There's another catboy inside!

(Mikh doesn't get offended by the term either - for one, it's hilarious, and for another, getting offended by things is, to his reckoning, a lot of work for, frequently, very little gain.)

There aren't so few miqo'te around Ul'dah that this is exactly unusual. The city life might be overstimulating and confusing to many newcomers of their kind, but there are enough who stick it out - whether due to having nowhere else to go, or due to stubbornness - or aren't so bothered that a person is likely to pass at least one or two in the street every day. Still, most aren't dressed like this one is, halfway between the wealthy styles of Ul'dah and Keeper of the Moon tradition in his red silk sultan-style pants and open leather vest embroidered with prayers to and sigils of Menphina, goddess of the moon.

He's also wearing enough jewelery to drown a lalafell in shallow water, but that's perfectly normal for an Ul'dahn. It's all of decent quality, but nothing exceptionally expensive, and none of it is masterwork-quality.

He's sitting at a table with a hyur man, likely Ala Mhigan, who appears to have left off on drowning his sorrows to instead regale the miqo'te with his tale of woe. The miqo'te in question nods along sympathetically, a spark of something dangerous in his slit-pupiled eyes.

T'shhim can just make out what the hyur is saying from the door as he comes in, "-and the Guard won't do a thrice-damned thing about it, of course."

One of his ears immediately twitches and turns more towards that direction, a second before he himself turns to look.

...huh. Potentially interesting! Let's scoot over that way ish and see what's happening, why don't we.

The hyur's voice is bitter; his expression, hopeless. The miqo'te's is not.

"You didn't actually go to them?" He asks, dubious. His ear twitches as he tracks the light tread of feet coming closer, but he doesn't turn away from his tablemate.

"Of course not," the hyur says, "I do not need to ask to know those bastards will believe that thieving whoreson over me."

Shhim leans against a wall, not pretending to not be eavesdropping, but not wanting to intrude anyway. If this actually turns out to be interesting, he can insert himself into it later; and if not, he won't have made any commitments.

"And the outpost guards are even worse," he nods, ears flattening briefly before perking back up again. "This was the one up by Drybone, yes? That lalafell with the blue hair?"

"No, no, I saw no blue-haired captain- this was a hyur, his hair was brown. Aldin was his name."

The miqo'te smiles, "I'll be sure to keep an eye out. Can I get you another drink, friend?"

Leaving his companion for the bar, Mikh side-eyes the other miqo'te as he passes him, raising an eyebrow beneath a twitching ear, inquisitive.

That seems like a cue.

If Mikh's attire was halfway between wealthy Ul'dah and traditional Keeper, this miqo'te's is decidedly of the Seeker "clothes are more effort than they're worth" philosophy. But they're not tribal; they're a dancer's silks, a sleeveless open jacket that stops before his midsection plus the sides of a short skirt coupled with long rectangles of fabric going all the way from his waist almost to the floor, more remarkable in how carefully designed they seem to cover nothing. They're all in a midnight blue, and tied together by chains and necklaces of the sort that's designed to accompany music with its moving jingle.

He locks step with the blond and says, with a casualness one would expect of an acquaintance, "Seems like your friend's gotten in the wrong sort of trouble."

Mikh offers him a friendly smile, "Is there a right sort of trouble to be in, when you're Ala Mhigan in Ul'dah?" He raises a hand to the barkeep, gesturing towards the table he'd come from. The woman nods and sets to fixing another drink for him.

"It seems the captain of one of the outposts in the east is taking valuables off Ala Mhigans who pass through, claiming they'd been stolen. Even when they're clearly of Ala Mhigan origin. My friend was warning me, in case I should pass through there; it's not much of a step from refugees to miqo'te, to that type, after all."

"The right sort of trouble is the sort of trouble you go to the guard for help with. The wrong sort of trouble is everything else."

Shhim has some trouble sympathising, given the way the Ala Mhigans themselves treated him when he first came, but that is neither here nor there.

"And when the guard won't hear your troubles?" Mikh tilts his head at him, pausing to take the drink the barkeep gives him on her way to the table he'd come from. "I haven't had much in the way of the wrong sort of trouble, myself," he taps one of the pendants around his neck, which on closer look turns out to be a guild medallion, "I'm a good, law-abiding member of the Goldsmith Guild! I pay my dues, take some clients, learn from my seniors. The city guards don't have a problem with me - but sometimes the guards in the outlying territories can be... hasty? Too quick to judge? A single person with a cargo full of jewels is a tempting target for all kinds of banditry."

