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Achieving overbind is not the easiest thing.
>>
— Loveless Gal —
A day-to-day, slice-of-life quest and investigative thriller, set in an ‘early modern’ fantasy setting, and written in first-person-perspective.
>>
— Archives —

Loveless Gal archive: (3 threads)
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=loveless%20gal%20quest
>>
The Green Lamps district - once, a territory whose sole residents were punks*prostitutes and folk needing of their service. Since such distant days, many, many establishments have taken root within it; alehouses, eating places, teahouses, and its freshly birthed, outlandish*foreign kin, coffeehouses. Confederacies of such breadth can become so mighty, it intrenches itself as inalienable (yet outlaw) part of society.

And amongst us - the freefolk - for better and worse, none could rival one within our capital, Clawflash; an island surrounded by the five great rivers, the center of commerce, the place where knowledge can coalesce whether it be inborn or outland, the spearhead of our country’s advancements! But such a romance is so often repeated without mention of its particulars.

“You will sneeze. Inhale.”

The inmingle of knowledge is useful, I will admit that much; extraction of the placenta, suture of the umbilical cord, orientation of the skull — midwifery is hardly the province of most women, let alone men.

“They’re here, child.” Whilst I wash off the stench, Judar, having momentarily retired from the frontage, enters the room holding a great and lumpy sack. The brothel-keeper scuttered away as speedily she did appear once I seized it.

“The fish stench fluid will linger for two or three weeks. Laxatives ought to hasten the removal. Stay near warm places. Wash yourself with warm towels.” Wearily, I make a repeat of the which I have said to so many others not so many moons ago.

“…”
“A- hah.”
“Tha- thanks, Sirawun. I- I owe you one.” Her voice is still nervy from the pain. A small bunch of huffs and pants follow her attempt at leaning further back.

I begin to undo the sack’s many knots. “Diligence in maintenance of your body would have been nice. Safflower. Crocodile’s tail. Rue. Any of these - in sufficient amounts and concentrations - would purge the child before it could quicken.” Malcontent seeps through my words, a little more than I wished. The sack opens regardless.

“I shall retire to the forest. If you need of anything, ask Nipar.” I seize the freshly strangled child, thumbing the cloth a tad deeper in his mouth before joining him with the rest of the children. A moment scantly passed before the ropes were wheeled around and tied back, resuming normality.

“I am- I never wished for this.” She’s long accustomed to the contents by now, but Tuhnidar’s eyes dimly lingers on the sack.

“I know.”
>>
Undesired pregnancy is not a particular outlandish to the Green Lamps district, but more often is the case, they are consequent not from frequenters, rather, colleagues. In any case, such difficulties are often resolved through 2 roadways; termination of the child within the body, and outside the body. The former, more efficacious, but may expel blood more amply.

The droning of insects gets louder with each step I take in the back garden, with only the occasional crackling of dried leaves as respite — They’ll be exceeded by those cocks and gulls soon enough. With sufficient measure from the brothel, I relieve my shoulder of the shovel and the bundles tied to each end.

After a while, the difference between bone and flesh becomes less significant; a slush, held together by an increasingly frayed skin.

“mhm.”

Something stirs amongst the branches — not that I have any intention of unearthing it, given how promiscuous*indiscriminately mingled the leaves are. So I ought to leave off with it…

The persistent stirring has loosened quite a number of leaves on my hair, of all things. Prodding the branches in retribution, I feel not the creaks of old branches, rather, a coarse, leathery thing. “¡hAaH!” In consequence, a piercing cry, as if a puppy’s - but the which that came down was far more queer; promiscuous entrails and a head so full of hair, it bears more resemblance to a ball of yarn. Well, one impregnated with leaves and splinters, I suppose.

Shortly after the pile in its entirety falls down, I see a sliver of tallow-white skin and cracked lips underneath such sluttish*slovenly hair. “… pretty.” It hops and stumbles towards my feet.

Hardly the first woman who complimented and wished to nibble on my calves. But. As much as I wish to indulge her, the sweaty, rotten smell from her mouth (and my current obligations, I suppose) dissuade me from such a course. “Thanks, ma’am.” I kneel down to pet her head. It’s cold. “But I am occupied.” With a sigh, I stand and walk back to the sack.

“hungry.” Her head twitches and turns as I seize the corpses and bury them. The hound-like enthusiasm in her pants dies down as the sack grows more flaccid.

Subsisting on carcasses, troubled water, and what else, isn’t much a living. I suppose I might as well — I toss her the last one.

… Scantly a moment passed after sinking her teeth into the infant did she choke and cough out bits of fat and bone. “Tch.” It got a chuckle out of me; like watching folk step on horseshit in the rain whilst I was safely inside an eating place all over again. I continue my laughter for a moment before fetching a dagger behind my waist.
>>
All these ‘ifs’ and ‘when’ and ‘could’ -- I do not entertain hypotheticals, mister Sirawun. The world is vexing enough. A reliable course for those abortives first, then we’ll talk quarters and pay.” The brothel-keeper softly refuses my ask. It still hurts regardless.

“Hah, she smothered it?” Marna brushes his finger across his eyes as we try to find a cookshop this early in the day. “She did~” Exhausted, physically and mentally, I moan. Not that Green Lamps at four is not much to look at, either.

