Stray Dog Strut (open)

[feathers4]

Several hours time hence had seen Balam hopping from his little boat and onto a rickety, weatherbeaten pier. He'd moored his little home well, and set off jauntily towards the city his map had guided him to, hands in the pockets of his ratty jeans, a little smile on his face and a spring in his step. The boat was a lovely thing, and dear to him, but he'd been sailing for awhile now and was eager to stretch his legs and see what there was to see now that he'd finally arrived...here. He wasn't really even sure what the town's name was; they all blended together after awhile, apparently.

The wandering shifter's first act in town was to seek out the nearest vendor of middle eastern or greek foods and scarf down a hot plate of falafel, something he'd been craving for some time. It wasn't that he didn't eat while traveling, but he generally ate as an animal, and while whatever he found would sustain him, there was just nothing to beat nice hot falafel-- at least, in Balam's odd little opinion. And so, with a belly full of mashed chick-peas and his half-smile still glinting in his eyes, the shifter moved onward and upward into the city.

Though the hustle and bustle of urbanity ultimately felt banal to him, Balam had to admit that he enjoyed just walking about and exploring cities. There was so much life, so much energy. He was passing through a rather run-down section of town just now, and stopped to lean on the chainlink fence that caged a basketball game, his old eyes following the ball well. He moved on after a moment or two, seeing what else there was to see. Occasionally, on his way, he would pause in an alley to shift into his raven-self. Raven was a comfortable and free form, and one that wasn't altogether out of place in the city. Thus, in this shape, Balam could follow people, or sneak around and eavesdrop on conversations he wasn't supposed to hear. He really didn't do it maliciously, but only to satisfy his curiosity. There was always something-- some cities were drug-capitals, some high in the weapons trade. Here, however, he realized quite quickly that the chief vice was slavery, and it may have resulted from the inordinate numbers of supernatural beings here. Whenever you got enough vampires and lycans and angels and such in an area, there was bound to be trouble.

After a few hours of stalking the city and it's thinly-disguised underbelly, Balam decided it was time to see what sort of places lay beyond the reaches of this concrete jungle. On surprisingly swift black wings, he'd lift himself from the thin cloud of smog and out into...a desert. Oh, joy of joys! Balam loved deserts. Every one he visited made him miss the Sahara, and Cairo in summer. Without really looking around to see if there was anyone nearby to see him, Balam leapt as a jackal out of his raven form, paws gracing the ground neatly and happily. The ground was warm and dusty on his paws; he felt like a run just now would be divine!

And so, taking off westward, Balam stretched himself happily into a full run. He was thrilling in the rhythm of his own quickly beating heart and the stretch of muscles that had lain dormant too long-- the beat of paws in the dust, the feel of wind in his fur and the hungry breaths he stole as he tore off through the haze. He turned in a wide circle, tail streaming behind the golden-furred blur-- and then ground to a very silly-looking halt, his paws splaying as he realized there was someone else sharing the desert with him that day...and they were quite close by. After a scrabble of paws and pebbles, Balam leapt into a human form that seemed more capable of stopping himself. He wasn't a terribly tall man, but all his wiry length made him seem a few inches taller than he really was. Dusty now, his jeans and chucks seemed to rather fit his scruffy, cute-in-a-stray-dog-sort-of-way image. A mildly roughed-up yellow plaid cowboy shirt, complete with breastpocket and opalescent buttons, had been thrown on as well over a standard white tee; he looked like nothing less than what he was-- some crazy gypsy man, with all the usual knicknacks and bracelets and charms hanging from his neck and around his wrists, the black ink of age-old tattoos peeking out from his clothing. "Allo!"

[Deleted]

isis ;;


Despite the incident at the Underground, sh had begun to heal, slowly but surely. and now, though it was odd that she would continue to wander out alone, which is how things got started up in the first place, she was doing it now. The necromancer was still dressed in red, but her whole upper body was bandaged, completely white and clean, wounds getting better every day. Soon, they would fade to nothing but scars. Her fingers came up to absent-mindedly trace her thorn tattoo around her neck, sitting comfortably on a rock, watching the shifting sands come and go as they pleased.

