It was Isis's turn to take a long sip of her drink. Placing the cup down, she swirled it around and took a deep breath. "Did you grow up in a brothel, Farid?" Isis asked with slight sadness. Farid shook his head and listened intently. "I did. A child of a whore. A terrible fate, depending on where you are and who you ask." Isis took another long drink, finishing her drink. Holding the cup out, Farid poured her a second.
"If you are lucky, when your parent has a customer, you will be allowed to sit in the waiting room, but if you are not so lucky, you are stuffed into a cupboard and told to remain hidden until it's over." With a bitter smile, she took a drink, "And your parent, most can never regain the beauty they had before the pregnancy, or if they can, it takes too long. Profits have already been lost. During it, some will be lucky if a customer has that particular taste, but afterwards, no one wants you. My mother was that unlucky person."
"My condolences," Farid said, getting a shake of the head.
"There is no need. It is simply reality." Taking a deep breath, she carried on, "I was lucky my mother worked in a high-class brothel." Pointing at herself, she smiled, "I get all my good looks from her, including this hair." Isis lovingly played with her white hair for a moment before putting it down, "If I hadn't been, well, some clients have worse tastes than others, and some establishments don't have morals." Farid frowned at her words, taking a sip to let them sink in.
"I was taught how to read and write, eventually to be raised in a way that I could either become a bookkeeper for the brothel, or at least high-quality merchandise. After all, it's not always sex sold; the best workers of the brothel are able to play music or recite poetry for their clients. Some just wish to talk and have someone praise their accomplishments or foolish ideas whilst they enjoy a drink."
Isis smiled to herself, thinking of the time, only letting the best of it surface. "But." Her smile fell, "Sometimes, you have the worst clients. A brothel is a business, and its workers are merchandise, one that has to be kept in good condition to stay profitable. My mother had already fallen out of favour because of me, and whilst I was an investment, she had lost her worth." Meeting Farid's eyes, hers chilled and shaprened, "Which means they are more willing to let those goods get damaged."
"There is no need to continue," Farid said, cutting in on Isis's silence. With a shake of the head, she carried on.
"A deal is a deal, and this was a long time ago." Saying with an empty voice, she took another drink, "One day, one of the worst customers arrived, and they made my mother serve. How much money they paid, I don't know." Meeting Farid's eyes again, her fist clenched, "If you were forced to sit in a cupboard, listening to your mother yell and beg for things to stop, what would you do?" Farid gulped but said nothing.
"So, at eight years old, I broke my mother's rules and stepped out. I tried to tell him to get off her, but that failed. With nothing else left, I picked up a bottle and swung it over his head. The bottle smashed, but I didn't stop. By the time I realised what had happened, it was already too late." Her fist clenched and unclenched, "This was a scandal, one that couldn't be swept under the rug. A death in such an establishment is a big blow to their reputation. They paid off the fines, but my mother and I couldn't stay. Now, for a single mother who has only known a brothel, there isn't much work you can get, and her reputation around the city was ruined."
Biting her lip, Isis ground her teeth afterwards, "Only the worst of those places would take her, so that's what she did. Everything for me to live. She never blamed me, but she should have." Grabbing the end of the table, her fingers wrapped around the end as she leaned backwards, "So after months of saving, skipping meals, losing what made her beautiful, she finally had enough money to give eight-year-old me to run away. Told me to run and never look back, do what I want. So I did. I learned a lot in the first brothel my mother worked at, and knew how merchants think and act. When I met one, I used everything I could to latch myself to him. It was then I learnt the beauty of the world."
Farid stayed silent for a moment and smiled, "You're a strong woman like your mother."
"She was, and she was the first story I wrote about when I started my journal." Farid nodded and took a sip of wine.
"What are you skilled with. Looking at your arms, I doubt it is a sword." Moving on to the topic, knowing Isis wouldn't want to linger on it, Farid asked.
"I learnt how to shot a bow as well as throw a knife, but the knife one I doubt it would be useful in battle. That was only for a game." Farid nodded and stood up. Going over to a chest at the back of his quarters, he rummaged around a bit before pulling out an old crossbow.
Placing it on the table, he smiled, "It ain't much, and it's old, but if anyone comes near you, it should be easy enough to point it at someone and pull the lever." Isis smiled and picked it up, surprised that it weighed less than she expected. "Pull this part back and load an arrow here." Pulling back a mechanism, he locked it into a thin piece of metal. "Simple. Don't worry, however. This is only necessary if anyone gets close. I don't want my men to worry about you whilst they fight."
"I understand." Isis said, "I have no intention of getting in the way of your mission. I only wish to watch and write about it." With a smile, Farid held out his arm. Isis stood and clasped it, returning the nod.
"We leave tomorrow. Anything you wish to prepare, do so." With a smile, Isis left as Farid gathered his crew to explain what was happening. Isis paid no mind and strolled the streets, her journal stuffed under her arm as she wondered what to do, remembering the reason she initially flipped the coin to come to Kript. Looking around, she dove into the first restaurant that had a pleasant aroma and patiently waited, feeling her coin purse get thinner by the day.