“The notion was stillborn, in any case.” I drag my feet across the coarse roadway as we walk. My fingers cling to my cuffs for warmth. “A shame that wasn’t the case a week ago.” The cold air makes apparent his accompanying sigh. Can’t say I wished for otherwhat either. Then again…

“never send a woman to do a man’s work~” Breathily, I make light of the which that had come to pass recently. “H— tch, hahaAhA. Ne-- never send a woman–” It didn’t take long before both of us were laughing as if mad. It’s just as well; we exhausted the laughter from child rape a long while ago - it’s time we talk of a matter less outlandish.

Runny eggs and rice return warmth to my cheek; fish sauce and onions give texture and life to the meal; tofu milk, a remedy to shivering calves and fingers.

“See you ‘round. I’m off. Best of luck on that course of yours.” Having breakfasted, Marna takes his leave. No doubt he’ll fall asleep during the mid-day again. Probably with his man-catcher still in hand.

(Sira by my lonesome yet again!)

Hm. Abortive medicine. Or ingredients of it, in any case. There was only ten last time; I know damned well this difficulty does not envelop the entirety of Green Lamps. Asking those siblings will be my best shot, unfortunately. I need some sort of lubricant to - even - be allowed in that gambling house.

( … )

The clocktower bangs its drums as hours go by. My hands grow heavy with bottles of rice wine and chocolate bricks. I ought to get something for my folk before I leave the market district.

>Blood pudding & brightly-colored cloth
A buttery jelly made from pig’s blood. A nice snack for Warin. She deserves better than scraps of rice and troubled water. And according to the Players of the Art, having such cloth around should make someone like her more lucid.

I’m sure she can be of help. The faster I solve this difficulty, the less suffering my colleagues will be in. I do not enjoy digging graves.

>Cacao shells & Mali* Jasmine candles
It cannot fully quell the irregularities of the body a week after giving birth, but chocolate tea ought to bring some frith and stillness to her. Tuhnidar (according to her folk, at the least) has a fondness for such a flower.

When a man falls - as opposed to a log - you don’t stomp on him. Judar extended her hand to me when I had nothing. I shall advance that.
>>
>>6161730
brutal, holy shit
>>6161732
>Blood pudding & brightly-colored cloth
>>
>Blood pudding & brightly-colored cloth
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>>6161732
The return of Sira! Excited to see how it loops into Gal & Company's saga. Welcome back, QM!

>Blood pudding & brightly-colored cloth
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Writing.
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A sneak-peak.
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Wrapping up the flashback, see you tomorrow.
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>>6162994
See yo then, QM!
>>
Done. Posting now.
>>
>blood pudding & brightly-colored cloth

Tuhnidar has her folk. She has nothing. I know my roadway.

( … )

“did not. pan out?” Warin (well, her head) hops towards and nuzzles my calf. It feels more comforting than the tree I sit in front of, at the least.

“The picture I heard was not a pretty one.” I sigh as my fingers ruffle the lengthy, frayed hair of hers. It’s still coarse.

Peace officers molesting*harassing - more than usual - the vendors of abortive medicine; sudden shortages of associates willing to transport the ingredients; all these particulars occurring chiefly within our advance-guard, Oceankeep, and just before the year’s end.

This. No, the entirety is queer. If such difficulties festered for this long, someone fixed it that way. That province—-

“… you are seeing that picture again, are you not.” Warin’s hand gingerly presses on my neck, guiding me to her lap. The mid-day has yet to begin, and yet, I wished nothing more than sleep.

Delivering and killing those freshly birthed infants was not a difficulty - I hardly cared to count the number. The fat washes off easy enough. But seeing the ulcers on their skin, holes in their limbs, so deeply flesh and tendons are laid bare; their seethes and moans, and their half-closed eyes…

Nearly half a year has passed, but it felt as if a week. The air still feels thick with molasses. I still see the swollen bellies of children, no older than thirteen, fourteen. How much of it was the doing of seminal fluid, or—

“mhm.” And I waste away more hours of the day.

My eyes, still crusty with tears, struggle to open as the knocking on my door jolts me awake; the low pitch of the knock, caused by solely using the joint of her middle finger against wood, and the quietness of footsteps, paints a clear picture. It’s her.

(Warin must’ve carried me to my quarters. She’s probably still in the back-garden. I ought to return such a compliment.)

“Senior, I’m here~” Cheerily standing in front of the door is Sohm, already wearing the paned trunk hose over her smock. Ah. Right. I - did - make an appointment with her.

“Mhm. Good day. Have you cleaned all the instruments, the- the utensils?” The nearing 15-years-old nods. Her and Judar must’ve sold the entirety of the food early in the afternoon.

“Fifteen minutes.”

In earnest, I expected more resistance to the idea, especially from Judar. Then again, a child is not an uncommon accessory to cookshops or eating places; far easier to go unmolested when their profession is to deliver food. Scant few make for better scouts or spies than them.

At the least, we’re not the ones who sold their 8-years-old daughter to a brothel to give her a ‘better life’. If their circumstances is - that - dreadful, far more efficacious a course is to kill her when she was born. Skip the ‘growing old’ and ‘suffering’ part and let her return to the cycle.
>>
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… in any case, I ought to prepare for the lesson.

