A Conversation Between Two Turians

"I do not remember him," a vendor of fruit said to a Leather Worker who had stopped by the cart for a mid-morning repast.

"It was a few years after that business with Saphrar and the Tuchuks," the Leather Worker reminded him as he took a hungry bite from a fat peach. He was unconcerned about the juice that ran down his fingers, and onto his wrist. He had a slave girl or two that would find his sticky fingers the high point of their day.

"Saphrar?" the vendor asked. "The fellow with the golden teeth?"

"The poison, golden teeth," the Leather Worker reminded him, as if that distinction better defined the particular Saphrar in question.

"Saphrar, I remember," the vendor nodded. It was difficult to forget a fellow like Saphrar. In addition to poison, golden teeth, he was a pudgy sort, and more than a little effeminate. His nails were polished and, for no discernible reason, his eyebrows were shorn and replaced with melted droplets of gold. The vendor nodded to the man they had been talking about as he rounded a corner and made his way into the Inn. "That fellow, I do not recall."

"That is Szol, of the Poets. Of Ar," the Leather Worker informed him.

"Why would I have recollection of Szol, of the Poets, of Ar?" the vendor shrugged, arranging a pyramid of larma. Customers seemed to be more interested in fruit that was displayed well.

"He lived among the Wagon Peoples, with the Tuchuks, like a savage," the Leather Worker commented, looking about for a refuse container to dispose of the pit from his peach.

"I have never been overly fond of those of Ar, but surely he did not..." the vendor started and then let the matter drop. "Who can account for the actions of the men of Ar?"

"Surely not I," the Leather Worker laughed. The vendor, too, laughed.

"Have you seen his woman?" The Leather Worker asked.

"His woman? His Companion, you mean?" the vendor asked.

"I do not know. She is not collared, but I do not know that she is his Companion," the Leather Worker shrugged.

"If she is not collared, why do you think she is his slave?" the vendor asked.

"Have you seen her?" the Leather Worker asked.

"No man, not even a dolt from Ar, would not want her as his slave."

At the word 'dolt,' the vendor laughed, but then sobered a bit.

"If he is of Ar, and once lived in the wagons of the Tuchuks, surely such a woman is his slave," the vendor affirmed, punctuating his comment with an assured nod.

"Too, he travels with a sleen," the Leather Worker nodded in reply. "One needn't travel with such a beast if one does not have something of value to guard."

"No man would trouble himself with a sleen to protect a Free Woman," the vendor added, perhaps unnecessarily.

"Agreed," the Leather Worker concurred.