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Malikai shifted his weight. Beneath him, his bedsheet crimped and the planks and springs of his cot creaked with disapproval, but he paid little mind, his attention on the bindings on his arm as he carefully unwound them, not wanting to disturb the dried blood there too much so as to renew bleeding. Fortunately, the recently attained gash looked to be healing well, and it did not take a great deal of work to re-dress and re-bind it, applying fresh ointment and a clean strip of white gauze before fastening it and finally pulling his uniform undershirt and vest back into place over it.

While scuffles were currently not especially common, the tides of unease running through all sides were building, and small groups from his squadron were often sent out into the desert — in selections of three, five, or ten, depending — to scout or deal with ‘suspicious activity.’ Dealing with the latter of the two tended to amount to physical confrontations, which had been the case in this instance. Most of him had been tended to by a healer already, but given the combination of limited trained mages and the need to reserve the bulk of magical resources in case of sudden and unanticipated need for them, other than the most basic spells, much healing was done ‘dry’, or magicless. Bandages, ointments, and careful cleaning—particularly in the case of more minor, non-threatening injuries, such as his current.

He pushed up off of his bed, and then stooped, reaching to fetch his flask in a habitual gesture, and then—

Malikai squinted, frowning at it as he shook it and listened to the dissatisfying, near-empty trickle of the last few drops in its base. Magnificent. Unscrewing the cap, he downed what was left. After, he grunted and strapped the empty container to his hip alongside his sword, and fetched his coin purse, too, stringing it to his belt, under his main jacket and out of sight. Just as well, he supposed. He could stand to purchase a few minor amenities at market, and the stretch might do him good. This in mind, he headed out.

The sun beat hot as any day, but a brisk wind, at least, seemed to be deeming the desert temporarily deserving of its attentions, and Malikai savored that, keeping his pace purposeful and methodic since there was little reason to rush and overheat himself. Though not sure exactly what he wanted—other than a fresh stash of whiskey—he fulfilled that initial need, and then devolved into meandering the streets, sipping on occasion and studying the open market’s wares. Some half hour or so out, give or take, he paused beside a shaded stall, hooded over by multi-colored swaths of cloth and sporting a massive selection of…baubles.

Malik squinted. Jewelry, on closer inspection. Or he assumed that was what the bulk of it was, despite some shapes — like bracelets and necklaces — being more readily identifiable than others. He didn’t pretend to know exactly what all women — or those men inclined to bother with such things — did with various trinkets. It didn’t stop his attention from catching, though, on what looked fairly solidly like a hair pin or…

He tilted his head. Comb, perhaps? Depending on how one chose to use it. At the head of it, a deep red, bejewelled snake rested, and his mind flit to Sytherina.

It seemed to be a fairly silly thought. Surely, with a profession such as her own, she would have amassed more than her fair share of useless trinkets in the guise of gifts, well intended or not, and he really didn’t need to—

Then, as though summoned by some random stroke of whim or fate, a familiar shade of green caught the corner of his eye. He looked, and blinked. Sure enough…

In a last moment decision, Malik grunted, summoned the shopkeeper’s attention, and laid down two coins for the pin before pocketing it. He then moved towards the confectioner’s stall. If nothing else, whatever was being handed out there did look — and smell — appealing.

“S’ a pleasure t’ see you do a few other things ‘sides linger ‘bout shady pleasure houses,” he said by way of greeting. “Though I might of thought goin’ t’ market would merit a, ah…” His gaze flicked briefly down the boy before moving towards the actual wares, “…change o’ garments a bit more suited t’ the eyes o’ children?”

Malik raised his eyebrows, glancing down when bid by the boy’s body language and sparing an amused quirk of his lips before returning his gaze to Naarhiji’s face. “I see then. I suppose a little bit of extra cloth to hug your bum does make it a touch better.”

To be perfectly frank, there was a small sliver of Malikai that — as he stood bathed in the blistering heat and covered in multi-layer, stiff uniform attire — did envy that the young oblivionite had a body and station and temperament which ‘get away with’ such an airy, forgiving style of dress. It must, if nothing else, be worlds more comfortable. He set that thought aside for the moment and eyed the selection of sweets. Having grown up as the son of a baker who specialized in sweets and candy-making — occasionally on commision for those of high enough rank to afford tailor-made varieties of such things — he realized he was innately spoiled and likely ruined for ever fully enjoying candied goods made by anyone but himself or his mother. But that, too, was a concern for another day.

