abrax-deathadder

 When Sonja reopened her eyes, she stood in the middle of the main square of Turan.  Merchants plied their wares; beggars pleaded for alms, to be ignored by the wealthy and arrogant; painted whores walked the street, flaunting their charms. Sonja turned her head.  She turned to see herself, clad in scanty chain mail and leather boots and gloves, her sword of Turanian steel in its scabbard. "Sonja!" the unwilling djinn-slave shouted to her past self, rushing through the crowds.  "Sonja!" "What do you want?" the metal-clad Sonja asked her unrecognized counterpart.  "My time is...Mitra!"  She recognized the silks-clad wench before her as h