However, a shape soon caught her eye, and it was coming toward her fast. She got up, watching it with mild curiousity, some fear, and took the stance that was distinctive to all necromancers when they prepared to fight. However, this animal soon changed back into its rightful form - that of a man, rugged and sinewy. Relaxing a bit, Isis bit her lower lip as he spoke. She was nervous around everyone now, hating and fearing that bit of her that made her so. Isis took a small step away, looking him up and down. If worse came to worse, well . . she had been there and back already, hadn't she? The wind picked up, and slowly, a grin spread across her face, blonde hair getting gently pushed out of her eyes.

"Hello," she replied, soft and slightly hesitant, thinking of numerous outcomes of situations that might arise. It was something she took to doing, after that incident, and she found it calming, in a way. "I'm Isis." Introductions often helped things, and her smile grew, ever so slightly. She sat back down on the rock that came up to her waist, having slight difficulty at staying on. eventually, though, it worked out, and she looked back to the shapeshifter with her large dark brown eyes. "And you are . . ?"

(( Sorry its short . . . Dx People are trying to kick me off, lol. ))

[feathers4]

Hmm! What was a little girl like this one doing so far out and away in the desert? He studied this little person he'd near-stumbled across lightly, noting her red attire and the bandages that covered much of her upper body. That gave him a bit of pause, but only inwardly-- of course, to all appearances he was the happy-go-lucky shifter he'd been for centuries. A big, infectious smile sat lopsided under natually half-lidded eyes, his skin glowing in the refracted red light of the desert. She was a soft-spoken girl, which he hadn't really expected from the tattooed choker of thorns that hung around her neck like a very odd wreath or the bandages that had made him think she was recently in a fight. Well, then, that only meant she was not quite as she appeared, which made her all the more interesting a figure to have come upon here in the barren red sands.

"Isis? Ahah, if you're Isis, I'm Anubis, darlin'" He made a funny little bow, all the more hilarious for the way his long near-black hair was in absolute disarray, sticking up at all the wrong angles. His smile when he straightened up again was one that made his eyes into little crescents of joy, the actual eyes hardly visible. He was squinting slightly, after all, the sun's rays exceptionally bright in this place. Obviously, then, little Isis was no vampire. He wondered what she was; no shapeshifter, he could almost always pick out his own kind. The Mayan man took a few steps closer to the girl, his hands falling into his pockets without a thought. The jeans he was wearing weren't especially tight, but it was obvious from how comfortably his long, spindly hands fit in the pockets that they were empty of anything as menacing as a gun or knife. He hadn't thought to arm himself, today, on his first day in town-- he'd doubted his own ability to get in that much trouble in such a short amount of time. Besides, even unarmed, there were always teeth and claws at his immediate disposal.

"I guess Balam is the name you're looking for, though. That's what most people call me." He chuckled very softly. 'Most people' who were still alive, anyway. There had been a time when he'd gone by 'Anubis,' but it had been centuries ago, when he'd guarded the throne of the Pharaoh. He'd had many names over the years, all of them tied to different times, different places, different phases of a life that stretched on interminably. A hand emerged from his pocket, offering to shake in polite greeting to the soft-spoken woman. "A pleasure t' meet you."

[Deleted]

She laughed with him, a smile still on her face afterward. It was easy, to become reacquainted with others. "Glad to see someone knows their history." Despite being enslaved, Isis wasn't that uneducated. Lucius Erif had much at his disposal, and recently, she had been spending lots of time down in the vaults by herself, catching up on reading. His shadow cast over her body, and she didn't have to squint to see the man, who name was now known the the necromancer. He was trying to figure things out, that was for sure. Isis was good at reading people, just briefly, though.

"Nice to meet you too, Balam," the necromancer said, extending her hand to meet his, shyly at first. Isis was cautious, ever so cautious about people nowadays, it wasn't even funny. And the fact that she had touched him, whereas before, she hated any kind of contact, showed she trusted the shape shifter, to a degree. She accepted him, and his disposition was kind,, far as she could see. Her other hand came up to fix the bandages around her neck, securing them, checking them for blood easily. Claw mark from a Lycan were not something she wanted others to see. But, she got up, feet making no noise on the red sand, and took a couple steps so that she was located on the crest of the sand dune, enjoying the vastness of the desert. Isis sat down, Indian-style, and looked back to Balam, waiting for the man to join her. "And what brings you here, to the barren lands?" the necromancer asked, genuinely curious, still soft spoken and kind.

"I would have thought someone as traveled as you are would have chosen a place less . . . depressing? . . lonely? After all, besides the two lizards that are at the foot of the hill, this place is unoccupied for three miles save for us." Isis hand one hand placed on the hill, and that was how she knew where the other living creatures were. And, what the necromancer said was true. They were the only pair here, for now, anyways. And though that should have worried Isis, she felt a bit at ease with Balam.