“Before any bladework, handwork, or footwork, or the postures, we must know one’s openings. A man can be divided into four quadrants—” With my quarterstaff, I tap the picture mounted on the wall. “High left. High right. Low left. Low right.”

Standing front of a matted room, instructing the folk, brings to mind a time when I was still straight - as straight as soon-to-apothecary and later, slavecatcher could be, I suppose.

“I really do not want you to tarry long in - any - of the stances; the postures are the outermost point in which you can execute strikes from, although some may act as wards.” Pointing to Warin, I have her execute a cut with my old feder*sparring longsword. “Notice how the cut from roof flows into longpoint into fool’s guard.”

To solely instruct through words is not a wholesome way of learning, of course.

“A blade may be divided into two parts; the upper third, ‘the weak’, and the ‘strong’, the lower third. The former, easily manipulated, best used for strikes, the later, more earthfast, best used for parries. They are nothing more than functions of leverage.” Sohm’s eyes light up as Warin retrieves my battlesword. The tip is rolled and its edge blunt, but nevertheless it stands - when upright - some inches above my head.

“There is far more to the knightly and noble art than strength. Miss Warin. Cut at my high left quadrant, please.” Warin, taking care to ensure the blade does not hit the ceiling as she steps a little further from me, moves it to her shoulder and shifts her weight on her back-foot. The blade sits just behind her shoulders - wound up and ready to cut.

With a passing step, she strikes at my upper left quadrant; my right side shoulder and arm. I extend my arm and turn my edge to catch hers.

The steel clangs loudly, but my block does not collapse, rather, the battlesword bounced off my rappier since I caught it edge-on and on the strong of my blade. My rappier rattled, of course, but it moved scantly an inch. With her point and edge off-line, I drop my edge onto her newly exposed arm.

“W- wow.” Her eyes stay fixed on the battlesword as Warin returns it to the rack.

Ha. I cannot say I was elsewise when I first learnt the art. It does not see much use outside pike squares or the hands of body-guards nowadays, but swinging around a head-height sword is good for the shoulders (and mind).

The latter half of the afternoon was spent outside, practicing on a pell. Predictably, with the battlesword, although I did get her to try the shorter swords, too. She did not like the complex-hilt ones any too well; all the bars and rings made them tiring to hold while extended.

We were all sweaty (well, excepting Warin) and panting when evening came, so I concluded the lesson there.

(It will be some time before I let her use a live one, but she has the heart for it.)
>>
I was afraid she couldn’t withstand us at first.

“Do be mindful of what you say around her, alright? I needn’t tell you this but- well—- no rape jokes. Of any sort, of any character, just do not do it. And child murder, either. Not with her. I know this already is the case with the punks, but keep it in mind nevertheless.” I knew Marna and the others wouldn’t, but still. It would’ve gnawed at my breast and stomach if I hadn’t said it.

“Huh.” I take a sigh as we read through the week’s broadsheets. Among the usual horseshit the presses print is a case in which a boy, barely younger than Sohm, is accused of killing and raping a hound. “And here I thought - we - was supposed to be the spearhead of progress.” I take a moment to flex my fingers. Marna doesn’t have much to say in regards to such a grim picture.

Sohm, who was also sitting next to me, takes a moment to catch up. “No wonder the guests picked up the idea - we’re leading by example.”

Wh-
Ha-
HaAhAHaHA!

Immediately, instinctively, we both cackled. Oh no. Oh dear. Barely a month in Clawflash and she’s already disgusted by aliens. Without a shadow of a doubt, she’s as inborn as they come.

“Pft. Y- Sira, sira, you-” As soon as Marna tries to speak, I give him that look; ‘fine, SOME rape is permitted’, my half-closed eyes say. “You- you really sure she is not yours?”

(Ugh. No. Were that the case, at the oldest, she would’ve been… 5 or 6 years of age. Not that I would let a woman I was with carry out such a burden.)

… there wasn’t much difficulty having her around, anyhow. Having her around did make less time for that picture to emerge again.

And the winter months came, again, and again. And once again, there was me and Marna making talk in the early morning.

“-- ha, gotten soft, have you, now?” He scratches his nose. “Some years back I vividly remember you could hardly withstand a child.” Ah. That conversation.

“That child was pretty damned retarded, bothering a slave cook in the kitchen. Miraculous, it was, that didn’t burn himself.” Marna still shoots me a certain look — the which I said, wasn’t inaccurate, but… I have been spending more time with Sohm. Mayhaps equal to Warin, nowadays. The blacker jokes don’t come out from my throat as easily anymore. And my evenings aren’t occupied with delivering children or investigating queer matters anymore.

Have I changed?

>I have grown softer.
But that’s not necessarily a change for the worse. Of course I cherish her and Warin.

If the day comes, I wish to be remembered as her senior and instructor.

>I haven’t. And I shouldn’t.
At the end of the day, we’re in Green Lamps. I ought to spare some thought that one day she, and any of this will disappear.

