Information

Rus
Legacy Name: Rus

The Reborn Neela

Age: 11 years, 3 months, 1 week

Born: December 10th, 2014

Adopted: 11 years, 3 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: December 10th, 2014

Statistics

• Level: 1
   
• Strength: 10
   
• Defense: 10
   
• Speed: 10
   
• Health: 10
   
• HP: 10/10
   
• Intelligence: 0
   
• Books Read: 0
• Food Eaten: 0
• Job: Unemployed

His sister smiled faintly as she tactically ignored his pleas. "That'll be 3,500sP," she says to her current customer, who offers a lowball in return--all around them the bustle of everyday commerce clamored in the Souk. Dozens of people were bumping elbows in the tiny stall, hunching over each other, squinting at the labels on jars and baskets that have become nearly illegible thanks to an ever-growing layer of desert dust and the scant, scattered sunlight filtering through overhead slats. Laure makes her deal and swiftly moves on to the next customer she sees: a young Wyllop holding payment in one hand and an elven ear in the other, looking dubiously at the floppy, bloody appendage.

"We get them from ethical sources," Rus lies to the Wyllop, who looked slightly appeased but still unsure. "Thanks for your business!" Laure chirped quickly, taking his sP before he could say anything in return. "How much for this?" Another customer shouts from behind two people arguing over the proper price for butterfly wings.

"I'm kind of busy here, Rus," she says to him, fretting over a display of forest findings. She quickly retrieves a piece of petrified wood that had fallen out of its basket and places it back, while three customers compete for her attention in the background.

"I know," he ventures, "but I just need a little more."

"This isn't a charity," she says to him darkly, before she turns and her face splits into its patented Sunny Customer Service Face. "How does 13,344sP sound??"

Rus sighs and resigns himself to waiting until the end of the day. Against his better judgement he sometimes tries to make himself useful--he reaches to fix a display of baby breath jars--"stop that!" Laure hisses, hits his hand with a Mugwort branch, returns to her customer.

---

"Back again, Ruslan?" Jakob swings open the back gate. The old Bovyne has been the groundskeeper at the Colosseum since Rus was a child, and his knowing smile is a comfort. Through it all, Jakob never expressed any doubts or (worse) pity about Rus' predicament, unquestioning as he welcomes Rus in through the back way so he wouldn't have to endure the stares of the other regulars.

"Thanks," he says, with his usual guilty smile.

"Of course, of course,"

---

It never gets easier, watching. Rus is never sure which is worse--when he wins, or when he loses. On the one hand, every blow that lands on him feels like it lands on Rus doublefold, his pained growls and whines immediately makes Rus' own hackles rise. But on the other hand, watching him pummel his opponents, those not as strong, taking pleasure in their pain, his electric blue eyes flashing--that cuts Rus so deep, mentally, makes him feel hopeless, like the boy he knew is gone forever, maybe never was in the first place.

---

"I'm back," he calls, peeling back the beaded curtain. Laure is inexplicably still putzing around, moving this and that, fretting over minutiae. He shifts uncomfortably, "can we--"

"On the counter," Laure interrupts. Rus shuts up and turns to see a gently wrapped package, waiting for him. He picks it up, turn it in his hands. He sighs in relief and guilt. "Thanks sis." A pause. "You know I love you, right?"

"Of course I do," Laure sighs, her wry smile belying all the things going unspoken, why do you do this? What are you hoping will happen? Hasn't it been long enough?

---