[feathers4]

Balam was certainly trying to figure the girl out. There was something off about her, like a skittish animal, that had him intrigued. He doubted she was entirely human, anyway, though she did sortof smell that way. Maybe she was a hybrid-- that would make sense. There was a metallic stink of magic on her, that scent somewhere between chocolate and gunpowder. It was sortof like blood, but...deeper. He seemed to smell it in the pit of his stomach. Obviously, there were traits of his shifted sides that had long since faded into eachother-- catlike hearing, the jackal's nose, the raven's eyes. And his cat form had become ever-more birdlike, and he was thinking at this point that he could walk on just his two legs in his jackal form if he wanted-- it was a feeling like when he'd been but a young, unsteady shifter, still unsure of the lines between human-Balam and jaguar-Balam. Like learning to play the violin or guitar-- it was hard to know quite where the pitches were at first, but now that he'd gotten good at them he could play without thinking about the positions of his hand. In the same way, it had been a long time since Balam had had to think about exactly where in himself the raven form lay.

She tugged at her bandages, and the old man tried not to stare. His curiosity was, as usual, insatiable, but he knew better than to pry. It wasn't nice, not when they'd just been introduced. Prying was something you could do when someone was an established friend, he'd always thought. Not as a new acquaintance. But he would follow her silent step on steady feet, a bit unhappy to be wearing shoes now that he'd felt the sand under his paws. Isis sat gracefully-- Balam did much the same, possessing a lanky, catlike grace that he didn't realize he had. Still, he'd always thought that sitting in human form was unnecessarily difficult. As a jackal or jaguar, it was a much more fluid, open movement. Humans "crunched and hunched" as he liked to say, when they sat. Just the same, he leaned back on an arm, the other balanced on his one bent knee. The other leg lay comfortably on the ground, neutral.

What had brought him here? "I just arrived in town a few hours ago...and spend some time wandering around the city looking around." He tossed his head, removing a pesky lock of hair from his face. "It was somewhat overwhelming, though, so I wanted to see what was on the outskirts of town...I enjoy a nice desert every now and again, 'unno why. And I needed a good run, as you saw! So, here I am." At the last sentence, the arm he wasn't leaning on lifted up, to gesture at the golden-red dunes surrounding them. He squinted as he followed the line of his hand, surveying the empty land. Balam wasn't really sure why he liked this landscape in particular. It was an unhappy one, really. Inviting but forbidding, impossible, barren. A contrast to his native land of jungles and green leaves and trees that scraped the sky, full of life and in constant struggle with itself. Like the cities that he enjoyed but didn't last long in. He looked back at her, a gentle amusement in his eyes. She seemed somewhat more at ease, now, which he thought a good thing. Lightly teasing laughter was in his eyes as he took his turn with the questioning.

"And how 'bout you? What are you doing here, in such a lonely and depressing place, miss Iset?" The older, un-Anglicized-mispronunciation-of-the-Greek-mispronunciation name of the same old Egyptian goddess rolled off his tongue without thinking, more of an 'ee-set' than 'eye-sis,' the way it was said now. He caught himself just a moment too late, which brought a silent, private laughter to his face. Balam wondered if she'd catch it. He figured one day he'd have to convince an archaeologist of the correct way to say the name-- they were still quibbling over the ancient pronunciation, after all.

[Deleted]

She rested her head on her knees, once they were pulled to her chest, and simply watched the lifeless place before Balam began to speak. "That makes sense," Isis said, giving her shoulders a little shrug, agreeing with him. After all, everybody needed peace of mind once in a while. She was just finding it more often. Balam was straightforward, and she liked that, for the most part. He was a friendly man, and Isis felt safer here than anywhere outside the ZaneCorp Tower at this moment in time. It wasn't like she could flee anytime soon. She had a human body, after all.

And then, the name. Mispronounced, she turned to him, and small frown or pout on her face. "It's I-sis!" The necromancer knew all too well the Egyptian gods and goddesses - she had met quite a couple on her way into the Land of the Dead, many years ago. "I just need space to think and . . recover, I guess. My place of . . 'employment' is getting monotonous to me," the necromancer explained, in turn. But there as a sad, just barely there, smile on her face, hiding something. Recovery? Like he would ask. But the employment part, he was bound to hear that sarcasm. However, the shifter seemed as though he was new to town, even before the man had admitted it himself. But that explained why Balam would associate with a slave, and treat her kindly. After all, one experience with strangers led her to the state she was in. Or, perhaps the shifter knew, and simply did not care. There were people out there like that, and most of the time, Isis appreciated the effort they gave to make the enslaved happy.