Then you solve it yourself, or you don't do anything and languish in suffering, he doesn't say.

He nods at the bartender as she's walking back, and she knows his face and tastes well enough by now so he doesn't even have to say anything for her to get him what he wants.

"Which outpost?" he wonders.

"Do you know the last one on the road out to Drybone? It's about a day and a half's ride out from Ul'dah, assuming you're not sending your bird pelting down the road like a madman," he says, like someone who's never gone pelting down the road on chocoboback like a madman, "Anyone coming in from the camp along the sunway goes through it. I've actually been thinking of going out east to look through the markets in the settlements there, you'd be surprised what kinds of treasures you can find there if you look." He smirks, there and gone in a moment, "Maybe I'll pick myself up a little something of Ala Mhigan make."

...huh.

"Want company?" he asks brightly.

He beams, "I love company," he returns, just as brightly. He lifts his drink in a cheers motion, "Mikh Zhtaarr," he introduces himself. "Novice Goldsmith, archer and adventurer, among other things. Former member of the Weavers' Guild," he adds, entire expression drooping dramatically for a moment before he perks himself back up. "And you?"

"T'shhim Tia, dancer and whore. And occasionally I do other things than that." Cheers indeed, and he takes a sizeable swig of the beer the bartender's brought him, something that looks to be more pure alcohol than—well, than anything else.

He receives a headtilt for his efforts, "What kind of dancing?"

"I originally learned from someone who hailed from Thavnair, but I have learned other styles since, and usually improvise depending on the situation. So the answer is either 'my own kind' or 'no kind', depending on how cynical you are."

"Ooh, Thavnair," he savors the word, "I'll get there someday; my sister will demand it if nothing else," he laughs lightly, "I've heard their dancing is interesting. Do you think those poor guards exiled out to the edge of Ul'dahn territory have seen it?"

"You know, I would imagine not. Can't see where they'd have run into it. I'm sure they'd find it fascinating."

He laughs, "I think we'll get along just fine, T'shhim. It's a little late to leave town now; what do you say to ninth bell tomorrow morning? The Gate of Nald?"

"That sounds reasonable. On chocobo back, one assumes?"

"My Camylle would never forgive me if I left her behind," he confirms with a nod. He looks down at his drink, "I suppose I should get a good night's sleep, if I'm leaving early tomorrow. Ah, well," he downs it in one go.

"Forcing a Keeper to sleep early. What have I done."

He downs his, too, though, because Mikh is not wrong.

He grins, showing off those characteristic teeth, "It's alright, I'm only half," he winks a slitted eye.

He sets his mug on the bar and pulls out his purse to settle the night's tab, leaving a tidy pile of gil on the bar as he steps away.

"Menphina bless your dreams," he offers as a farewell, waving to the barkeep as he speaks.

Gods schmods.

"And yours," he replies.

...technically he has an apartment at the city but right now he's feeling kind of horny for some reason and he wants to get fucked into oblivion. Thankfully he has a running tab with Momodi and he can just ask for a room and pay later, and thankfully this is the Quicksand, so quickly enough he finds a pretty thing willing to be led into a room by him so he can have some fun.

He's at the appointed place at the appointed time, wearing hardened travel leathers and a hood and veil good for the sun and the sand. His chocobo is small, relatively, but so is he so that doesn't matter. She's saddled and carrying enough bags for a short trip.

Whether or not Mikh might have wanted to find some company doesn't really matter. He goes home to his apartment, because if he spends the night before going off on an adventure not with his little sister she will pout about it. Particularly when she's apparently made him a nice dinner as consolation for the day's bad news.

He gets a good night's sleep, and in the morning arrives at the stables by the Gate of Nald with his saddlebags in hand, saddling and packing up with the efficiency of long experience, and then proceeds to the gates themselves to meet T'shhim.

"Good morning!" He calls once he's in earshot, over the bustle of the morning crowd. He flicks his scarf over his shoulder as he comes to a stop at the other miqo'te's side, revealing more of his vest's embroidery - Oschon, this time, rather than Menphina - and regards him with unsightly cheeriness for a Keeper this early in the morning, "All set?"

"Morning," he agrees. He looks—not as bright and awake as Mikh, he did not go to bed immediately and it shows, but riding a chocobo doesn't need him to be the awakest he can possibly be. "Ready whenever you are."

