Dhanurana

Chapter 2: The Dhanur

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The Capital's most popular inn didn't look the part. It was small, built from the same mud brick as the rest of the city, but its wooden stable was triple the typical size. Plenty of travelers slept on its roof both for the cool breeze and lack of vacancies. It was more than old enough to be well established, with many local stories putting its founding before the Capital's walls. Inside, the mudbrick glowed a gentle amber from the one cooking fire at the center of the room, and the wicks on every table. Patrons rested on the haphazard pillows and tables, all made of varying wood and cloth. There were travelers, merchants, tradesmen, and a single bronze clad warrior.

Though the Capital had many public houses for drinks, Dhanur was more comfortable and familiar with the rancor of a wayward inn.

Tendrils of her clay red hair fell from inside her black hood and emphasized the same undertones in her deep brown skin. Her complexion was a much richer and deeper hue than most other southern patrons and the guards atop the wall, like all Uttaran northerners. There were only three like her at the inn, a single group of traders with the facial markings of their clans while Dhanur had none. Most were the typical sandy southern Daksinian brown, with a few fairer traders from far afield even lighter than those from further south bringing their wares in from the western ports.

An entire tunic of scaled bronze protected Dhanur's torso while the rest of her armor was various findings made of leather shoddily tailored to fit. They were scuffed but shining with oil. She was barely at her twenty–seventh summer, but her resplendent bronze set her apart from the typical adventurers and travelers her age who could only boast similarly scarred leather. No one had any bronze beyond a belt loop or an ax head.

She sat alone at her table. No one dared to be near her since anyone permitted or skilled enough to don such things was best not quarreled with.

Janurana entered, escorted inside by an exiting patron who so kindly held the tarp up for the young woman, then went to calm his bull. She stood straight as a spear, twisting the thick fabric of her parasol as she held it low in front of her. Peeling one hand from her vice like embrace of the parasol, she pushed her hair from her face and surveyed the room. She quickly scanned each patron but eventually landed on the armored figure that stood out. Her eyes widened.

She began to leave, seeing a warrior like the gate captain, but paused as Dhanur drunkenly waved her bow at an unfortunate man who accidentally bumped her. She didn't even look up. Janurana blinked at that. The information obtained from the townsfolk would be safer, but less valuable than that from a warrior.

'A drunk talks easier. She may not even remember talking tomorrow. Okay. I can do this. They might not even look at me,' Janurana thought to herself.

"Excuse me, miss? You're blocking the doorway, miss," the innkeeper called as two men tried to squeeze around Janurana. They did their best to not touch her as they did.

She hadn't noticed. "Sorry. My apologies," she said as she bowed, slipping into the fire's threshold.

As Janurana approached Dhanur's table, she felt the gazes of the men and women around her. Most went back to their conversations as she wasn't too odd compared to the other patrons with their varied skin tones, haphazard armors, or queer foreign garb. But a few lingered, wondering what a higher–class woman was doing in the lower class section of the city. A northerner sneered.

Once at Dhanur's table, Janurana did her best to keep her composure and started to bow, then hesitated, and instead sat softly on the pillow beside the slumped pile of armor and alcohol. Janurana leaned her parasol against the table, symmetrical with Dhanur's bow and quiver, and adjusted her sari so she could sit properly. But Dhanur didn't react. Instead, she mumbled to herself, occasionally twitching or rolling her head.