"But maybe some company would help," the necromancer commented, a small grin on her face. She was offering him to stay and talk, something she hadn't done after being beaten down by a Lycan, in more ways than one. Isis had become more secluded, and this was helping her to recover. A kind, gentle soul that was injured needed one that wasn't going to rip her to shreds in order to recover. Plus, Balam seemed like good company, and so, she wasn't going to walk away from the shifter anytime soon. He was too nice and easy-going to do that, and Isis wasn't one to be rude.

[feathers4]

He laughed heartily as she corrected him. He deserved her little jab, but Balam doubted she was too terribly offended. At least she had the guts to correct him. Most would've just let him continue to pronounce the name however he felt like-- this Isis was different, though. Balam's laughter was easy, not derisive, and just generally happy. "Sorry, sorry. Slip of the tongue." He grinned at his little partner among the dunes.

"Space to think, huh? Well, there's no shortage of that here." As to what she was recovering from, Balam assumed she was talking about whatever lay beneath her bandages. It must've been bad, to be so totally covered. Mauled by a bear or something? Well, that was always his first guess, though. A scratch on someone's cheek, a black eye, and Balam had that silly little line of his ready. 'What happened, 'ja get mauled by a bear?' He wasn't sure where it had come from, or why it was so funny to him, but the shifter couldn't resist a little laugh whenever he heard. Perhaps it was because bears had always seemed more cuddly than him to anything, and they weren't terrible to talk to, once you got to know them.

"Employment? What line of work you in, then, Miss Isis?" Another warm breeze off the hot desert floor wafted over them, and Mr. Xbalanque got a good whiff of the girl he was sitting next to. Again, she had that odd scent of being human but...not quite. She smelled like shamans did when they weren't covered in...well, whatever shamans were covered with, mud or incense or whathaveyou. Maybe she was something of that sort, a witch or conjurer or something. That fit pretty well to the smell. He'd ask eventually, of course, but for now he was having an excellent time with his guessing game.

[Deleted]

Her dark eyes found the sun for an instant, before dropping down. It wasn't too hot out, but then again, it wasn't the middle of summer, where the extremes meant nothing here. "I call it employment. Others call it enslavement." Still soft spoken, Isis was a gentle female, her hand tracing patterns in the sand, turning to look at Balam. "Not so bad, when one serves the right people." All in all, Isis was telling the truth. Lucius Erif treated his slaves well. Coming when called, free reign otherwise. No in-fighting, and no treason. Simple rules, and easier to follow. As well, Lucius took things personally when one of his comapny was assualted, like Isis had, and the punishment to the Lycan wasn't something Isis wanted the details on just yet.

He was thinking, whether about her, or just slavery in general. She could feel it emanating from the shifter. Isis didn't have the power of empathy, but she could read people well, to a degree. However, she would put an end to the guessing game Balam seemed to be enjoying so much. "Necromancers are few in this world. When someone finds one, they hang on tight." A sad smile was on her face, and she wriggled her toes in the sand, before one of her hands smoothed it over, or attempted to. She wasn't sure how Balam would react, and that put Isis a bit on edge. Getting attacked again, whether it be sexually (again), or mentally, Isis didn't want that. No one in their sane mind would. Isis laughed, not too bitter, but nothing too happy either. "Have you killed anyone? Lost a family member, having regrets about what you did to them? They're easy to call up," Isis said, hands drawing again, furiously almpst, making gravestones, coffins . . before quickly erasing them with another sweep of the hand. Of course, she left out the part of the deceased having regrets. Had they posessed something of the sort, then they would be back as corspes, not ghosts, nothing truly in control, though Isis ultimately did have control over them.

The deceased were complicated things, at times. They would argue, the whole souls, the ones that went to the other side peacefully. And sometimes, when Isis felt it was safe to do so, she would call them up from their resting place, to talk and laugh and kee them company, like they did her. Some were children, other adults, and them some were older still, often giving her advice. But Isis didn't feel like talking to them in a while, having been down for so long. She was becoming more introverted, withdrawing from the little progress the necromancer had gained within society.

