[R10, Late Morning, The Gripe] A Long Obedience in the Same Direction [Sabah]

unwanderinggirl

He'd missed his first cable car stop on purpose. He really had. Caught up in watching the city blur by, alien and magnificent with spirals and baked clay. And then he missed the next one. On purpose, too, watching the people. And the one after that. And a few more, once he realized it no longer mattered where he got off and that he might as well enjoy the ride. Tristaan stood out like a sprout of greenery in a swath of desert, tanned Anaxi skin still pale compared to the dark coffee shades of Mugs that crowded the narrow wooden car as it jostled along. The passengers ebbed and flowed from one stop to the next as he sat unmoving, and it seemed as though sitting next to the foreign stranger was only a last resort; some even preferred to stand instead of take an empty seat if it was vacant next to him. The mix of people who came and went were fascinating, distracting, strange: from quiet, well-dressed galdori in their turbans and pointed shoes to a chatty crowd of humans burdened with goods for some market or another.

While the dark-haired passive did his best not to stare, it seemed as though the natives had no such reservations, and he often felt the weight of the other passengers' gazes as heavier than the mix of fields crammed all close together when the car was completely full. At least the oogles of children were somewhat innocent, even if their parents had less shame about the hints of contempt that hung at the edges of their sideways glances. He'd paid his fare like everyone else with what precious few coins he had to spare instead of pay the exuberant refugee rate rent or feed his growing family, but it was hard not to feel more than just a little unwelcome the further into the city proper he decided to ride. Perhaps he deserved their not-so-candid looks, since he was indeed far from the tense confines of Little Anaxas that morning and on his own. Unused to drawing attention to himself in his former life, the entire experience of public review was still somehow different even if some of the intentional judgement felt the same. No blue eyes lingered on the inked lines bared on his right bicep, just visible under the rolled up cuffs of his sleeves. He had nothing to hide here, and no reason to fear persecution over his birthright so much as over the country of his birth instead. The lingering looks he attracted were not in disgust over his lack of a field so much as mild distrust because he'd wandered so far from his designated area of acceptable containment as an Anaxi refugee.

Alone as the heat of the day crawled over Thul'ka's maze of walls, Tristaan wasn't choosing to be a tourist, either. His family was home; he was searching for work instead of simply enjoying the sights, regardless of how fascinating they were. One day, perhaps, he'd have time. Or at least, if nothing else, he'd make time. For the moment, however, there was no one to move, no coin to be earned carrying luggage up winding stairs, no new ships full of refugees dumping their cargo into the heat and the sand without a second thought. Perhaps there was a surge in fighting back home. Perhaps there was quiet. It wasn't like news on the subject was trustworthy, but it made their little corner of the city tumultuous and unsteady and their little imitation of an economy tight-fisted and poor.

The passive was persistant in his belief that there was something better outside the confines of Onzur's Bazaar, even if he understood he was up against the prejudices of a different kind in a country that was not his home.

Not that his home had ever felt much like home, either. So, there was that.

Eventually, he realized he needed off the cable car and reluctantly onto the simmering, sandy streets. They were more confusing than Tristaan really wanted to admit, even if he had been given very general, very ambitious directions from a few others on how to make it to Three Flowers, that he knew where he was going. He didn't. He'd also been given plenty of warnings, plenty of advice not to head in that direction, plenty of suggestions to head elsewhere. Still, the decision to seek out the familiar, regardless of the danger involved, felt necessary. The main port was in that section of the sprawling city, and he'd been there before. Once or twice. Odd jobs on board trade ships from Old Rose had at least taken him across the sea and back a few times, and now that he was on the opposite side of things, somehow it felt only right he head back. Not interested in travel, he knew there was always a need for spare hands and strong backs in a busy port. People paid for that sort of thing.

Once on the streets, however, it only took less than an house for him to realize he was lost. A few more baking, desert houses later spent trekking stubbornly in the wrong direction, ignoring the nagging and gnawing in his gut found him obviously hopelessly far from his intended destination. It was the slow creep of soot and grime and poverty and industry that began to make his scarred skin crawl. If the shape of the buildings and the faces of the people weren't familiar, the smells and sights of The Gripe were hauntingly, disturbingly so. Memories of the Soot District crawled out of the dark and dusty places in the back of his thoughts, but he fought to ignore then. The distance he'd put between himself and old wounds would never entirely be far enough to escape them, and yet the healing comfort a new life had provided at least allowed Tristaan to trick himself into keeping a level head as he paused on a street corner, under the shade of an abandoned swath of apartments, residents long burned and buried after the ravages of the plague.

One calloused hand restless on the curved hilt of Guaril's old blade, the dark-haired passive dug the poorly drawn map he'd been given by Yarrin from the pocket of his vest. Good Lady, he hoped something familiar was scratched on the parchment, though as he unfolded it and squinted at it's sloppy contents: confusing twists of squiggly lines representing streets and rivers and neighborhoods with notes on landmarks and signs and locations. Sweat clung to the scarred skin of his back and stung as he risked staying in one place for too long, desperate to make sense of the map he'd understood before he left but suddenly found lacking now that he still hadn't arrived. He hardly recognized Onzur's Bazaar, let alone Three Flowers or wherever he may have been along the way. He'd wandered far and spent too much time allowing himself to get off course. Too clocking far and too clocking unsafe.

He'd have to figure his way back to the cable-ways and start over, spending tallies he didn't have to spare.

But, where were those, even?

Was anyone worth asking directions of?