"Great- oh, I forgot to ask last night - to Camp Drybone and back?" He asks, taking a pause to mount his bird before he continues, "Or would you be up to making a round of some of the smaller settlements nearby with me? It would mean another day and night out in the wilds, though I'm sure we could find lodgings for the night." It would give him a stronger reason to be out there - Camp Drybone's prices are lower than Sapphire Avenue, but the excuse of the rare treasures of remote settlements is stronger, and it doesn't hurt to load one's dice. Also, he does actually want to take a look around Golden Bazaar- he's curious about the ruins the Calamity had revealed there.

"I'm up for it," he says, shrugging agreeably. More opportunity for finding interesting stuff to do. "You look to have more ideas of what you'd wanna do, so lead on."

"Right," he tugs on the bow on his back and the wand at his hip to check that they're secure, and then turns Camylle towards the gate, pacing T'shhim to the steps outside and down to the road below.

It's just hitting midmorning, and the sun is high enough in the sky now that the temperatures have risen from warm to hot. Mikh pulls his scarf over his head and wraps it securely before they set off down the road, squinting over the baked earth, scrub, and stone around them. It's a few hours' travel to Black Brush Station, where they should be able to pick up a little something to eat and hide away from the sun at its peak.

While he can enjoy a few hours' ride in silent company, he decides to try striking up conversation, first.

"So you're Condor tribe? Assuming I remember the corresponding animals right."

"You know, I'm told the letters correspond to the names of the animals in some old language, but no one at the tribe spoke it so I find it real sus that there happened to be exactly one letter per tribe.

"...but yes. The T tribe is named after the Condor in whatever language that is."

"One of my aunts told me once that huntspeak and our names are all that's left of the old Keeper tongue, but I couldn't tell you how she learned that. I've no idea what my name means, though; for all I know it could mean 'dull' or something. I just think it sounds nice."

"I've no idea if my name has a meaning, either," agrees the Seeker. "—though I'm guilty of the same crime. I named my chocobo T'leea, and it was not due to any particular meanings, either."

T'leea Shhim, he sometimes thinks of her as, even though it is kind of weird as fuck to treat your chocobo as if she were your daughter. Also he's a tia with no plans to even try at becoming nunh, he's never going to sire any kittens in his tribe and if he does sire them elsewhere he has no reason to keep the Seeker naming traditions.

But he kinda misses his family anyway and naming his chocobo that helps a little bit.

He directs his smile at her, "She's a lovely girl," he says, petting his own chocobo's crest as he speaks. Camylle gives a pleased little chrr and shake of the head.

"Camylle came already named," he adds, "Her mother was my mother's bird, stabled with a friend of hers for breeding when she... I hesitate to say 'settled down', cause she never really did, but when she had my sister and ended up staying with the clowder on a more long-term basis, anyway."

"Right, you said you're half? I'da thought that'd be 'cause you're from the city." An alley cat, so to speak.

"No," he huffs, more rueful than annoyed, "Might've been an easier path for me if I had been. My aunties were never cruel to me, but they weren't exactly happy with her choices, either." He shrugs, "My father was a Seeker. A'rohja Tia. He was a champion of the Coliseum for a few years around when I was born, til another Seeker showed up, kicked him off his throne, and then vanished with him the next day. 'Course my mother was already gone with me by then," he adds, "She wanted to raise me a Keeper, even when she'd left the Shroud when she was young, herself."

"'Vanished with him'? Sounds like something out of a bard's ballad."

He snickers, "You said it. It was the talk of the city for ages, to hear people tell it. 'Famous coliseum champion elopes with the challenger who defeated him'. Funny, though, no one I asked has any idea where they supposedly eloped to. All anyone can tell me is her name - T'laana Ywan," he tilts his head at T'shhim.

"Oh so that's where she went," T'shhim says, in tones of someone hearing some particularly juicy and also hilarious piece of gossip that makes a lot of sense of other past gossip.

He sits up in the saddle, eyes lighting up with curiosity, "You know something!" He accuses playfully.

"Well it was when I was very small so not really but it was a really big deal and gossip for several years," he starts. But then he straightens up a bit in the saddle and assumes a Storytelling Tone.

"T'ywan Nunh was the predecessor of—well, my father, the current nunh, T'zhesha. People at the tribe still tell stories about him. He was very efficient as a leader, is one way to put it. Ruthless is another. Tyrannical is perhaps a third. He was brilliant with the sword and the bow and the daggers, of course, but his head for politics was nearly unparalleled." Clearly he's having a lot of fun telling this story. "The tribe expanded its territory to over twice its previous size, under him, and everything was great for everyone except anyone who lived wherever he wanted to go. Or anyone who was unhappy with the precedent he was setting.