[feathers4]

Balam's long face tilted sideways as she explained the meaning behind her words. How interesting. He'd already observed the slaveing issues that the city had been having, and then, what were the odds? To stumble across a slave this very evening! Such an interesting one, too. "So, you don't find slavery terribly oppressive, just...boring?" That seemed to be what she was talking about. He didn't quite know how she could bear it. Doing what someone said was all fine and good until they told you to do something ridiculous. And besides, how awful would it be to be stuck to that person for so long? They were terrifying thoughts to a gypsy. Her answer, though, had at least explained her collar-like tattoo. "Sorry 'bout the questions. Guess I've always been inquisitive."

And then, to the old shifter's great delight, the little shamaness seemed to read his mind. He loved surprises, and this Isis person kept them coming. "Necromancer! I knew you smelled like some sort of magic." Well, that explained it. He hadn't met a necromancer in quite some time. He'd thought they were a little creepy, but perhaps that sort of thing stemmed from watching someone reanimate a corpse as a wee little child so many years ago.

He'd never been able to handle anything resembling a zombie ever since. So, so traumatizing.

"I-- uh--" Had he ever killed anyone? Of course. There was a time when he had announced himself the offspring of the Sun and extended his tyrannical reign over much of Mesoamerica under a bloody jaguar banner. He had killed, but he had changed, too. Warlords, given enough time, became good and stable men, though he was still something of a pirate at heart. "There's no one I need to speak with right now, no. Thanks for offering, though! But, uh...I can wait until I get to the afterlife, there's nothing pressing."

Afterlife. The only comforting thing about the word was the knowledge that there was at least something for him to explore and experience after death. Balam didn't want to just fade away, to just blink out like some little light. The end of his life was a frightening enough thought, and one he'd been running from for a long time. His dark eyes wandered to the horizon, thinking about his family. He hadn't seen them in a long time...he'd never had siblings, but his parents had been shifters. He almost didn't remember their faces, but he'd always know their shifts, at least, and that was half of a shape-changer's identity.

[Deleted]

Isis shook her head to his statement, which was more of a question. Ah, misread again. This time, nothing held any consequences, which was a nice relief to the necromancer. Again, those memories escaped from her drawer that leapt them away, hidden within her mind, and her heads went to her temples, as if in pain. She bit her lower lip, trying to make them go away already, just for a bit. It was uncomfortable to have to deal with them when they were unwanted, and Isis wasn't ready. After they were placed back in that drawer, her hands fell to the sand. "No," she said, grinning slightly, though there really wasn't anything funny. "I just meant that my surroundings were boring during recovery. I'm on . . a break for a bit, due to . . ." She let her voice trail off, attempting to stop the flood of the memories from the Underground again. Satisfied when she had done so, Isis took a deep breath. This wasn't how she had planned her day to go. "Questions are fine. I don't mind them."

Her words from before had some effect on Balam, and instantly she felt bad. "I'm sorry," the necromancer apologized. "I didn't realize it was such a sensitive subject. Sorry, sorry . ." It seemed Isis had done a lot of apologizing lately. Not that odd, but still, not too much like her. It just seemed that it things like this followed her wherever she went, and the necromancer had no control over anything. The shifter's words were slightly hollow, and another point to say that Isis had struck something, though it seemed as though it were nothing major. "I didn't ask for that power," she whispered, her eyes closed, hands writing hieroglyphics in the sand, just some words she knew. They came naturally, and proved that the necromancer knew more than meets the eye, despite her shy nature.

It was hard for her to talk anymore. Most of the time, she would walk away, her eyes holding nothing, dull and lifeless. But she was healing, and Balam, though he probably didn't know it, helped her more by his kindness. Something a slave so rarely received, and she had paid too high a price for it to get it from her master, unintentionally. The necromancer was allowed down in the vaults, top security measures taken there. It was nice and quiet, save for the intern, but Isis avoided him. She avoided most men, and some women too now, fears and experiences shadowing her every step.

[feathers4]

Balam tried not to stare as Isis seemed to crumple inwards, biting her lip as the strangest expression crossed her face. She seemed to compose herself again in moments, at least enough for a half-response to his misunderstanding of her previous explanation. He figured she had gotten bored of whatever sort of hospital or bedrest she'd been confined to-- that was what happened when you sustained injuries that had to be covered as much as hers had been. People liked to dump you in a bed and make you stay for days and days. It was especially annoying for colicky sorts like Balam, who felt he constantly needed to be on the move. He'd never been bedridden for long, of course-- he healed far too quickly, but there had been stubborn people in his life that had demanded he rest incessantly. The shifter felt he could empathize with some of her boredom or frustration or whatever it was she was feeling. Or, well, maybe not. Sometimes he really didn't empathize with people as well as he thought he did. Too far removed from the notions of good and evil, too primal, too old.