For now, street-candy would have to do. He ordered a small amount, setting down the coin for his purchase and—

Naarhiji’s tongue looked very especially pink for some reason, contrasted against the pad of his thumb as it moved between his lips. Surely, though, that was just a figment of—

“Sir?”

Malikai turned his attention forward, clearing his throat and gathering the small paper-sacked bundle to himself. “Nothin’ wrong with your ‘ome,” he said. “Seems you should be able t’ enjoy just about wha’ever please you in so long as it don’ interfere with other’s enjoyment o’ things, an’ a home seems a right fine place t’ do it.” He paused. “Y’ live there…all th’ time…?”

He supposed, on second thought, it made some sense, since Naarhiji had mentioned it being a ‘family’ business, and living from one’s place of business was not entirely unusual. But at the same time, actually having full-time residence in a brothel seemed…peculiar, if nothing else. When a gust of breeze rippled down the market alley, stirring Naarhiji’s ‘skirts’, Malik’s gaze moved down, down, and landed on his—heels. He squinted.

“…can you actually walk steady in those…? Surely they’re not designed for anythin’ but lookin’ taller than y’ are…”

“It ah…yeah,” Malikai said, only some fraction of his attention dedicated to the words. Something about a house and chocolate. Was it necessary to molest sweet pieces before eating them, and was it possible that it made the flavor richer? “Tha’s what houses are for, generally,” he agreed. “Dunno so much ‘bout havin’ a chocolate one, though, to live in…seems it’d just…” His eyes followed the sweep of Naarhiji’s tongue, and then moved stubbornly away as he cleared his throat with a grunt, “…make a mess.”

Safer topics were a relief, though he raised his eyebrows at the last of the boy’s — aborted — statement.

“Aye,” he said, “that they do. Just not sure if it’s worth it in th’ open market, as ’posed to a place where yer focus is more in th’ line of showin’ off such things. Still…”

One of the most unsettling traits about oblivionites, by far, was their lack of eyes. This became especially so when their faces were schooled of visible reaction: it became impossible to tell where they were looking, and as such, difficult to read what they may be thinking. Despite only limited experience with the boy so far, however, it seemed to Malikai that Naarhiji’s face — and wide range of very expressive, well, expressions — removed most of that eeriness and provided a helpful window into his line of thinking. In this case, the pause, combined with the angled dip of Naarhiji’s lashes and blatant, continued silence that followed, was clue enough.

“S’not so bad as you might think,” Malik said. “If it came to this, or havin’ to wear heels every day o’ my life?” He ventured a half-grin. “You c’n bet I’d be stickin’ with my given lot.” He paused. “Is an arse pain t’ clean the sand out o’ th’ nooks and bends, though. Never did much like the desert.”

Malikai blinked at the initial assertion, and then chuckled in spite of himself. Admittedly, it was a rather absurd thought. He had never actually considered wearing heels himself before, only thought in passing that they looked difficult to manage and that the feat was rather impressive in itself when accomplished by others. Usually, but not always, women. He supposed, in truth, it would likely look even more ridiculous than normal on him, attempting to find some shoe that could accommodate both his foot as it was naturally shaped and the mechanical replacement on his opposite side.

Commical might have been a kind way of putting it. But then, if it amused someone, then it couldn’t be all bad, regardless.

At the boy’s latter statement, however, he shot him a dubious, assessing glance. Surely, by this point in his life, he didn’t still look that ill-suited to combat — did he? It was a touch distressing, if true. Not that, he supposed, it mattered much. Whether he performed up to standard and survived seemed more relevant—not how he ‘looked’ while doing it—and time had proven those for the better in his favor. So, at length, he gave a noncommittal shrug.

“‘M not cute enough for anyone t’ want t’ pay me t’ let ‘em ******** me, an’ I’m good at little else, so…” He opened his hands, palms up, “…the task o’ defendin’ the livelihoods of all o’ Lady Avi’s proud people was left in my hands instead. Or, eh…” Another shrug, “…part o’ that responsibility, leastways.” Then, because he couldn’t resist adding it: “An’ I figure I’m more suited t’ combat than you seem t’ think, given how many years I’ve spent in it an’ not died yet. Didn’ lose my leg to it either, ‘fore you go makin’ assumptions. Haven’t lost a thing to it yet…” A pause. “‘Cept possibly a decade or two o’ my life and a few handfuls of sanity, but oi…what can you do, mm?”

