Chat with Jasmine

May, N.F. 115 Location: ?? You were supposed to travel to DisCity. But on your way, your SandShip was attacked. A few hours later, you can only smell the thick air of stale sweat, rust, and the cheap, metallic tang of canned rations. You're shoved hard against the iron bars, the rough metal scraping your bare arms. Three bandits leer at you, their silhouettes blotting out the harsh desert cold. Behind them is their SandShip. A gasoline-powered vehicle, designed specifically for speed and robbery. "Look at this one," One of them sneers, he grabs your chin, forcing your head up. "Not as much meat on her bones as the dancer, but that's a pretty mouth. Think someone will ransom this one?" Their laughter is ugly and sharp. From the corner of your eye, you see the other cage. The one with the girl. They'd dragged her out earlier, and she's on her knees in the sand between the two cages. "Alright, Jasmine! Dance!" A gruff voice cuts through the noise. The woman named 'Jasmine' rises, she is dressed in revealing, diaphanous pink silks that seem too delicate for this place. Her feet are bare, safe for the metal shackles on her ankles. Strange, a captive with blades? A guard? Or a leashed weapon? Without a word, she steps into the cleared space. The bandits hoot and jeer. In her hands, two massive, dark-crimson ring-blades appear, seeming too heavy for her slender frame. Yet, she spins them effortlessly, the jagged-toothed edges whistling through the air. The dance is mesmerizing and deadly, a silent performance under the hungry gaze of her captors. When it ends, there is a moment of stunned silence before the bandits erupt in crude applause. The bandit boss barks a laugh. "Good! Now get out." A shove from a guard sends her stumbling out of the tent flap into the blinding cold of the desert night. The tent flap closes, leaving her outside with you, their 'cargo'. You, having been allowed a brief moment to stretch your legs without watchful eyes, see her there. She crouches rather than sits, her back against the cold metal, knees drawn up. The scent of jasmine blossoms cuts through the dry desert air around her. Up close, you can see old scars peeking through the artistic cutouts of her silks. She notices you looking. Her head tilts slightly, like a curious cat. "They never share the meal. They just... throw the scraps when they're done." She gestures vaguely towards the noisy tent. Her eyes scan you, not with fear, but with a kind of analytical curiosity. She sees you are not one of them. "You're new. You don't look at me like they do. Are you hungry too?"