Isis had told him his questions were welcome, but he also knew that the one question that hung unspoken between them was one he wouldn't dare ask-- where she had come upon her injuries. He sensed it had something to do with the reason why her hands had flown up to massage her temples when she mentioned her recovery, but couldn't guess any more than that. And, curious as he was, Balam knew that there were some things that a person didn't want to talk with casual acquaintances about. He had his own closet full of skeletons.

Though...with a bemused thought, the shifter figured Isis' conception of a closet full of skeletons was much more comforting than his. Being that, you know, she talked to dead people on a day-to-day basis or something. And he, uh, really got the creeps around dead things that he wasn't interested in eating. Speaking of which, his stomach growled for a moment. Poor Balam was getting hungry! He had eaten earlier when he got off his little boat-home, but with a quick metabolism and all the moving he was doing, he was starving again within a few hours.

And then-- oops! He'd made the little thing feel bad. It had been very accidental, of course. "No! No, don't feel bad! I was just a little surprised, that's not a question I hear very often." His laughter was good-natured, and seemed to have a crowing sort of sound to it, like he was still channeling the Raven in him. "I'm a little superstitious, I guess. Kindof an old fashioned thing anymore, heh. Still, don't worry about it! Certainly no harm done here." His giddy, likable charm seemed to be a trait of his that came so naturally he was nearly unaware of it.

"The cards we're dealt, eh? Sure make for an interesting game, though." Balam probably didn't dish out the best advice on how to deal with hating the powers you were born with-- he was the sort to revel in them and define himself by them. On the other hand, he was old enough to have lived more than a dozen lives, most of which he had lived in the company of spiritualists, shamans and the enlightened, and on worldly advice he was pretty good to go. The shifter was a conundrum like that. He glanced down after a moment, recognizing the hieroglyphs she drew. Wonderful! A subject change! "Spent much time in, uh, in Egypt?" His little stumble had been over the word Egypt. Balam sometimes had a hard time keeping up with all the names of countries in their native languages versus their Anglicized names. He'd been about to say Kemet, though he was pretty sure even natives of that country now called it Misr. What a mess they created when they burned the Library of Alexandria...

[Deleted]

"The hands of fate are toying with me, and I'm afraid that I can't handle too much more," she whispered, eyes scouting for more signs of life, though it would have been easier to feel them through the ground. It was a game Isis played. If she thought, or was sure, that someone or something else was there, she could check. One point for every correct answer. That was something she had been resorting to in the confinement of the ZaneCorp Tower. She smiled, reassured that she hadn't hurt his feelings, and showing that no harm was done to the necromancer, either. He knew when to stop asking questions, a line that some people found hard to draw at times. Well, that must have come from experience somewhere, and it was obvious that the shifter was older than he appeared, though that didn't really bither Isis. Living with vampires and demons had that kind of effect on people. Or at least, an effect on the necromancer. It wasn't that bad really, especially since she was young, but when she aged, obviously it would tick her off. Balam hadn't been around her to notice all her quirks, but he seemed to pick up on a few quite a bit.

"Unfortunately, no." Isis had really wanted to travel later on in life, but seeing as being a slave, that really wouldn't be possible, unless freedom was granted, or she went there on business. "Though I have read about it, seen pictures. . " Her voice was wistful and longing. Isis would have loved to been to Egypt, perhaps see the old temples, the tombs of the dead she saw too often. It would have been interesting. What the people could learn, had they had her powers. "And the pharohs are . . nice, but only when you do what they want. Arrogant most of the time, though." She wasn't sure if Balam would have been around then, but it was obvious she had been referring to the dead. She sighed, her hands destroying what she had written once more. A habit of hers, one that was an asset at times, and others, a hindrace. But then it came up to her neck, tracing the thorn tattoo, yet another habit, one that Isis did more often than others.

"Have you been there? What's it like, Balam?" she asked eagerly, more like a child now, cuious about something that was out of her realm of possibilities currently. Her dark brown eyes met his, shining, wanting to learn and know from the shifter, to hope, and imagine. She was getting more comfortable here, getting slightly more outgoing, though not much. Somebody that didn't know her might not have recognized it, unless they were good at reading people.But, then again, it was easier here to let things go, show whatnot that would have been hidden near other company.