If the day comes, I wish her to be able to move on. She deserves a straighter life.
>>
we’ll be back to Kommgal’s story after this choice.
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>>6163698
>I have grown softer.
>>
>>6163698
>I have grown softer.
>>
Head’s up, I’ll be outside tomorrow. Probably won’t have formatting on my posts.
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>>6163698
>>I have grown softer.
>>
Just got back. See you tomorrow.
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>>6164642
See you then, QM. Merry Christmas!
>>
A little head’s up - I’ll be visiting my grandparents from the 29-31th. Drawings may not be available.
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>>6165076
Fair enough!
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>>6165076
Sure, no problem OP.
>>6165132
look who's here
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>>6165235
Since Gobin Assassin Thread 1. Forgot I left my name on...
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A little head’s up for the current update; art’s ready, dialogue’s in progress.
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Ah, damn. I guess no more formatting.
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A sneak-peek at the recap.
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>>6165641
Waiting warmly!
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Way too drunk to post right now. See you in the morning.
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>>6166757
Ha, been there. Rest well, campadre!
>>
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>I have grown softer.

And I would not change it in the remotest - the world goes hard enough.

“The three chief cuts are: high cuts, middle cuts, and low cuts. High cuts flow from the upper quadrants to lower ones; middle cuts are cuts that can begin and end horizontally; low cuts flow from the lower quadrants to upper ones.”

“As if pulled by a string; the point moves first, then the arm, then the rest of the body.”

She speedily grew under our instructions. Excepting in height and breadth, I suppose. I ought to be proud.
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I ought to be.
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Scantly half a week ago, when I breakfasted with Aeg and made that agreement, I hadn’t the remotest idea what would follow; in pursuing the theft of a rose-furnished hat and broadsheet, we unearthed a plot of the low company, to sell off the items and robbing the mark; We stifled the robbery, but the thieves remained uncaught, and despite in-fighting, Aeg’s belongings has yet to be returned.

(And there’s the matter with Galpet, and his mother, Amournnara. But that difficulty can be resolved later.)

“A proper messenger would not be here.” As velvet blankets the world, only the messenger and I remain. He made clear his intention on being improper from cradling a weapon in temple grounds to begin with, in any case.

“I figured that was the case.” I sigh, remembering what was consequent to drawing my sword in anger.

“Had I not made mention of it and lent my strength, would your course have been the same?” Sensing my exasperation, he takes a moment before asking, although I suspect - he - already knows the answer.

“It would have. At the time. And were that the case, at the least, [law]suits and scorn of the folk would not fall upon my family.” It was a hell of a thing, watching my parents pay for damages consequent to their deafness whilst deafened myself.

“For a province so endowed in temples and monasteries, so often frequented, the commonfolk do not seem to follow the Middle Path, do they.” A tinge of spite seeps through his words.

(His dislike of such shallowness, his forewarning and forearming, and the indifference to my course, he…)

“You wanted such a suffering to play out.” My guess makes his lips return to normality, painting a clear enough picture — His dislike was not occasioned by the disavowment of the commandments; the scores of elderly men and women selling lottery tickets in front of monasteries and the drinking of amberwater on observation days are not (in the remotest) inborn to our province.

“Not long ago you nearly lost an eye by mistake. I suppose I ought to congratulate you for following such a judicious roadway.” The messenger makes mention of a time I fell onto my own knives after passing out; my negligence rewarded me with a lengthy cut across my cheek. “You sought this temple, in search of Higher Arts. Here is one last lesson, for your sake.” The messenger closes his palm and looks at the brought-together nails.

“Before the Middle Path had taken root in this country, the folk used to worship apparitions and the eldritch; inklings of such can still be found on the offerings of shrines — flesh, blood, and severed heads of animals. But the picture is similar enough.” With his pointing finger, he carves a circle in the velvet-tinged air.
>>
“Someone’s might is lent to another, and the person does an act in exchange for it.” His finger moves in a clockwise motion around the circle. “Apparitions and the eldritch often follow this roadway.” Finishing the rotation, he reverses it. “More earthfast deities follow the inverse; acts are done before they intend to lend a person their might.”

“The breadth and length of their might, and how they are expressed may vary; a Player of the Art may call upon apparitions to produce illusions or track someone on their behalf; a child of Serpents (as that as their province) may be given capacity to breathe in and control water.” The circle dissipates.

Kneeling down, the messenger fixes his gaze upon me. “And as a child of a folk chosen to be messengers and means of transport of chief deities, the breadth of particulars you are given is wider than you may think.”

(Somehow, I doubt invincibility and the capacity to blow away mountains with a flap of my arms are particulars I possess.)

“Growing old, suffering, and dying is inborn to life. Take the roadway you have love in.” Sweeping the tip of his scabbard on the ground, flames burst out and spread across the velvet-blanketed world — but I do not feel burnt in the remotest.

… my sight returns to the restless river, west of Oceankeep. My hands rest on the pristine white walls of the Twin Hearts temple. The mid-day is on the wane.

This is a queer feeling. The capacity to call down lightning was an expression of the might bestowed upon me; being immune (or, at the least, resistant) to heat is another particular I have realized. It would explain why the lightning did not bounce to and char my skin when I drew my weapon in anger. I do recall sweating when I felt nervy, though; I suppose that is the province of the mind.