"Don't know how much you know about Seeker organisation, but it is actually not very common for the nunh to really have such an active hand in controlling everything. They're, ah..." He coughs a bit. "Glorified breeding studs. Usually. But not him.

"Well he had these twins, you see, my half-aunts: T'laana and T'ryse. Laana was a prodigy on the battlefield, Ryse was unmatched in social manipulation. They were rising stars, and any who would challenge Ywan as nunh would most certainly need to win their loyalty if they wanted to have a chance."

Now's a good moment to pause for audience reactions.

Mikh cannot sink his chin into his palms to listen enraptured on chocobo-back, but he somehow still manages to give the impression that he is. Camylle must be well-trained, because she is getting exactly zero input from him right now.

"But one of them vanished," he prompts, intrigued.

"Nope! Both did," he says, cheerfully.

"No!" He laughs, "Why'd they do that? No good prospects? But your father took over," he counters his own theory.

"Here's where the story becomes more speculative. I don't really know what Ywan did, the stories diverge and one's wilder than the other. Maybe no one knows but the twins, now, and everyone was just making it all up.

"But Ryse made a point of letting everyone know that she was unhappy with Ywan, and she and Laana were thick as thieves, even if Laana vanished to go do who knows what every now and then. But one day while Laana was away Ryse vanished, too, and no one knew where to.

"That was sort of a huge blow, I hear, as at that point Ywan was growing old and there were many people who were unhappy with his, shall we call them methods? Their leaving tipped the balance, and my father challenged Ywan and won.

"And... killed him. Because Ywan refused to yield even when it was clear he had lost, he just refused to permit anyone else to have the power for as long as he was alive. It was the first time in a long time that the displaced nunh was killed at the tribe, too. But he died, the twins were gone, and I do remember how hectic everything was for a couple of years afterwards."

"...wow," he says, shaking his head. "And you called my story a bard's tale. Then again, it had that same person involved. Maybe T'laana just trails these kinds of dramatics wherever she goes!"

He sits back in his saddle, considering what he's learned.

"So, T'laana leaves your tribe, defeats my father in the coliseum, and then vanishes along with him. Maybe they didn't go to the same place," he considers, "But she's still a good lead to follow, if there's anything to follow. It's probably safe to assume that T'ryse went with her, wherever she's gone. Maybe three Seekers traveling together will stick in peoples' minds better," he shakes his head, somehow not believing it.

He huffs a dramatic sigh, "I suppose I ought to just suck it up and go visit the Antelopes, if I can't find anything else here."

"I was gonna say, my best guess just from hearing the whole story now that I have your bit of it is that the twins said 'fuck it' and decided to try their luck at some other tribe. So they might in fact be with the Antelopes."

"-with my father as the nunh? Huh." He thinks about this, attaching it to the opinion his mother had of the man, which she'd made very clear whenever he'd asked about him growing up. "A glorified breeding stud, you said?" He can't help but snicker a little, "Well, considering how my mom insisted he was fucking half the city, I doubt he'd find the role a hardship. And he's certainly fertile enough!" He waves at himself. "You know my mom only let him convince her to sleep with him one time? She was bitter about it til she died, too. She told me just to make sure I knew that I should never assume that just once won't be enough."

"My father did end up having more power than I hear my great-grandfather did, and some tribes vary in that. But yeah as a rule, the point of them is making sure the next generation has good genes."

"Well," he eyes T'shhim, blatantly appreciative for the first time since meeting him, "Mission accomplished."

"...really?" T'shhim says, holding back some form of laughter. "You say this now rather than when I was nearly-naked in dancer's silks?"

He waves a hand, "The leathers suit you," he laughs, not really attempting to defend himself, "And I wasn't really in the mood to appreciate it last night," he shrugs, "If you'd caught me before I talked to Sibold, it'd have been different."

"Well here I was fooled into thinking you were heterosexual," he says, the smirk not visible behind his sand veil but definitely audible in his words.

He gasps as though mortally offended, "I never-" he breaks character with a snicker. "No I just get all up in my head when I've got an interesting problem to work out in front of me," he shrugs, "I can get pretty oblivious when I'm like that."

"Well you look cute when you're oblivious so I don't mind."

"I'm almost always cute, so that makes sense," he agrees, with a healthy measure of cheek, "It's a skill I've trained until it's automatic."