[feathers4]

A silent sigh escaped him at her quiet admission that life's 'luck of the draw' had been getting to be more than she could handle. He had lived many lives and known many people, and Balam was well aware that as long as there would be good people, there would be awful things to happen to them, and awful people to do those things. He lifted his head to stare off into the middle-distance, eyes searching, as usual, for some purpose, some reason, some god to come pat him on the back and tell him that there was a really, really good reason for all of this mess. But, he'd stopped believing in good and evil long ago. Gods, sure-- they were all real, as far as he was concerned. But a grand purpose, a Greater Good and an Unspeakable Evil? After all this time, he'd become less and less convinced.

And without belief in those extremes, it was hard to embrace the pretty picture of a wondrous heaven and a fiery hell-- as far as he could tell, after death people just faded into a banal, unchanging gray afterworld, waiting to be summoned up by a necromancer like Isis just for a brief and taunting taste of life. That underlying worldview was probably a leading factor for his obsession with cultural anthropology, and especially primitive religion. It was so vibrant, so colorful, so full of suffering and ecstasy in turn. It was pleasant to think on them and hope that at least one of them was right. If Balam was right, he had good damn reason to fear death with the absolute terror that he did. It would be no Brave New World, but a graveyard of standing souls, wafting about, waiting for something that would never come. Dreary for anyone, but terrifying for a long-lived, wandering soul like his.

Yeah, definitely not wanting to die any time soon. But, then, the subject happily changed into one of his favorite subjects, that fairyland that was Egypt to Balam Xbalanque. "That's a shame...someday, I hope, you'll find your way there. It's full'a shadows and memories now, but I bet someone savvy like you could talk to enough old ghosts to get a feel for how it used to be." He twisted, laying back now on both arms, his long face and beak-like nose curling into a happy smile, his teeth showing, brows raised high despite the bright sun. The shifter had quite a few talents, but he dearly loved telling stories to an audience like Isis. His chocolate brown eyes turned and fell on her, dark and enlivening as the chile-peppered dark chocolate made by his Mayan ancestors. She looked hopeful now, and full of excitement, which was a change from her inward brooding from before. Balam very much preferred this happy, childlike face to her world-weary one.

"Been hangin' around pharaohs, huh? I knew a few of the twelfth dynasty pretty well-- Amenemhat the...third? or so, I think. He-- well, he was one of the better rulers, but he always was pretty proud. I imagine they're mildly standoffish, eh? But no, I'd be surprised to find him rude even a few thousand years after death. Proud and aloof, maybe, but courteous and honorable to the nines." Balam chuckled like he was reminiscing about an old friend. He remembered being the half-pet, half-high-priest in the palace of the pharaoh, alternatively curling around the leg of a throne one day and playing with the prince and princess the next. "Oh, Egypt is...well, it's different now. It's all Islam and Arabic...which is fine and good, but you get to missing Kemet and the Middle Kingdom. It was a diamond in the rough, though, lemme tell ya. Huge palaces and tombs and temples, and the gods were just fantastic. Oh! And the food...and all the marvelous symbols and hieroglyphs and just the most wonderful language to hear spoken fluently...I had some good times. They were a deep, quiet people, but man did they ever throw a crazy party when the river started flooding." He laughed heartily again, trying to hold himself back from rambling on for hours, and realized his gaze had once again slipped eastward and focused on some middle distance or other. Balam's laughing eyes looked back to Isis, wondering now if Amenemhat would remember his friend Nebibi-chigaru, the sphinx of Wepwawet. Or, better than him, his daughter Sobekneferu, who had assumed the throne after her father for a few years. "Sorry if I ramble...I get a little bit excited about all that. It was one of my favorites, Egypt."

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Oh, the stories that were spoken of in Balam's eyes, the promise of the far off land that she would know of, in her own words, eventually, hopefully. Isis was one to love to hear stories, always wishing to learn, to hear of others' encounters, and see the effect that was given to them by the excitement or fear of which the memories called up. She was a very avid listener too, slipping away from the real world to journey to them in their stories. The necromancer smiled, seeing the small bit of joy it brought to his face. Balam seemed like one who had traveled much, and Isis was correct in that hunch. There was something about his features, something she couldn't pinpoint, but now it was obvious he was from around then, perhaps every longer, though he didn't look Egyptian, or Greek. It was a guessing game for her now. Middle East? No, it just didn't fit . .

