"We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs, faiths, and fears; the record may seem superficial, but it is indelible."
The stench of Cos still clung to her nostrils. It even overwhelmed the copper smell of blood. The combination of the two was a brutal assault. Oman sat at a table, in the kitchen with her head tilted back. The house she had once called home here in Port Kar, now held very little in the way of comfort for her. The Artist who had shared it with her was dead and gone. With the exception of one lone painting, the entire flat was abandoned. She righted her head, tilting it back from its reclined state and stared blatantly at the portrait of, of all things, herself. It was regarded with a longing to remember the night it had been painted. Instead, currently her thoughts drifted over the brush strokes as if they were not really there. Different circumstances invaded her reverie, and she began to go over them. Inwardly there was a sense of failure that prevailed over the modicum of success in regards to the trip from Ar on a whole. They had indeed managed to escape Cos relatively unscathed, though, she'd lost her pledge in the process. No, Shival wasn't dead. (at least to her knowledge), but, he was missing just the same. It wasn't enough to get what they came for. Pridefully speaking, they should have returned to Ar weeks ago. Too, they should have stayed together. The losing of ones Pupil will not be overlooked, surely and an unblemished record will bear the marks of failure. Much like she did, currently. Oman took the blood soaked rag from her nose and there were obvious and angry hand prints around her neck as if she'd been strangled.
" Has it stopped? ", asked Basle who was looking no worse for wear even with the black eye that was now a very lovely shade and swelling. If it is possible, it only added to his charms. Oman scoffed. She didn't like being rescued by the cavalier guard, who made somewhat a habit of this damsel in distress act. The truth of the matter was that she did not enjoy being reminded that brawling was not her forte`. As a woman, she is not built for close combat. They'd been followed out of Cos, and this was made crystal clear by the awaiting mercenaries that clothes-lined her as she rounded the corner from the Docks of Port Kar. How they managed to arrive first, or, get word that fast, was a mystery. Glowering at Basle, at herself, and at the situation, she replaced the rep cloth. The bleeding had subsided some, but her welted ego was still kicking her ass, but good.
" Oman? ", Basle roused her from the self indulgent pity party, " It isn't like you to be caught off guard. You turned to look at something, and the big one snatched you by the throat, I thought he'd snapped your neck. What happened?" He was looking for an explanation. One she would not give in its entirety, " I thought I saw someone," her voice was laryngitic, still suffering the after effects of being choked. They say that your ghosts always haunt you. If that is true, then Oman is not only preyed upon by waiting Merck's, but also by a past that cannot be undone. Irrevocable, Intangible, and as Indelible as the painting itself. She stared blankly at the portrait leant against the far wall. In this light, it was a vague likeness. Its own empty stare a delicate mirror.
Reflected.