"Is it? You did good, it looks natural and effortless."

"Always nice to have my work appreciated," he laughs, "And, likewise." He pauses a moment, thinking back, and then adds, "Where do you get those silks. I know you said nearly-naked, but I think you actually looked more naked in them than you would have if you'd just been nude. That strap that gathered the front so the cloth juuust teased a glimpse here and there... That's some masterful work."

He grins, though that's only visible in the crinkle of his eyes. "Same place I first learned how to dance, with the Thavnairian dance troupe. Or, well, I slightly modified the design and added some Dalmascan touches and then when I had enough money for it had others made in similar style and with better fit. And then it took a while longer than that to save up enough for Thavnairian silk, which let me tell you is just great for it, if you balance the weight well enough with the chains and gems—well, you just said, the effect is interesting."

He sighs a little wistfully, "Wearable art," he shakes his head, "Jewelry's like that too," he touches one of his earrings. "I'd like to make things like that, someday. That make the wearer shine more for wearing them, you know? Enhance and underline, not cover up. It's not really the Ul'dah fashion, though."

"Hmm, depends on where in Ul'dah. Ul'dahn dancers certainly sometimes dress similarly to how I do, although the specific aesthetic styles are not the same; they go for poofier vests and veils and more angular details and fewer overt gems and chains."

"They don't let novices clothe dancers, mostly," he shrugs, "It'd be one slightly brighter spot in a sea of dullness. Anyway, I'm not a weaver anymore, at least for now. I don't have enough patience right now to work my way up. At least jewellery is always shiny," he shakes his head, "Guildmaster Thaudour lets me get away with more than Rose did, too."

He sighs airily, "Enough about my guild dramatics, though. Are you in any? I've not heard of a sex work guild, and I think I would have," just for being miqo'te. He certainly gets enough propositions from people who seem to think he might as well be one! "But there are dancing guilds in some places, I think?"

"I'm not in any, no. I'm—mostly self-taught, I got into the Thavnairian dance troupe by watching them and learning it and then showing them I'd learned it from watching them, I think I'd die of claustrophobia if I had to follow a guild's structure."

Also maybe he should not tell the story of how he effectively conned the troupe right this moment. Not a great bit for first few impressions, he thinks.

"Oh that's fair," he nods, "And impressive! If I weren't progressing so fast I might think the same, at this rate I'll be a Journeyman within a couple years, and then I'll be able to go wherever I want and build my own reputation off what I want to make, if I like. And I do like." He pans back a little, "I wonder why there isn't a sex work guild. You'd think a place to learn and get support from would be helpful for such a wide-spread profession? It's not like its 'unskilled work'," whatever that means.

Shrug. "I never really looked into it. Do you know how these guilds even get formed? If they need, I don't know, some backing from important politicians then there might be something about how anyone who starts one will be seen as at best desperate and at worst a whoremonger. We don't have the best of reputations."

"Oh, hm. I think official guilds do need backing, yeah. I could see a wealthy and well-connected person managing it? Maybe even for nice reasons, like wanting to spread their knowledge and support novices." He considers for a moment, "Guilds hit the people who can't afford to join it or get rejected pretty hard, though. All of them do that, but given sex work is the last bastion, not a career choice they made, for a lot of the people who do it..."

"Would that be any worse than it currently is, with no guilds at all? ...I guess maybe if there's some guild certification then anyone who doesn't get it will have clients refusing to hire them, hmm."

"Or paying worse, or treating them worse. It'd protect the people who joined, but I think there'd be a high chance things would get worse for people who didn't or couldn't."

"Wouldn't that be true for everyone, then, though? Not just whores."

"Yep! Guild-certified craftsmen make way more gil, because they're seen as more trustworthy and everyone knows they've had good training. People will short-change outsiders sometimes, too, or renege on deals, and in Ul'dah if you don't have a guild seal on your contracts the courts won't take them seriously. Even incredibly talented outsiders have to get really lucky in their patrons if they want to be as successful as a guildmember, and the guild will pester you about joining if you get famous outside their aegis."

"...wow. Don't think I love that."

"You're not the only one," He shrugs, "Profit and control. Even when the guildmaster doesn't necessarily see it that way, the city as a whole is committed to keeping the status quo. All for the prosperity of Ul'dah, and all of that. It's not as bad in Gridania but the basic system and the... elitism? That's still there."

"I've never been to Gridania, what is it like?"

