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  1. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest, beating so rapidly it felt like it was about to escape its bone prison. Her mouth was dry as the desert, and no matter how many times she swallowed, it did not help. Every muscle in Clio's body was tense, and as she looked around nervously she silently cursed herself for the thousandth time. How could she have been so careless?! All it had taken was a wrong turn in an alley somewhere many paces back, a couple of winding streets with nearly identical buildings and here she was, completely lost in the heart of the Subura. As soon as she had realised her mistake, Clio had attempted to retrace her steps back to one of the main thoroughfares, but the labyrinthine layout of the narrow streets made it impossible for one unfamiliar with the neighbourhood like her. She drew her palla closer to her, pulling it as close to her ears as possible. She wanted to hide under it, have it protect her like a thick veil from the dubious glances passers-by sent her way, but to no avail. Clio might as well have been walking about naked for all the attention the palla was drawing: its quality and dark red colour were nothing like what the female residents of the Subura would own. It marked her as an outsider who had some access to wealth, and also made her an easy target for petty thieves. Another pair of footsteps suddenly sounded from right behind her and Clio turned around hastily, eyes wide like a deer's and chest heaving with rapid breaths. This was it, this was the moment she was going to get stabbed and robbed. @Beauty
  2. By the time, Gaia returned, the sky had turned dark and the street was illuminated by oil lamps. Stepping in from the quiet of the outside, which no longer had the rumbling of crickets of the summer and late autumn, Gaia already felt a wave of dread. It was strange that there had even been moments where she regarded him as a brother in the sense of the word as a sister should, like when they were younger, and he would join her on the floor with her wood horses. Over years, it soured. In one of the rooms, firelight was glowing, falling into the dark hall, and as she slowly stepped into the light to pass, a seated Titus came into view. Their eyes met and she entered the room to join him instead of hurrying away. “Your slave Barca, her entire face is swollen,” she informed him rather than giving a greeting and honestly it disgusted her to even speak. The fingers rested on her leather satchel had lifted to gesture lightly at her own face the extent of what he had done. “Her eyes wouldn’t open.” She didn’t elaborate on what she did to help her, only because Titus wasn’t likely to be interested of the things, that through trial and error or from Hippocrates, from physicians, midwives learned. And while she was certainly no replacement for a physician by any means, she’d seen enough from the aftermath of a birthing bed that she knew a pungent injury when she saw one. “She can’t work like that. For every slave that you indispose, there’s one less to make an earning.” If he couldn’t understand by sense, then perhaps by money. @Beauty
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