In any case, my course has yet to change; retrieving Aeg’s stolen items and stopping those thieves, both of which can be done through visiting that music tuition household, located several minutes south of this temple.

Airin and I, Kommgal, can follow through with such a course by ourselves, but having Aeg with us would resolve the matter far more speedily; having Galpet with us could make efficacious the process as well, but I doubt I could convince him - I’ll need the slaughterer for such a course.

My course of action will be…

>Fetch Aeg
The giant is likely at a cookshop or playing houses, south of town. He ought to explain the matter with more clarity than we could.

A scout and fighting man, if need be.

>Fetch Nuan
The slaughterer is likely in the wet markets district, middle of town. She, or her folk, ought to know the doings of yesterday — no doubt those thieves used such a labyrinthean district as passage.

Galpet’s idea of waylaying those three by himself is not the wisest course.
>>
An update.

Good news: I’m back. Art should accompany the next update and the next should be out in a timely fashion. More timely than this one, at the least.

Bad news: I got sick during the vacation. Breathing issues and headache. There was a lot of dust at my grandparents’ place. It should be fine within a day or so now that I’m back.
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>>6167845
Nice looking d- is that a budge I see ?
>>6167848
>Fetch Nuan
>>6167849
oof, take care QM
>>
>>6167848
>Fetch Aeg
It is his stuff we're getting back, right?

>>6167846
Alas, poor Sohm...
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>>6167849
Welcome back, and get well soon. Happy New Year!
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>>6167863
By the latter half of the 15th century, doublets were becoming shorter, exposing the groin which was previously covered by it — a codpiece was a piece of cloth intended to cover the gap between the doublet (shirt) and hoses (tights).

Over the course of the 16th century, it became more prominent, and featured in Jochiam Meyer’s fencing treatise of 1570, the one I based Sira’s weapons and outfit from.
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Here’s what it looks like without a codpiece. Also the website I got much of the info from.

https://bloshka.info/2024/02/06/codpiece/#google_vignette
>>
Closing vote in the morning.
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>>6168256
waiting warmly
>>
Rolled 2 (1d2)

Coinflip.
1 = Nuan
2 = Aeg
>>
Writing. See you tomorrow.
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>>6169624
See you then!
>>
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Sore arm. Can’t draw, but here’s a sneak-peek.

By the way, "guests" (แขก) is a catch-all term referring to middle-eastern / indian / muslims — a term (which originally came from Teochew-chinese) used to refer to minorities in Thailand, meaning, ‘visitor’.

The closest modern ‘equivalent’ of this term would be ‘gay’, I suppose. It refers to a specific type of person, but it can also be used derisively.
>>
>>6170179
What is the setting's equivalent to the Middle Eats and the Indian subcontinent, anyway? Is the world's geography broadly similar? Do they share the same understanding of cosmology, and have their own local serpents and garudas and such?

I hope your arm feels better soon, OP.
>>
>>6170179
hope you get well, OP. btw this is the first time I see a term with that broad of a range of meaning.
>>
>>6170348
Kind of reminds me of "coolie"
>>
>>6170220
Since I pretty much copy stuff from the real world (primarily from europe) in the 16-17th century, india should be roughly the same, since Thailand got its Theravada Buddhism (with a bit of hindu mythology) from there.

The Middle Path, by the way, is literally a translated word-for-word concept from Buddhism. https://tricycle.org/beginners/buddhism/middle-way/

Technically, some of the things present here is a little - too early - compared to real life history; coffeehouses were showing up in the latter half of the 17th c, here, while Loveless Gal is set in the early 17th c, and the basket hilt style sword, ‘mortuary sword’ that Gal uses shows up in ~1630-1640s, but I’ve elected to show them due to their importance to the character of the early modern period. (Coffeehouses being the precursor to modern day cafes, the emergence of chocolate, etc)
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>>6170348
Thanks.
Gal will be seeing a familiar face soon.
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Soon.
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>>6170867
>seeing a familiar face

>>6171911
>mostly faceless for now

kek
>>
It’s been a damn while. I’m back.
>>
>Fetch Aeg

Involving the chief witness of the theft is naturally - the - course to take in returning the belongings. His presence ought to give us the vantage in scouting, and if such a course is not avoidable, fighting.

“Heya. Did you fin-”
“.. ah.”

I hadn’t any words as I retired to the pavilion Airin waited at. All I could do was rest my head on her shoulder and grasp onto her back. “What would I do without you, junior.” Following a short sigh, her wrinkled fingers find their way onto my hair. I linger in this posture for a few more moments, feeling the beat of her heart and scent of lavender on her linen shirt.

“I wish to leave.” The scant strength I still have coalesce into those words. The disavowment of women in their entirety over the menses* menstruation of few is disgusting; a country that prohibits women from education and learning breeds Guests — and I know damned well the stench of such a low race.

The walk back down the pristine steps of the temple confirms the messenger’s words; the mid-day walls do not burn my fingers, nor do the sunlight char my cheek. Amusing as it may be, I doubt those kids would attack me with boiling water or syrup.