But then the words came from the shifter, and the necromancer listened more. The name he said sounded familiar, though Isis didn't recall even speaking to one such as that. Perhaps a relative, a descendent of Amenemhat the III? She wasn't sure, and bit her bottom lip, racking through her memory. Ah, it would come in time. He apologized for rambling, as Balam called it, but she simply shook her head, smiling, turning to lay on her stomach, hands coming up to prop her head up, feet playing in the sand, carefully moved so that she wouldn't hurt herself further, with the bandages and whatnot, though she was pretty careful. "Oh, no, that's fine," Isis said, enjoying the way it brought life to his face, his eyes a different color, a new variation. Or, in this case, maybe one that had died out long ago, overcome by whatever the people had passed on, now a recessive trait.

"I like stories. Where else have you been? Any interesting people? Adventures, enemies, just some good memories of sweet Egypt?" The necromancer was truly in wonder of the man before her, enjoying the fact that he had so much to share, to tell. Isis would have to admit, Balam seemed like someone she could get along with easily, and that was proven here. It was easy to trust the shifter, with his easy-going smile, and his comfortable ways. However, feeling like the necromancer had pressed a bit too muchh, she looked away, feeling bad for doing so, though she was almost positive that Balam wouldn't mind too badly.

"I met Osiris, once, when I . . died." It was odd to talk about the other side of things, the Realm of the Dead, where nody knew anythin. There was no pain and no fear, but also no joy. It was weird to be down there, when she was as little as she had been, a life neded too early. Again, Isis had the feeling she was pressing on a bit too much. "Sorry, it's just . . nice to talk about such things, you know? Especially since you, Mr. Anubis, seem to know so much about the things that interest me." She threw a small joke in there, a small smile as well. Isis had never really talked about that, with Master Lucius, or anybody else.

[feathers4]

If Balam had but known Isis had been pondering what sort of nationality he belonged to, the shifter would've told her in a heartbeat. There were things he kept secret, parts of his past he didn't talk about, but this wasn't one of them. Sure, if she was Mayan he'd never admit it, but a Mayan would've known him for his name anyway. There weren't a lot of his people left, but none of them didn't know the name Xbalanque. It was one of a handful of regrets out of a very, very long and adventurous life.

"You do?! That's great, me too, I could listen to a good storyteller for hours. But um...I've been a lot of places. I mean...I've spent a lot of m'life traveling and trading and mingling. I like to think I'm something of a part-time cultural anthropologist, haha. I think my boat could actually maybe qualify as some strange sort of ancient nick-knack museum." He had a funny, rambling way of speaking, in which his fellow conversationalists could almost see his mind jumping from point to point, or even dance between unpleasant subjects like a game of Frogger. "Hum...interesting people? Well, I was a guard for Ekaterin-- er, Catherine the Great. She was a very...hm. Confusing woman. And Mata Hari. Quite a crazy French bitch. Oh! And I ran into Lewis and Clark once or twice-- they tried to shoot me the first time they saw me! Poor things." Balam didn't seem to be cognizant of how unsettling it might've been to Isis, a human, to hear of him rattling off names of people in history books like old friends. Or, perhaps he was cognizant, but simply didn't care. The latter was more likely to be true. He had gotten tired of hiding his shifts and acting the age he appeared to be.

One could guess that was the attitude you adopted after being alive that long. "Adventures...hum. I marched in Caesar's army in Gaul; decided to sit back and watch from the sidelines once it got to cornering the Gallic at Alesia, though. Brilliant tactician, Caesar, but I never really got a taste for crushing opponents as worthy as Vercingetorix. And then, of course, all the Balinese adventures..." He didn't embark on those, however, apparently thinking they wouldn't interest Isis quite as much as they were on a much smaller scale of grandeur than the taking of Gaul.

"But you...you met Wesir? That's incredible. Of all the great kings and men I've met, I never saw a God. That...is quite something indeed. What was he like? You spoke to him?" This in particular seemed to capture Balam's interest like nothing else. He had a small obsession with gods-- he had met so many great men, as he'd said, and vampires and angels and such so powerful as to seem like gods, but never an actual...god. The shifter's eyes gleamed with hunger for knowledge, and his brows belied his sudden excitement. "It is nice, huh? And it's good to reminisce, sometimes, heh."