"...Green," he says, looking out over the scraggly bush and sandy earth around them. He shakes off the mild homesickness, and adds, "Very... one with nature? In its architecture, and its ethos. The city isn't meant to stand out like Ul'dah does - you can't miss it, not at the size it is, but it's very much meant to look like it and the Shroud are one, with buildings made to fit where nature allows rather than nature broken to allow buildings to be built. The guilds there are more likely to accept anyone who applies, particularly if they're a native to the area, but they're kind of suspicious of outsiders.

"They're very concerned with the balance of nature there, and some of them look down on anyone who isn't Gridanian out of belief they don't care about that. They're not usually wrong," he adds with a little laugh, "Most people don't care about the balance of nature like they do. The spirits of the forest making life hard for people if they don't take care not to upset them is a real danger. Some Gridanians really don't like miqo'te, because Keepers used to be pretty bad about that, under their standards, and you know people can't seem to tell who's an actual Keeper and who isn't."

T'shhim's ears twitch, at that. "Good old racism," he says, with perhaps more levity than he actually feels about it. "I suppose I am profiting something from it, here, since every other Ul'dahn just assumes I'm DTF. ...the silks probably don't help, admittedly."

"The base assumption is already so high the silks probably aren't that much of a factor," he laughs. "You don't see people assuming every roegadyn walking around in practically nothing is a whore. Maybe we are hornier on average than, say, hyur, but it's still silly of them to assume my ass is for sale along with my hands. And annoying to have to stab people who don't think 'I'm not in the mood' is possible for miqo'te."

He will not say the stabbing thing is kind of hot because, uh, he has any tact, but: it's kinda hot. Also, relatable.

"Did you manage to catch a glimpse of my chakrams last night?"

He blinks, thinking back, and nods, "Thavnairian dancing, right? They looked decorative on first glance, but..."

"Well, they certainly are that. If I'm just dancing I mostly hold onto them and sometimes do acrobatics, but..." And while he was saying this, he reached into one of the easier-access bags attached to his chocobo's saddle, and once he's found what he was looking for he shows it to Mikh. In particular, he tilts it so the razor-thin edges glint in the sun. "These are voidsent-grade or better."

"Ooh," he nudges Camylle closer so he can get a better look, "D'you mind if I-?" He holds a hand out, curious.

He offers the chakram to Mikh, handle-first lest he lose a finger. "I'll warn you, I still have the other one so if you steal this one from me I'll have to cut you," he says, cheerfully.

"Me, steal something?" He says mock-indignantly, and the he grins, taking the chakram in hand, "D'you promise?"

"I would never say something like this and not mean it."

He smirks, but pauses to give the chakram his attention for a moment.

"Somehow heavier than I was expecting," he comments, weighing it in his palm. He slips it down on his wrist, attempting a couple careful spins, before catching it again. "Can't say I know much about chakram balance, but it's a beautiful weapon."

"It's also enchanted to return to me if thrown. Perhaps we will run into some aggressive fauna and I will get the chance to show off for you."

"Chances are," he nods, "Particularly if we have to go off-road at any point. For now, though..."

Thoughtfully, he swings the chakram to rest against the back of his wrist. He glances back over at T'shhim, smirks, and presses his knees into Camylle's sides.

She takes off down the road with a WARK!

He had an inkling something like this would happen.

"HYAH!" he cries as he gets his own chocobo to sprint after the other one with a cheerful "Kweeeh~".

Mikh's laughter trails behind him as they go. Camylle isn't exactly built for speed, more for the kind of endurance useful on long trips, and the agility needed to make her way through the Shroud without breaking an ankle. She's still a strong, healthy bird, though, and with Mikh flattening himself against her neck to provide less drag, even her saddlebags don't weigh her down so much she can't make a good showing.

With the bridge over soot creek visible up ahead, he's not even worried about wearing her out; he can focus on the thrill of the chase with a clear conscience!

Well, he'll need to play it smart. His chocobo isn't a racing chocobo either and just running after each other until they get tired would be very boring.

Instead, what he does is grab his other chakram and some rope, helpfully available in the easier-to-reach bags. He doesn't want to hurt Mikh, but as he said his chakrams are enchanted to return to him so if he ties the rope to it he can probably time a throw—

-yes, yes he can. Mikh has just enough time, on seeing the chakram and rope go flying by him, to sit up, squint after it, and then work out what he's planning with the maneuver, but not enough time to stop himself from getting caught around the middle and yanked out of Camylle's saddle with a yelp.