“We have not tried flight, yet, have we?” Airin scratches her chin as we return to the confederacies of the middle parts of town. “We?” I struggle to not laugh, but the which she says is not - entirely - without merit; if Serpents, ‘deities of the water’ have might over oceans, lakes, and liquids, ‘messengers’, vehicles of chief deities, ought to have some might over the sky. Since, the lightning.

Promiscuous chatter and cuts of the cleavers pass our ears as we brush past the wet markets; the scent of recently slaughtered fish and chicken replaced by sizzling eggs and onions of cookshops as we venture further south.

(Maeg should be fine…)
(Her appointment with the Serpents should be at the eastern parts of town. She ought to be. In the case Amournnara somehow crossed paths with her, I doubt she could remember her. Five years is a long time. Yes. She should be fine. There’s no vantage to be gained by-)

“Uhm.”
“Miss- uh- Airin, would you care for a drink?” In an attempt to stifle the nervy thoughts, I point to a stall, one of dozens which preside near barbershops.

“.. ha.”
“Sure, junior. Lemon tea sounds nice.” Airin lightly chuckles as she tugs on my sleeve. “And I wouldn’t mind a repeat of yesterday’s doings, in any case.” It took all my strength to stifle my moan in response to her stepping closer and squeezing my waist.

(She has gotten bold.)
>>
As often is the case, playhouses coalesce near the Green Lamps district; cheaper rent and abundance of sponsors (that is to say, alehouses) tends to tether most playing companies, or rather, their sharers*shareholders who are the primary actors, to such a place.

The afternoon hours makes quiet the streets; only a handful of folk linger at teahouses and cookshops, and fewer near the yet-to-open playhouses themselves.

“—believe that was the case.” And not so far from the common way, an intimate laughter. Walking down an alley whose walls are encrusted with partly torn and scantly legible broadsides*single-side printed posters, I see two persons of note; Aeg, of course, dressed in a fashion similar to his idol - that of a pirate, although his is far less a frivolous burlesque*parody of such a garment; covering his upper body is a lively red linen shirt and a hooded coat slightly heavier in texture, whose outside is black in color but share its briskness on the inside; on his lower body are equally bright breeches and dark hoses, although only one is tied with a garter.

“Aeg. The child with your hat and broadside. We need you at the music tuition household.” My terse words jolted the woman dressed in richly black clothes - who, a moment ago was tugging on his garter - to leave off with such a course and fix her gaze—-

she..
i know her.
i used to know.

Her hair has more grey and white strands since I saw her last. The abyssal eye and patch of skin around it remain as mesmerizing as ever. Some blackness and wrinkles are present near her (normal) eye, not that mine are any better. I can see her arms are still as dense and sinewy, even through the sleeves. She- no, what- what even was the nature of our relations? What is the expression I ought to make?

“Uh. Right. Give us a minute.” Breaking the - no doubt, lengthy - silence since my gaze was fixed to hers, Aeg steps away from the wall and places his fingers on her shoulders. “Well, miss Nara, that’s the matter I talked of yesterday. Miss—?”

“Kommgal.” Instinctively, I nod at her words. Miss Neeranara’s eyes twitch and narrow a little at such a confirmation. “You’ve been keeping well?”

“I- I have.” The many scabs on my arms and thighs paint a different picture — but so does the feeling of Airin’s fingers holding onto mine.

“That is good.” She looks to her and before turning to face Aeg. “Appointment’s the same. Good luck on this roadway of yours.” Patting his calf with a fan, she lets out a sigh.
>>
The weariness in her sigh is enough evidence she dislikes the course Aeg intends to pursue, and has given up on dissuading it. Yet, a part of me wishes to hear her voice for a while longer. “Uhm. Miss Neeranara. It would of great help if our roadway was—”

“I must refuse, I’m afraid. There’s--” Upon realizing the shakiness in her voice, she pauses. “I came here because a matter of mine speedily - needs - addressing. I really do not want to involve myself in further difficulties before the present is settled.”

Sensing my dimming expression, Nara does offer some remedy. “But if you wish to visit and swap stories, I’ll be around.” A trade card is summoned from the midnight black doublet. Smelling faintly of lime, it details a residence whose front is a barbershop.

(That ought to be where she is staying.)

Following the silence which remains in the air after her words, and a nod, she bows out — disappearing from my sight as speedily as she entered it. Yet again.

“She’s a little cool ‘round most folk. Needn’t worry about it.” On our walk to the music tuition household, Aeg tries to comfort me. It’s not that comforting. “Not around you, though, evidently.” Airin glares at the numerous marks on his neck, no doubt given by Nara.

“Yes. It’s quite interesting how someone — so — cool can have - such - a deportment.” He leans forward to get a clearer stare at my neck, unobstructed by the scarf, to which Airin pulls me away from through seizing my wrist.

.. The chaffing continues. For some time. It suddenly stopped when the topic of condoms came up - for reasons unknown.

The entirety of our walk involved more than that, of course; discussing my newly unearthed might, courses to take should that child not be present within the tuition household, and locations to retreat to should we need to bow out.

My previous brush with those thieves in the teahouse, and Amournnara, taught me ways to subtly get the vantage; how I carry my sword, how articles of clothing are positioned, where my eyes ought to be, and perhaps most important of all, choice of words.

And some adjustments were made.

