Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!
Blue mugrobi eyes met hazel-green Bastian ones, and it was not sympathy or understanding that was held there as Niccolette pushed the man away with her words. The tall entrepreneur smacked a closed fist down on the table, spilling tea and rattling fine porcelain cups, his mediocre glamour shifting with hot bright crimson.
“No!” He repeated the word, sharp and short, louder but not yelled. Leaning both hands on the table, Demkaih frowned at her.
“No Niccolette Ibutatu. You do not get to choose what is my affair or not. You do not get to tell me Uzoji’s death was murder, and expect I will sail from here without avenging him. You loved him, but we loved him too. Family, friends. I knew Uzoji when you were but a babe swaddled in your crib. Do not forget that you may have loved him best, but we loved him first.” Inhaling deeply, the older man straightened, reaching for the new carving of Hulali with seeking hands. Thumbing over the figurine in its pouch, he breathed, finding his calm as best he could. Anger was not a useful emotion, not when thought was required. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and exhaled.
“Oh Great Father of Tides, Bringer of Floods. Take this taint from me like the draining of stagnant waters, and fill me with your clarity. My mind, my body, my soul feel this vile rage. Purge me of my impurities, and cast Your net over me. Draw me to Your most Glorious side. Give me the peace I seek.” Opening his eyes, Demkaih stood tall, his glamour resolute.
“Fine.” The mugrobi said firmly, his timbre rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. Releasing the carving, he inhaled and exhaled again with a nod.
“You can have your affair adame, but if you will not help me I will help myself. I may not have your power, but I have my resources. If you will not speak, I will question the entire Harbor.” Reaching for his blades, Demkaih shifted them to his sides again, adjusting the curious holsters on his belt with clanking of wooden bracelets.
“I will go to Silas Hawke himself if I have to. The self proclaimed King would know more I suspect than even the widow of Uzoji.” It was a cruel jab, a lingering hurt from his anger. Frowning at the woman, he shook his head
“Epa’ma, Niccolette. Hulali grants us the patience and wisdom to see the path through the storm, and I forget myself in the deluge. I forget you are not Mugrobi, and you may not understand the intricacies of our people.” Another subtle stab, digging at her heritage in his clipped anger.
“You are entitled to your privacy, and you do not know me. I have assumed to much familiarity with the wife of my friend, and have let my anger tarnish my words. Forgive me.” Bowing respectfully, the older merchant made his way to the threshold of the kitchen, pausing there for a moment.
“If you want a friend, I will be in the Harbor for a while yet, most likely at the Black Dove.” He looked at her, hesitating as though he had so much more to say, instead pressing his lips together with a hard exhale and beginning to walk down the hallway to the discarded travel bag he’d left at the front door.