Of Change and Happenstance

Antollicus and Antiope

He was a man fallen from grace. In her own way, Oman pitied him. As much as a murderer could afford the luxury of pity.

Antollicus was aged but not old. The lines of time were cut deep in his face and crossed with scars that told his tale of woe and loss. Oman scrutinized this man, left hand on her right elbow, right hand curled near her mouth. His companion was young and plain but seemed of good demeanor. You could tell she simply wanted to please her way out of this dilemma. He seemed bitter. This bad blood was not brought on by Oman's presence in this his former residence. It would seem to Oman that this inclination for anger was truly more directed at himself for being in this predicament at all.

There is a point in a duel of silence that one person might give in. Oman was patient to a point that it would annoy most. She waited for this release to be evident in this mans body language.
When finally his rigidity gave way to defeat, she spoke to his companion first, "Can you cook then?", she asked simply.
The Woman Antiope spoke, her hands clasped in front of her, " I think so Madam, no one has ever complained that is to say, not directly to me and all."
"Can you follow direction?" Omans eyebrows lifted with this query. The Man known as Antollicus tensed. It is one thing to defeat him with coin, but to defeat his property with wit seemed to make him uneasy.

Such is the delicate manipulation of man. A man's power is unbridled. When challenged it postures to the offensive. A Free Womans machinations are a delicate defense. It must be subtle and have keen sense. To truly know a man, a woman must know herself from the outside inward. The affable and eager nod from the woman Antiope was a keystone.
" Very good, " she gestured towards a cart filled with groceries from the Market, " I wish everything to be washed well before being cooked. " Antiope looked utterly confused.
" I do not like dirt on my plate, " she explained slowly as if to a child, " I do not like age-filth on my meats." Oman looked at the man to convey he should explain. He turned to his companion, and explained. Oman has exposed him, his weakness pleased her.

The oldest of her memories is that of her aunts home. It was not expensive, nor were there trinkets of adoration around the rooms. It was a simple farmstead home away from the hustle of the city. Her Aunt was called Hadas, she was dark haired and swarthy skinned. Oman and her twin Jara had come to this place before she could remember.
Hadas had found Oman playing in a corner of a large pantry. She came to her, always smiling. "I have a game for us to play Oman," she had said while crouched down low on the eye level of Oman.
"I wish you to turn around," she turned her pointer finger around in a circle and Oman the child turned. Hadas took 12 jars of pickled vegetables down from the top shelf and set them on the bottom one.
She reached out and turned the small girl around. " Pick for me, the one that is different from the rest. Do so quickly and I will reward you."
Oman had taken a survey of each, standing in front of them one by one. They were all in the same jars, all had the same vegetables. She came to the last jar, and pointed to it, Hadas gave no notice and asked, " Why then is this one not like the rest ?" The child Oman was calculating an answer, her Aunt seemed pleased with this.
When Oman finally looked up her eyes had been fixed on Hadas, " Because it is older than the rest. " The girl Oman was rewarded for her efforts. "Have this knife then Oman, you are ready to learn to cut fruit. " Hadas had never questioned how the girl knew what she did, she seemed content that she had known. In thinking back, Oman remembered that this jar was the only one that had dust on the top of it. The rememberence of this provokes a desire to slice the thick skin of a fruit, in one continuous piece.

While Antollicus took to repairing the staircase, Oman went to the door in front of the courtyard. There on the stone-worked ground lay a package. The bundle was of plain brown paper, embossed with the symbol of the Sea. The cord was stained dark brown. Oman picked the package up, she smelled the cord. 'Blood', she said to herself not surprised by the taste of copper. She put the parcel under her robe and into her belt. She went to the woman Antiope, who was almost finished with sorting task. Oman came into the food closet with a length of chain from the stable. Without much care she chained Antiope to the stove with her companions own shackles. They were of good solid construction, he was skilled. Oman yanked on the thick rings to check it was secure. A bold move indeed.
Oman limped out of the pantry on her walking stick to the fountain and looked up at the man Antollicus, "I have chained your woman to the stove," she held up a key, "I am going to my kiosk in the Great Square, if you leave I will see she is put to slave on the streets for coin."

A House for a Peddler

Habit and Habitat.


Some things never change. And though the city had changed so much over the years she'd been gone, it was good to see life went on. Bargains are struck through the streets she passes through. Vats of dry goods line the carts of peddlers along alleys. Price banter, and the finesse of trade happen all around her in a loud din. She is focused, acutely aware of her guise. Tavern music fans along the clay-made walls and bounces back off the cobblestones underfoot. Up the hill there would be residences befitting her station in this particular invisible life. She will need a courtyard and a stable. A smithy's forge and stone would be nice, but not necessity. However, running water and facilities are not something she will bend on. Fastidiousness was a key to a clear mind. On this she was unyielding.