Malikai squinted.

He supposed he ought to have been insulted, in all fairness. The boy had moved from dancing around the subject of his leg — or, lackthereof — to taking a none-too-subtle stab at his weight and figure. No matter which way he spun it ‘squishy’ did not sound particularly flattering. Squishy. Unless he were to be used as a pillow, he supposed. Which wouldn’t be entirely objectionab—

Grunting, Malik dismissed the thought.

It was rather difficult to take someone entirely seriously when their ‘flexing’ looked like an under-rehearsed dance move and the boy on the whole didn’t look as though he’d survive a half minute on the battlefield. And yet…

“‘Proper’ soldier, oi? I’ll let y’ in on a bit of a secret then, how’s that?” He shifted his weight, dusting his palms over his coat front before hooking his thumbs loosely in his belt, one near his weapon, as he eyed his company. “Not one spittin’ person in ten is a ‘proper’ much of anythin’—mayhaps one in twenty, but that ain’t half likely either. Proper is an aspiration o’ somethin’ t’ be, not what we are. In the meantime we are, most all of us, just whatever we become on our way on up, tryin’ t’ be somethin’ else, maybe somethin’ better. So aye, I’ll be the first t’ admit I don’t ‘look’ a ‘proper’ soldier, but how’s about a real one? Real soldiers come short ‘n tall, fat ‘n boney, all littered in ugly scars or missin’ pieces. They come with nasty stories an’ angry histories an’ family they ain’t seen in years, an’ a good lot of ‘em are women all told. So if y’ go lookin’ for a ‘proper’ soldier — all sculpted an’ whatever else it is y’re imaginin’—” Malik was still not precisely sure what about him fell short of ‘manly’, but he let that rest, “—you may not find but a handful in an army, an’ they may not do s**t on th’ field at that…”

At length, he frowned, and then rolled his posture back with a sigh. It was, truthfully, a great lot of talking for what was likely a moot point. So, after only a moment’s more debate, he reached into his vest pocket, scrummaging around for a coin before pressing it to the boy’s hand.

“‘Ere, just…buy yourself another sweet an’ forget all that. They look good on you, an’ I…best be goin’ anyway. ‘M sure you ‘ave places t’ be.”

Malikai’s eyebrows shot up, visibly startled when the boy not only objected, but physically hit him—which seemed to be an overreaction at best—and in his startlement, Malik barely noticed the clink and tap as the offered coin fell to the ground. When his company followed up his childish puffing and glowering and violence with an indignant assertion that he ‘was an adult’, Malikai couldn’t help but feel further assured of the opposite. Which was…vaguely distressing. Or amusing. Or both.

As Naarhiji flounced off for the first time, Malik moved to bend and retrieve the coin—but then the boy was back an instant later, shoving a finger and going on, again. When he ‘finished’, open-endedly and with an accompanying swish of his fingers, despite Malik’s best efforts, he didn’t entirely manage to curb the snort of a chuckle that bubbled up. He cleared his throat, and stooped.

“Aye, sure, kid,” he said from his crouch, plucking up the coin and then pushing to a stand with a grunt. “I s’pose. Rule I got from that was: I could pay t’ bed you, but not t’ buy you chocolate, ‘cause you’re an ‘adult.’” He eyed the boy, squinted, and dusted off the coin before dropping it back in his pocket. “An’ no ‘talkin’ down’ t’ you…which’ll be hard when you’re short as y’ are. But by the by…when y’ve got t’ tell some’on you’re grown…it tends towards givin’ folk th’ opposite thought. Food f’r thinkin’ on. I’ll see you about, I figure.”

And with that, Malikai stepped out, heading on his own way and disappearing into the crowd. However amusing and ridiculous the boy evidently was, it still seemed clear enough that, for the time, he’d had well enough of Malik’s company — and that suited Malik just fine. Easier that way to oust thoughts of a pink tongue licking up dark green fingers on a body far too young and too male to be occupying those spaces in Malik’s mind to begin with.

Besides, he would all but inevitably encounter him again later, regardless, and he had come to the market for a reason, hadn’t he?