what color you bleed tonight.”

“Pity for you I don’t give a damn what you think my business is, then,” Detraeus growled, stalking forward.

In seconds, the hybrid was staggering in on him.

All three were larger, and older, but Detraeus had the advantage of speed and sobriety — not to mention a good bit more practice against fiercer predators than these since the last time he’d been in a street brawl — and when the hybrid made it within range, Detraeus took Kirosh’s advice to heart. A harsh stomp from the hybrid made the ground ripple, cracking in his direction, but the instant he felt the earth move unnaturally around his feet, Detraeus darted sidelong, raised his bow, and cracked it, hard, into the temple of the man coming at him. His opponent swayed, snarling, and biting out a slurred curse. When he snatched out, gripping messily at the end of Detraeus’ bow, Detra twisted, and kicked, using his own grip on the weapon as leverage to bury his foot in the man’s gut.

His advantage didn’t last long. In a matter of seconds, the hybrid gave up on finesse and, groaning around the kick, he snatched up Detraeus’ ankle, yanked him off balance with the help of a jolt of gaili magic, and utilized the brunt of his weight as he slammed his body forward, sending Detra toppling to the hard earth.

Knowing full well that he wouldn’t last long on the ground — his close-range fighting skills still leaving a good bit to be desired, and his ground game abysmal at best — Detraeus twisted, scrambling to get out from under the man’s suffocating weight and snatching up a dagger from his boot as he did. When the hybrid took a swing at him, Detraeus jerked his grip around, buried his blade in the man’s side, and shoved, using his temporarily stunned reaction as an opportunity to slip out from beneath him. After staggering to a stand, he smashed his boot against the man’s jaw and turned, panting, to the remaining two as he moved out of the first man’s range.

“Off,” Detraeus spat at the pair, ignoring the blood now trickling down from his own lip and the dizziness in his head from being smashed into the earth. “Or I’ll break your friend’s neck.”

Detraeus watched the men retreat, keeping a fixed eye on them until they’d passed entirely out of hearing distance. Then, he resituated his bow, wiped the blood on his blade off on the cloth of his pants and sheathed it before moving in to retrieve his arrows. As he did, he got his first good look at the ‘reason’ for the entire encounter and blinked, then narrowed his eyes.

“You.”

Detraeus frowned, expression morphing into something almost resembling guilt before he pursed his lips further, and snorted. Stooping down, he yanked his arrows out of the earth, dusting them off on his tunic and then thumbing over the tips to check that they weren’t chipped before slipping them back into his quiver.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered, taking a step back. “Even you don’t deserve that on you.” After a brief draw of his gaze over her — which lingered first on the bleeding slit on her cheek and then on her bright eyes, framed by dark scleras — Detraeus rolled his shoulders and diverted his gaze. Flicking his tongue over his own split lip, he gathered the blood and grit there on his tongue and spat, staining the earth with the red-stained mixture. “Goodnight,” he bit out, and without another word afterward, he left, starting towards ‘home’ and leaving the dovaa girl and whatever opinions she had of him in his tracks.