At the Community's center, where they read the daily news, she would find posted information on real-estate for sale. It seemed a bit silly and frivolous to purchase yet another residence in this city but her grand apartment on high, with its billowing silk curtains, white marble sinks, and limestone baths would call attention to a hobbled Free Woman who peddles as an Apothecary in a street kiosk.

One residence posted seemed to meet her criteria and price range. It had been seized for back taxes. The listing said it was 4 blocks south west and 11 blocks west of the Great Square. The area was home to some mid-level Brothels and Gambling dens the grunt level Warriors frequented. Not quite the Street of Coin and far enough from the Street of Brands, which could become a hecklers last address, she mused as she walked. Now is not the time, she snapped-to with the click-click of her walking stick. This new task was time sensitive, to say the least her reputation was being challenged. She was being tested.


Oman had been in Port Kar previous to her arrival here in Ar. It had been a long time since her services had been called upon. In her time of unemployment ( or vacation, if you will ) she had taken to learning the art of Poultices from the local Herbalist. The Herbalist, a sort of low caste physician, had imparted much of his knowledge. So she delved deeper into her new found role as an invisible. On one day while shopping for dried fungus on the docks she came upon a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. They of Black did not use names, only symbols to address orders. Oman's symbol was four waved lines stacked, the Sea of Information. The parcel had been placed on her wagons seat by unknown unseen hands. A rushed, hollow excitement had overwhelmed her when she pulled the cord which bound it. What hands had tied this? Inside was a gold coin and a Seal Tablet the size of her palm, it had been made of pressed salt and weighed one quarter a stone. The salt cake had been decorated with gold flake and dipped half in red ink; blood on the dagger. The coin symbolized payment. The embossed tablet told her to whom she would send the bill. Seasons change, but unchanging are its tasks, taxes, and trials. This trial would be fraught with danger. That thought had electrified her with an accompanying chill. A smile had lifted a corner of her mouth and her eyes had become fixed and dilated. There had been theft. There would be murder. Breaking the Seal in two along the red ink, she whispered out loud on a brisk sea wind, " I will do Murder for you, my Brethren." Black hair flew freely around her alive with the static of thrill. Salt crumbled and blew away as she ground the tablet in her fingers. The pact sealed and the contract accepted. That which had remained of the package tossed into the sea.


The streets in the area of the home for sale were cleaner. Down a wide alley, there was the residence, its outer wooden door fortified on both sides by a high stucco wall which bore a sign 'Property For Sale Under Foreclosure.' She entered the receiving area. Beyond it was a wrought iron gate and fence which lent further fortification. Passed the second gate was a courtyard of stones and in its center was an iron-clad fountain of sorts. The well had gears which when turned would draw water up into a large hammered copper basin. If you pumped it every day, water would flow freshly without mechanics. This had been a metal workers home perhaps, she imagined. On the ground floor of the residence there was a stable large enough for her small wagon and pack animal. To the stables right were servants quarters they were small but accommodating. The living quarters were upstairs. The stairs that lead up to the second story needed welding, their wrought iron brackets askew. Perhaps there had been a scuffle, she wondered. Looking around the courtyard to assure herself no one was watching, she jumped two stairs that were in dire need of repair, landing firmly on the front doors stoop. This door was locked.

Her ears twitched first the left then right. She pulled the hood of her cloak up, and drew it in towards her face. She knocked slowly three times, returned her hands to her walking stick, and waited. After a few minutes many locks began to click and shift behind the heavy door. She steadied herself, her hands clammy with adrenaline. The door opened carefully a crack, but no one showed themselves.

She spoke clearly, " I have come to purchase this home and your debts."

Day One - The Return

Re-inventing the Wheel

Time stood very still. The wagons wheels turned over and over along the roads, kicking dust up on the hem of her robes. Hustle and bustle of the city happened all around her, but for the Alchemist it was a dream scape she was living in. In this happenstance, she didn't exist. An invisible meant to move along. These streets so familiar seemed so old and worn now. It had been seven years since she had ridden along them. Seven arduous years and yet it seemed someone else's life she was holding memories for. Glorious Ar, somehow fallen from its once pristine grace.

She pulled the wagon into the Magistrates Offices, it was early, just after dawn. She of the old ways, must remember to be hobbled. Slowly she eased off the seat. Crumpling herself, pretending to catch her breath, hobbling up the grand marble stairs. She opened the offices doors, and stood in a long line of others. She leaned on her walking stick and let her mind drift. Peasants, Low Caste, Exporters indeed. They all need something. Perhaps a good bath would be in order, she thought as her nose with its acute sense of smell wrinkled in protest under its simple veil. A man in black watched her from his peripheral. He was in an altogether different line, a chit line. This to receive payments due. Were she anyone else, she would have thought his attention was on the slave girls being led into the back offices by a Slaver to be accounted for and taxed accordingly. But, She knew he surveyed her. He seemed rather young and ambitious, but she was impressed with the instinct. Letting her breath be labored slightly, she lifted a hand to hold the upper most part of the long walkers stick. He seemed to ease with the sight of aged un-gloved hands. Hands that were those of a low caste woman. Burn scars, calluses, and short cropped fingernails.