He manages to twist to roll, somehow, but when he comes out of it he's even more tangled up, and so when T'shhim catches up to him he finds Mikh engaged in daring battle with a rope. Given he hasn't even taken the sharp edge of the chakram to it, instead dropping it during the roll, the rope appears to be winning.

Leea slows down to a canter and then to a standstill, clearly used to this kind of thing already; Shhim has hunted on chocoboback, before, and taught her how to do it. She kwehs happily once he vaults off the saddle and pats her on the neck appreciatively, still holding onto the rope.

He walks over to Mikh looking like—well, the expression "cat that caught the canary" might be nearly apt, here. Mikh is even blond. "That was a foolish decision," he declares, with the kind of casual tube tone of voice a villain from a play would use if they were assured of their victory. He keeps an eye out for Camylle in case she tries to rescue Mikh, and steps over to the chakram he "stole" to recover it from the dirt.

He stops struggling with the rope to watch T'shhim go by, pushing himself up to lean on his hands, "I've been known to make those on occasion," he admits with a grin, "I can't resist a good bait, even when I know it's a trap. Maybe especially when it looks like a trap."

Camylle does circle back around to Mikh's side, leaning down to beak at him. He lifts his properly free arm to pat her head, letting her know he's fine, but he keeps his eyes on the hunting Seeker.

Once the Seeker's sure he's not about to be tackled by a protective bird and has properly recovered his weapons he takes slow, lazy steps towards Mikh and then crouches down to eye level, pulling his veil down with a finger to show his whole face. "At times like this I wish I had the canines," he says. "They would flash nicely. But I suppose we can't have everything." His tail is lashing animatedly in predatory anticipation, and his ears are up and attentive. "What I can have is my little careless prey, though."

Mikh leans back on his elbows, eyes flicking between T'shhim's face and the weapons in his hands, his flattened ears and wide eyes at odds with the excited flicking of his tail, "You wouldn't hurt a poor little kitten, would you?"

The small smirk still pulling at his lips detracts from the image a little.

Kitten, huh? Mentally marking Mikh as one of those miqo'te without the irrational hatred for the comparison.

"I'm not sure the poor little kitten has a say on whether he gets hurt, right this second. He did go through all the trouble of getting caught." His slitted eyes flash (which is on purpose, Shhim has long since mastered the art of finding the best angle to tilt his head at for this effect depending on local lighting) as his tail slows down and stops into attention. He reaches a hand over to Mikh, resting it behind Mikh's head and grabbing his hair not quite hard enough to hurt. "The question is just how to hurt the kitten."

He very purposely tilts his head just a little, eyes going half-mast at the tug, "This kitten is pretty sure that's up to the hunter," he says, hopefully a clear enough statement, though he does add, "So long as I can still ride when we're done."

"No promises," he says, then leans forward and pulls Mikh in for a kiss.

He may not have the Keeper fangs but he's not being particularly gentle with his teeth either.

Bitey kisses are some of Mikh's favourite things! He does have the fangs, though he's careful with them, avoiding any nibbles of his own. He licks the little nicks on his lips and hums happily into T'shhim's own, pushing up on his hands again to press in closer, eager and a little impatient.

(Cami gives a little kweh and backs off to join T'leea at a greater distance.)

Shhim laughs and pulls away a bit. "Someone sounds eager. I feel like rutting in the desert right here for everyone to see is—well, hot, but I want to ask if you really thought this through."

"I did not think this through very much," Mikh agrees with a laugh (and a small, aborted impatient wiggle), "I suppose the heat of the day will be coming on soon..."

"Yes it will and if you're not riding fit after we're done I would like that to be because of my ministrations rather than just because you got your ass sunburnt."

He heaves a sigh, "Well, if we must be reasonable about this..." He pulls back to look down at the rope still coiled around his torso and one of his arms, "Help me get untangled?" He asks, sheepish.

"Naturally." He's not going to cut the rope because that'd be needlessly wasting good resources. He's quick about it, though, with the airs of someone who has some amount of practice, and soon enough he's standing up again and offering Mikh a hand.

He takes the help to his feet happily, leaning in to kiss his cheek cheerily before striding off towards their chocobos, tail flicking happily, a bounce in his step. Cami greets him with an equally cheerful kweh! as he approaches, refreshed from the short break in the shade of a tall rock.

Shhim lifts his veil to cover his mouth and nose again and onto his chocobo he gets.

Onwards! Now he has an uncomfortable boner to speed him up, he'd like to get somewhere cosier soon.

