Legend of Ransera

Petra feels at home in the crowded streets of Kalzasi. They are as much her home as any place has been, and despite sleeping on them more than once, she feels welcome within their embrace. The crowd bustles and speaks languages of her understanding, with ideas of her comprehension, with histories she knows. She finds herself at ease wrapped in them, and spectating them from afar. In his seminal study of native forest-tribes, The Lost Font of Nations, Illian Mopatis described the natives as having vines instead of veins, and oak bark for their hearts. Perhaps, if she were more poetically-minded, she would describe herself in similar tones.

She feel the urge today. Knife always brings it out of her. The taciturn woman is hardly animated, but there is a certain levity to her, a certain enthusiasm that isn't there with other people. Sitting on the roadside, finishing a cup of cheap coffee with legs crossed and posture relaxed, she feels happier than she has in months.

And I have Knife to thank, of course. Strange how it only takes an old friend to make you realize just how dull your fellow Initiates are.

She pops one of the traditional candies in her mouth, chewing with relish and savoring the flavor. "Delicious as always," her entire review. "One day you'll have to tell me where you find them. Now that I can afford candies, I'm paralyzed by choice." She folds the wrapper neatly and tucks it under a corner of her coffee mug, to save it from the wind. Someone who knows Petra less well than Knife would simply assume she is conscious of litter. Knife can see the miserly caution in the gesture - the remnant of habit from when a candy wrapper was a significant increase in Petra's fortunes.

"It's the same with the theater. When I was a girl, I only attended your shows. When I was a teenager, I went to what shows I could afford, when I could afford them. Now?" Petra taps her finger on the table between them, her braid catching the air and snapping behind her. Foreign and dressed in confrontationally-masculine clothing, she stands out somewhat. At least she doesn't have her demon leering over her for once. Meeting with her oldest friend is enough of a reason for her to go through the trouble of temporarily banishing her pet abomination. "I go to less. Strange how the mind works. We'll have to find something good to see, before the wind catches you again."

"But, should we begin?" The air around Petra shudders, magic seeping into the world. A hint of what is to come. For years they have been playing the game, and for years Petra has lost. Over, and over, and over again. But now she is more than just a street rat, she is a sorceress, and better every year. She's dismissed Yesod, she's prepared herself, she's even done research (not that she would ever admit it to Knife). There is a warmth in her eyes, which seem to glow in the early-evening sunlight. A heat of competitiveness, and delight at being able to be herself around someone who requires no explanations.

Her warm coffee sits in front of her, and she taps the saucer. "I see him." Petra looks him over, admiring the quality of the fur. She admires more his temerity. To stand out from the crowd is a brave thing to do for anyone. Kalzasi is even more punishing on its iconoclasts than most cities, if her books are to be believed. To commit crimes of fashion flagrantly, just to make a point or fulfill an ambition of possession? Petra can't help but find something beautiful in it.

That doesn't mean it isn't mercenary, and greedy, and evidence of a possessive mind.

There, but for the grace of God, go I, I suppose.

She takes her time. Quantity might have a quality all its own, but she is a perfectionist at heart, and would rather take her time to find something worth sharing than share two things not worth the telling. She watches a gaggle of children pass by, she admires a proud camel-driver leading his herd, she watches a cat stalk birds with one eye always on the crowd...

A shapeshifter, perhaps? It is looking at that old woman with impressive intensity...

No, alas not. But...

"That man just got finished sleeping with another man's wife." She finishes her coffee, and trusts Knife to follow her eyes. The man is handsome, but less from a lucky roll of genetics and more from an excellent diet that is not common in this part of town. Thick hair, strong musculature, good teeth flashing as he talks, unmarked skin, he has every developmental mark of wealth.

"He was born rich, and still is rich. Look at how heavy his purse is, and how hard he has to dig to find small change to pay for a rickshaw. That's full of gold. But he's dressed below his station, well below it." She looks at herself - despite looking more like a teenage boy than she would like, she is dressed like a lower-middle-class skilled laborer, and so is he. They even have a similar cut of trouser.

"But his right boot is untied, and he missed a button on his shirt. He got dressed in a hurry. I suppose his paramour could be unmarried, but I smell guilt on the wind." She sets her cup down, and gestures to the waiter for another. She's having a good time - she deserves to treat herself, now and then. "Don't you?" He gets into a rickshaw, and is pulled away. "Sour, and eye-watering."

For all of Petra's many emotions (and they are there, plain for Knife's trained eyes to see), guilt is never one of them. She sold it away, and she can't afford to buy it back.

Petra watches as he moves into her field of view. Young, tall, strong. Good diet, an alacrity to his steps, awareness in his bearing. Petra could certainly do far worse, she supposes, but...

"Not interested."

Petra isn't just not interested in him, she's not interested in romance, period. Not now. She has too much to do, too much to see, too much to understand. Perhaps the waiter could whisk her off her feet, make her tea and bring her books, could understand her and laugh with her and comfort her at night. But he would always be a distraction, and even when Yesod isn't looming over her, his presence is keenly felt.

