Írimë Aranel Lúinwë
May 21st, 2003, 10:35:28 AM
It had been many years since the People had come to Coruscant. By nature they were nomadic, and by law never came back to one place too quickly. It was accepted by all that knew of them and a necessity to those that were of them. Most commonly they were called ‘gypsies’, though this was done in ignorance. The People, when referring to themselves, said they were ‘raane mahtars’, wandering warriors. It was hardly true, for they tried not to resort to anything of violence, but it was perhaps more accurate than the bigoted terms.
As the bedraggled group entered the establishment, nattering away in various dialects that were spoken too quickly to catch, patrons stopped to stare. The People hardly noticed however, for they were too busy enjoying themselves. There were twelve, four women and eight men, all dressed in loose, exotic clothing. One among them stood out, her dark hair cut short contrary to the others; she seemed to be in a rather unhappy mood and the others were taking advantage of it. A man with a newly trimmed black beard and twinkling eyes, called Yori, flipped up onto his hands and smiled at her.
“C’mon Írimë…I’ve done a trick an’ naw y’ve got to give me a kiss!”
Írimë, who was refusing to speak Basic at the moment scowled down at Yori.
“Auta miquala orqu!”
The People laughed, though they didn’t understand what she had said. Írimë was usually clever and from the tone of her voice they could tell she’d insulted him. Grinning from ear to ear, Yori regained his stance on his feet and before she could stop him, gave Írimë a wet sloppy kiss. He was her adopted brother and so it didn’t mean anything romantic…that perhaps made it all the more gross. Írimë shrieked and shoved Yori away, wiping her mouth hastily. She wrinkled her nose at him, sniffing the air disdainfully.
“Lle holma ve’ edan…amin feuya ten’ lle!”
The People were laughing again and one of the other woman patted Írimë’s shoulder sympathetically. But she’d had her share of joking and so she walked off to try and gain some solitude.
Flumping down into a chair, Írimë wiped her lips again. A small serving droid rolled over and blipped. Tucking her dark hair behind her ears Írimë sighed and glanced at it.
“Bring me a dark ale.”
Her voice was heavily accented as she uttered the Basic, and it was obvious that she had not grown up among the People. But Írimë was not concerned with it. All she wanted to do was to relax and drink. Yori grinned at her from across the room and waggled his eyebrows. Scowling, his sister shook her head.
“Feuyaer.”
As the bedraggled group entered the establishment, nattering away in various dialects that were spoken too quickly to catch, patrons stopped to stare. The People hardly noticed however, for they were too busy enjoying themselves. There were twelve, four women and eight men, all dressed in loose, exotic clothing. One among them stood out, her dark hair cut short contrary to the others; she seemed to be in a rather unhappy mood and the others were taking advantage of it. A man with a newly trimmed black beard and twinkling eyes, called Yori, flipped up onto his hands and smiled at her.
“C’mon Írimë…I’ve done a trick an’ naw y’ve got to give me a kiss!”
Írimë, who was refusing to speak Basic at the moment scowled down at Yori.
“Auta miquala orqu!”
The People laughed, though they didn’t understand what she had said. Írimë was usually clever and from the tone of her voice they could tell she’d insulted him. Grinning from ear to ear, Yori regained his stance on his feet and before she could stop him, gave Írimë a wet sloppy kiss. He was her adopted brother and so it didn’t mean anything romantic…that perhaps made it all the more gross. Írimë shrieked and shoved Yori away, wiping her mouth hastily. She wrinkled her nose at him, sniffing the air disdainfully.
“Lle holma ve’ edan…amin feuya ten’ lle!”
The People were laughing again and one of the other woman patted Írimë’s shoulder sympathetically. But she’d had her share of joking and so she walked off to try and gain some solitude.
Flumping down into a chair, Írimë wiped her lips again. A small serving droid rolled over and blipped. Tucking her dark hair behind her ears Írimë sighed and glanced at it.
“Bring me a dark ale.”
Her voice was heavily accented as she uttered the Basic, and it was obvious that she had not grown up among the People. But Írimë was not concerned with it. All she wanted to do was to relax and drink. Yori grinned at her from across the room and waggled his eyebrows. Scowling, his sister shook her head.
“Feuyaer.”