>Folded scarf
Instead of wrapping around my neck several times, I fold and rest the scarf across my shoulders - my main hand can easily rip it out in a single motion.

It’s not thick enough to stop a cut, not unless I wrap it several times around my hand, but it can buy me enough time to either run away or draw my weapon if I throw it out. If I let it hang on my other hand, the veil could stifle thrusts somewhat.

>Box of fried chicken skin
Instead of holding my sword in my other hand, I make a sash using the scarf, freeing up my hands — a package of fried chicken skin, impregnated with spices and chilli.

Whilst it consists of little more than two interlocking boxes and some string tying them, the contents can be crushed to create a cloud of blinding dust when I throw it. Or eaten, naturally.
>>
>>6173804
>pic
so our giant boy also knows how to have fun. good.
>>6173805
>Folded scarf
>>
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>>6173805
>Box of fried chicken skin
>>
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>>6174006
“This poleaxe of mine is filled with a powder and is hollow and perforated. And this powder is so strongly corrosive that the moment it touches your eye, you will no longer be able to open it, and you may be permanently blinded.

I am the poleaxe, heavy, vicious and deadly. I deliver blows more powerful than any other hand-held weapon. If my first strike misses, then my poleaxe becomes risky to hold on to and is no more of any use to me. But if my first blow is powerfully made on target, then I can stop any other hand-held weapon. And if I am accompanied with good protective armor, then I can defend myself with any of the powerful striking guards of the sword.

My most noble lord, my Marquis, there are some vicious things shown in this book that you would never do. I show you them purely to aid your knowledge”

From Fiore De Liberi
>>
Checking vote in the tomorrow morning. Coin flip then.
>>
Rolled 2 (1d2)

1 = scarf
2 = box
>>
>>6174921
mfw
>>
>>6174921
welp, tactical kfc it is
>>
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Sneak-peak at update.

And some insight to Aeg’s past.
>>
Am sick. There won’t be any drawings but the update is nearly done. Expect it tonight or tomorrow. See you then.
>>
>>6177445
See you then, QM. Sorry to hear you're under the weather.
>>
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Still working on it, don’t worry. Sleeping issues has replaced breathing, unfortunately.
>>
>>6179691
That sucks. I hope things improve for you soon!
>>
Rows of skewered pork, roasted under flames; warmth and sweetness escaping from the repeatedly closed and opened pots of rice; eggs and fish sauce sizzling within the pans — returning to the wet market’s roadways makes enticing the prospect of getting something to fill our hands before we depart.

>box of fried chicken skin

“No, no. You ought to fold it like this.” Straightway deducing my intentions, Aeg folds the lining of the box, that is to say, banana leaves, as to disappear the edges into the natural slits of the woven bamboo walls. “Ah, man. I miss having those lacquer boxes.” Before putting the lid back, he helps himself to a piece of the saturated crimson skin.

“—and for the record, it wasn’t - I - that did it.” Straightway eyeing Airin, whose gaze already was fixed on him the immediate he had made mention of the matter again, he justifies himself. Or try to, in any case.

“With - your - deportment, I’m surprised the armor was not stolen off you.” She scoffs, pork rind still in hand.

“I was- well, I am many things, but never a dog’s cunt.” The giant raises and stares at his arm. He was guilty of many things during his years in the Nightwatch — dereliction of duty wasn’t one of them.

“Ah. That is. right. Indubitably.” Airin’s voice falters a little, not intending to doubt the burns he suffered from opening up those roofs.

Their conversation speedily passes away after that - reminding me of why there was distance between them to begin with.

My exhalation accompanies the unraveling of the scarf; a thought which gnaws at my breast as I wrap the scarf around my waist and thrust the scabbard through — making a repeat of a situation which had displaced me five years ago. With a gulp, and hooking my fingers with Airin’s, I bury such a nauseous thing. For now.

(It’ll be fine.)
(It has to be.)

The promiscuous chatter and smells gives way to an icy wind which brushes against my cheek and coarse roadway that makes harsh each step; the congregation of clouds tersely allows the afternoon its sunlight; and not so far out of our grasp is that reticent household — even the temple in that corpse-like screwpine canal road can - sometimes - shine like bronze and amber, should the angle of light be right. This? Only vanilla could surpass it in blackness. And scantly, at that.

Before entering, we remove our sandals at a rack next to the steps leading up to the entrance. The presence of only a scant few does make convenient our course.

“It’s not even charred...” Aeg sweeps his hand across the top of the door as he lowers his head, incredulous. But the questioning of the property’s age is evanescent.
>>
“- No!”
“I don’t appreciate what you intend to say — I know damned well my child.” Even with Aeg’s back shrouding my sight, I recognize such a venomous voice. It’s her. My hand straightway raises to shield Airin.

“Ma’am.” A tinge of viciousness leaks through the attempt of polite address. It gives pause to Amournnara. “We do not intend to insinuate a difficulty nor suggest his character is low. That was not our intention. Never was-”

Before the elderly goblin can continue, Amournnara huffs and cuts him off. “What was your intention. Then.”

“He failed to play satisfyingly the songs required in the flute ensemble. Thus, his exclusion. The particulars were witnessed, documented, and written down, by several instructors, myself included — spare myself a minute, and I can produce the tablets.” A hostile tone lingers in the air even as words dissipate — and by that time, Airin and I had already bowed out.