No, certainly not. I sold away my right to distractions years ago.

Petra waives at the waiter, and watches him come over. "...you might have a point," Petra murmurs to Knife, her tiny smile growing as she sees the man bound over. Just before he arrives at the table she moves unexpectedly. She reaches over and takes Knife's hand in hers. She squeezes gently, affectionately. Her thumb ghosts across the back of Knife's hand, her fingers curling around his. It's consummately acted. As natural as breathing.

Petra watches with hidden satisfaction as the eager smile fades, never to fully return.

"Another two cups of your water, please - and a plate of pickled radish bao." The waiter nods dumbly, and goes off to fill the order. Petra lets her hand linger for a moment (just to make sure he doesn't turn back, of course) and then slides it back into her lap.

"...that's certainly a point for you. I didn't notice. Shows how much good my practice has done." Petra reaches into her belt and produces an ordinary pocket knife, flicking it open as she waits for their order and Knife's response.

"No to both."

The blade glints in the sunlight, and reflects the summer's glare. A pale finger extends, more scar tissue than anything else at this point. Just a little nick, and the blood oozes down her finger. She makes it drip towards the pavement, and by the time it is halfway down there is already a pulse in the air.

Petra's magic only needs to tear a hole in reality. A little cut, like a knife sliding between ribs. It is far from simple magic, but neither is it as monumental as the great works of the other disciplines. Her will sharpens the divide between realities, and the whispered name summons a familiar to catch her blood droplet and accept the offering.

The little thing is a little humanoid doll made entirely of brass wire. It comes up to Petra's knee, and seems to be in constant motion. The wire ties and re-ties itself, over and over again. It almost looks like hair blowing in the breeze, but never quite deforming too far from the form of a maniac's doll.

The knife is tucked away, and the summoned demon crawls under the tablecloth, with Petra's booted foot shooing him in. She sucks her finger, and the familiar taste of salt-iron fills it, not unpleasantly.

"It's for offerings. Some men carry a purse. I carry a knife. Both are means of payment." She nudges her empty cup with an undamaged finger, careful not to bleed on the tablecloth. That would just be rude.

As Petra toys with the ceramic, hair-thin strands of brass snake out along grooves on the paving stones, creeping almost imperceptibly out from beneath the table. The doll is disassembling itself, unspooling out and creeping nearly invisibly towards the other diners, or towards closed doors.

Towards secrets.

"I'm still learning. But I'm getting better every day. I have to match your gifts somehow. My magic just lets me cheat."

Petra's full smiles are as rare as the blazing comets, and just as transient. But, for just a moment, she lights up with an honest smile meant to be share, with all the temporary glory of the falling heavens.

Even after all these years, he still makes me smile. Maybe I could do worse...

A line from an old play comes to mind, one whose author is long lost to time. Its words tumble from her lips with a levity in the recitation that is uncharacteristic.

"Antique romances, heroic ideals? We're more the love, blood, and rhetoric school. We can give you love and blood without the rhetoric, or we can give you blood and rhetoric without the love, or we can do all three, concurrent or consecutive, but what we can't give you is love and rhetoric without the blood, you see: blood is compulsory, it's all blood."

Petra's normal speaking voice returns as the poetic inspiration fades away. "The old playwright thought like a demon. Gold, emotion, services, there's always a buyer. Blood is just the most common mode of exchange. It, and souls. But I only have the one of those."

And of that, so little left. Amazing how, like a drenched cat, all its luster vanishes at the first piercing of its veneer of power.

Petra feels the demon tap on her calf. Amazing how fast it learned Morse code, but it was a task well worth both of their time. Tap-tap-taptaptap, the monster raps out a tattoo on her calf, under her trousers, as it roots around in peoples' pockets, and inches along their skin, and listens to their conversations.

Soon, its body is covering half of the floor of the establishment - Knife can see it catching the light, here or there. If he weren't looking for it, he likely wouldn't notice it, or just pass it off as a glimmer in some of the stone - entirely ordinary.

She murmurs something, considers giving an answer about someone's love letter that is torn up in a pocket, but then -

"This place is about to get robbed."

She says it in a perfect deadpan. The waiter brings the waters wordlessly, and Petra silences herself until he goes.

"The two men, one in brown, one in red, two tables behind you. Don't look yet. Over my left shoulder - Enepsigos sees him. Hairy, burly, with a sword down his pant leg. Probably faking a limp." Her summon never was good with visual descriptions. So much was sound, and touch. She hopes the demon is right.

"They're armed, and tense, and coordinating with each other. They're going over their plan. Details to follow."

Petra acts it perfectly. It almost seems like she's joking, sipping from her glass of water and counting the birds overhead.

But Petra has never been much for jokes, and those she does make are much funnier than this. She's deadly serious.

The bear of a man with a cane beside him and an evil look to his eye, in a fluffy bravo's shirt that could easily be concealing mail, stares at Knife, just for a moment. Eyeing him up, no doubt. Waiting for the signal that will start the avaricious violence.