" Yes," she trembled with some crumpled money at the offices teller like window, " I will be needing a kiosk license for the Marketplace, " ending this with a long hoarse breath and a caught up choking cough behind a handkerchief. The Woman behind the window winced. She paid her fee and signed the license to sell wares and services. Once finished she made her way to the wagon. A slight nod to the man in black as a 'Good Day to you Killer.'

Black was familiar. She could still smell the color black, heavy and rich. She heaved herself back onto the wagon, labored and grunting, one leg stiff as if crippled. The hem of her robes caught the wagons brake, she fussed with them. The Killer exited, her pale eyes watched the him in black walk his merry way down the High Street. Paid for services rendered the Magistrate, she thought. How interesting. Pirates and Vagabonds, Killers in the daylight. And all of them seemingly owed from the Magistrate. Interesting indeed.

The wagon churned its way to the market place already busy with shop keeps and traders. Slip 1301 was on the corners near the fork of the High Street. A good a spot as any, she mused. The wagon pulled into her space, she unhitched the beast of burden and brought it around. She spotted two stable boys on their way back to the shacks. " You boy," she warbled to one of them, " Take this to the stables and pay for a months boarding, food and water," she dug around a haggard looking purse. " Come back to me with the receipt, and I will pay you handsomely eh? " She patted the boy with a coin filled hand. He dutifully took the pack beast. The tent that was her shop went up with two pulls of the ropes. She tied them off one by one, now it was she that surveyed. Good enough exits, a close-by alleyway, this comforted her. After she puts up the well made sign that read: Alchemical Solutions, Medicines, Herbals Supplements and Barbering, she stepped into the tented area of the wagon. Its flaps closed and tied behind her.

Oman stood up tall and stretched her aching back. A long sigh accompanied this moment of peace. Sinking down for a sit on a trunk and partaking of a clove root smoke-wrap. She unlaced the prison of robes and yawned. Thank goodness, she thought, they weren't High Caste robes this time. All the fluffs and puffs were so tiresome. A mirror hung before her was filled with the sight of a tall, lean, and athletic woman. Her face and arms darkened with powder. Much more than the rest of her which was fair in complexion. Hair black as a new-moon night swung thick like a blanket just below her shoulders. She eyeballed the braid hanging from the mirror in front of her like a trophy.

More than a year ago while covert, she had posed as a hideously scarred kitchen slave to a Delegate of Port Kar's House. When you are crippled or marred in some fashion, Masters and Free People leave you alone for the most part. Function and provide adequate service and you become invisible like sidewalk bricks. They realize you are there, but pay no mind as they walk over you. A good cover for someone definitely not a slave. Kitchen staff and slaves hear everything a House has to say. At one point however, this Diplomat had laid eyes on her. She with the hair of shining black. The large prosthetic burn on her right eye, cheek, and down the full side of her leg had not dissuaded this sighting. 'You, drudge', he had stated, 'Come here.' He had pointed to his feet. 'You are a vision aren't you?' he had said with bitterness. 'Your hair is lovely, but to look at you!' he shook his head. At moments like these she remembered the thoughts of killing him slowly, but remained calm and passive. 'You do not deserve this.' With that he shore her braid off, and left it at her feet. He stomped away. She picked it up, the murderous hate brewing. One moment of a Free Man's whimsy, and it was gone. 'I shall,' she had thought, 'strangle you with this very braid before I am done here.' After she retrieved what she needed to prove his guilt to her Employer, that is exactly what she did. Her hair has since grown back some, thankfully.

She smoked slowly and deliberately allowing herself moments grace before continuing on this journey of illusion. This new disguise had proven itself in city after city. She had perfected it for this specific task, adding age spots to her arms and hands. Around her eyes were deep creases made with glue. A dark line here, and some shadow there gave her a revelation of what the future might hold. In truth she wasn't aged at all, or wrinkled. Her eyes however were a doorway to be sure, a weakness, she thought as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. In the long sojourn away from the streets of Ar so many people she had known were gone. Only two, she feared might know her if they caught her by the eye. But they would not be meandering this shop, she assured herself with confidence. She redressed, and took a moment to find her alter-self. The stable boy would return soon, and she would pay him well as promised.

It was truly amazing what people will tell an alchemist. They will spout off at the mouth about affairs, politics, and personal information no one should have to endure, really. This is what made a good filtering system. When she would mix, blend, or cut, she would ask politely the well wearing customers to refer new customers. She always was quite the talent with sharp objects, scissors were certainly no different. She would soon have the clientele she needed to obtain bounty she sought. If the paying customer seemed in her target market she would offer them a jar of salt. Salt was indeed a good topic amongst the waiting customers here. It so happened that many years ago she had been paid in salt. Currency of sorts, it would do the trick nicely.