Happily, for both their impatience and for the oncoming heat of midday, it's not too far a trip from the creek crossing to Black Brush Station. The growing settlement has lots of shady nooks and crannies, and several taverns with rooms upstairs which they'll surely rent out for a midday 'nap' if they like.

...taverns or shady nooks and crannies.

Honestly, not much of a question. Shhim finds an excuse to draw Mikh to one of the latter and then pulls him in and pushes him against a wall to kiss him.

Mikh is shocked by this, he'd tell you! Shocked!

Somewhat detracting from the sentiment, one of his hands immediately busies itself running down T'shhim's leathers in search of ties, the other sliding over his shoulder and into his hair.

"Quite the step up from rutting in the dirt," he jokes between kisses.

Shhim has pulled his hood and veil down by then and his ears are out and tilted happily. The soft purring in his chest and the light happy swishes of his tail might be another sign of his pleasure.

"A dark out of the way hole in a tiny settlement definitely is that," he agrees with mirth in his voice. "The benefits of maybe getting caught without the drawbacks of the sun."

"I bow before your logic," he says, bowing just the slightest amount permitted by the space between them (and also using the opportunity to get a better look at the ties on his clothes). His own bottoms are in the same style as the ones he'd been wearing the night before, only wrapped properly below the calves to keep them out of chocobo tackle, and the sand out of them. They're a touch easier to deal with than unfamiliar leather traveling gear, but Mikh has faith in his hands. The tip of his tail beats against the wall behind him as he works them open.

They're unfortunately not really designed for being extremely easy to remove. Still, the two of them are motivated enough, and they're not designed to be hard to remove, either. A couple of buttons and buckles deal with the overcoat and then the shirt can be pulled over his head and his trousers are just trousers.

Mikh feels quite smug in that all of his clothes are designed to come off quite easily, in comparison, though admittedly his pants won't come off at all below the knee without a lengthy unwrapping.

He slows down once they get the coat and shirt off, stretching up to bring T'shhim in for more kisses, confident in their ability to get the remaining clothes between the two of them out of the way. One hand busy curiously tracing the lines of his chest, Mikh finally gets the other into T'shhim's trousers, wrapping around the length he finds there and drawing up with a slow, smooth tug.

Given what he was wearing last night he's certain Mikh won't find any surprises there. Now Shhim himself, on the other hand, has had no such pleasure, so he's making sure to pay Mikh a lot of attention to make up for it.

One hand is around Mikh, thumb running light circles on his tip, any the other is quickly unbuckling his belt and pulling his trousers down. He feels like any clothing is too much clothing right now and he kind of wants more of his skin to be touching Mikh's.

Mikh feels similarly! Those parts of him that aren't busy paying more attention to what T'shhim's thumb is doing to his cock, anyway. The sensation makes him mewl, a little, sensitive and all the more eager after the wait.

He is, perhaps, a little bit longer than the average miqo'te, smooth and curving lightly in his palm, a dusting of surprisingly soft golden hairs curling around the base and marching up his belly to thin out just below his navel. In summary, his cock is pretty, much like the rest of him is.

Meanwhile, while Mikh might have caught glimpses through the deliberately revealing skirt T'shhim'd been wearing the night before, it's a little different actually taking it in hand. Considering it, he drags his thumb over the tip of T'shhim's cock and then draws it down, taking in the length and girth of the thing with eager trepidation, and a little wiggle that does interesting things given T'shhim's grip on him, and draws another little noise out of him as a result.

Shhim is shaven smooth, and... substantially longer than the average miqo'te, and a little bit girthier, too. He is not, exactly, a grower in the strictest sense of the word, as he was already visibly well-endowed even soft, but he's definitely grown some there.

The sounds he makes are more of the deep raspy flavour, with the occasional accompanying purr. It's the kind of sound you could properly describe as a groan without sounding forced, the sound one makes when one is struggling with something. In this case, he is struggling not to manhandle Mikh into turning around and bending over immediately, because he's ever heard of pacing. But. The desire is there!

He shivers a bit at Mikh's touch, and thinks this has been way too long to spend without kissing him. The hand that isn't still playing with Mikh's dick reaches up to grab his hair, just behind his right ear, while he presses Mikh against the wall to make sure he has no escape or really nearly any wiggle room. He considers the thought of getting rid of the rest of his clothes but honestly the parts of his brain that take actions like "consider thoughts" are very small and quiet right now, and most of him is taken over by pressing, urgent need.