“Was she that much of a cunt at Crockbottom?” Leaning against a nearby teahouse’s advertisement-ridden wall, she takes a bite of the fried chicken skin. “She does seem to take everything said - or unsaid - as a threat to her.” I disgustedly flick the dust off my fingers as I recall yesterday’s picture, that of her admitting to be without fault should her son rape another child who did not conform to her ideals of modesty.

And on that matter. Did she even sue me out of bitterness from the wound I inflicted on her husband? Anger towards bringing to light his deportment? Sensing an opportunity to reel in money before bow—

Speaking of bowing out.

Returning to the common way is the rotten woman, dressed in flowy silk; her shirt and waist-height skirt rich with a nightly blue shade, patterned with bars of milky white around the cuffs; a thin belt, equally white in color rests on her waist, but more of note to me are the items hanging from it — a swollen, lumpy pocket, and an equally broad leather sheath, holding a set of cutlery. Thrusted through her belt is a slender, elbow-length pipe made of metal.

She huffs and puffs as she storms off, even retrieving the pipe from her waist to smoke away some stress. Or try to. With the irritated way she puts it back, it must’ve been empty.

“Hm.” As her figure grows more indistinguishable from the sea of folk on the upper parts of the road, Airin and I take one last glance around on the remote possibility of those children being present.
>>
Only a handful of children congregate around stalls and cookshops at this side of town, and even fewer linger after finishing their meal. No trace of dotted white hands. What I DO notice are a pair of green, leathery ears poking from underneath a wide-brimmed hat. Further south, at a roadside cookshop whose pots and plates of rice fill the air with steam, I can see a goblin, collapsed on the table. Several bundles of broadsheets and a mug rests beside his elbows.

“A ruse?” Airin proposes. We walked closer to get a more thorough look. The trail of saliva trickling down from his sleeve to the ground speaks loudly enough. He’s not waylaying anyone. The slight movement of his breasts does confirm his continued existence, at the least.

Following a glance towards one another, we returned to the steps of the (not charred!) black household.

And straightway met with a hard glance by the elderly goblin.

“Good day, mister.”
“Good day.”

Aeg had already discussed the matter of his belongings and reasons to suspect one of the students here, ‘Wittiya’ is in possession of them — but not Galpet’s involvement and the would-be robbery of yesterday.

“I’m afraid I cannot share such intimate particulars to persons excepting his relatives.” The instructor narrows his eyes, refusing to give us any further information of Galpet’s friend beyond his name. “We’re open, always, but most folk spend their new years elsewhere.”

We do have one more play to make, though — when we questioned the teahouse’s staff, Aeg wrote down their accounts on his map. A case could be made for the safety of his students, Wittiya and Galpet, that the location of their residence and their name of guardians are to be given to us.

The difficulty is, with Galpet being only a few minutes away, to directly involve him or not? It would strengthen our ask, but only if Galpet willingly and earnestly cooperates.

We decided to…

>Present the teahouse staff’s accounts
Legality is the heart of the matter, here. As long as what we say does not veer outside it, he ought to be of help.

I’ll need to word my requests and accounts carefully.

>Visit and discuss things with Galpet first
The doings of yesterday, his past, Amournnara, only I know of such intimate matters. If anyone could make an ally of him, it’s me.

I’ll need to give him an incentive to help us.
>>
Hello. It’s been a while, hasn’t it. So, we reached what would approximately be the mid-point of the thread. Thanks for sticking around this far. As always, I would like some feedback.

>What’s your opinion on the characters? Who do you believe to be fleshed out and interesting?
>do you like the current style of narration and dialogue? Too bloated? Too short? Unclear?
>and among all the threads, which is your favorite so far?
LG1: nightly meeting with Airin, and going on a quest with Aeg
LG2: coffeehouse espionage with Aeg, a day working at slave company, and visiting the riverside temple
LG3: Past with Nara, a talk with Slaughterer Nuan, and encountering a wounded Galpet
>>
>>6180698
>Present the teahouse staff’s accounts
Galpet's parents will be the bigger problem, if we try to persuade him and they are around.

>>6180700
>What’s your opinion on the characters? Who do you believe to be fleshed out and interesting?
All of them are pretty well-developed, with the main trio being my favorites, and Aeg probably the one I like best.

>do you like the current style of narration and dialogue? Too bloated? Too short? Unclear?
I'm a fan of more dialogue tags, but you've gotten good at giving each main charcuterie a distinct voice, so it's not normally a problem. Given the slower pace lately, a few reminder/recap sentences here and there to older threads' events might not be remiss. Everything else is just fin. As always, I like your descriptions a lot.

>and among all the threads, which is your favorite so far?
LG2 was probably my favorite, personally.
>>
>>6180698
>Present the teahouse staff’s accounts
>>6180700
>What’s your opinion on the characters? Who do you believe to be fleshed out and interesting?
they're all interesting and Airin has attention

>do you like the current style of narration and dialogue? Too bloated? Too short? Unclear?
the formating has been good for a while now, pretty clear

>and among all the threads, which is your favorite so far?
LG3



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