@abuzarbeg */ 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓
the scars upon the adviser’s wrists and arms –– the part and parcels of his loyalty to his delihi mistress running beneath his attire by way of a faint pink line –– were noticeable as his hands unclasped from prayer. albeit evidently encroaching upon the persian’s devotions, yazid felt an uptick in curiosity trickle into his bloodstream: what did a man such as the shabanu’s trusted adviser pray for? yazid could surmise, but then again, one’s conversations with god were the most sincere, the most vulnerable. (after all, wouldn’t he risk his life if the words he whispered to allah were revealed?)
as the adviser straightened his neck, unfurling from his reverent position, baştürk cleared his throat, exposing himself with a contemplative –– “i find that my prayers during this time have been more hopeful than normal.” a pause. “forgive me for intruding. i had assumed the chapel to be empty ... though their cathedrals are plentiful, portuguese alehouses are more densely populated than places of worship, are they not?”