When he had finally reached his wagon he had dropped to the furs without even undressing. Laying there with one arm shielding his eyes he could not remember ever being this exhausted before in his life. He was to the point that he was too tired to sleep.
His thoughts ranged over the past few hands as he carefully searched and mapped a route for them back to the southern grounds. He had taken an Or of his men and had ridden vask in search of their usual path, which bore no resemblance to what it had looked like at one time. Some of the changes were subtle and might not have to come to the attention of a casual traveler, but to one that has traveled this route season after season, even the small changes stood out.
They continued on route right up to the point that they encountered the chasm that had opened in the lands on the trip north. There was no ice bridge to aid them in crossing it now, and he stood on the edge of it looking first across it before he finally allowed his gaze travel to travel down the far side of it to look into the depths of the abyss. It seemed almost bottomless, but he knew that was just an illusion. There was a bottom there, but it might have just kept going until the reached the core, as far as he and his people were concerned. There was no use to tarry here, they had to move on.
For a time they rode along the edge of it, hoping against hope to find a way to cross, but there was none. Finally he turned his kaiila back to the var and back tracked for the rest of the afternoon. That night, as with most nights, they camped out under a canopy of stars, building on the most meager of fires to eat their meat of dried meat by. He sat there for a long time, studying the sky, the placement of the moons and the stars to get his bearings. Taking out a rolled hide he made notes on it, drawing a rudimentary map of sorts. In the morning, they would bear towards the klim to see what that might tell him.
There were three main concerns. The first, was a route around the newly formed chasms and canyons, the second, a route that would provide game and grasses for the herds, and most importantly, water. They would need water in abundance. A point would come when their barrels would be empty, and without a stream, or a river, of a hard fall of rains, the going would get more difficult.
Each night, he sat, went over with his men the ground that they had covered on that day, and which way to turn next. Finally, after over a hand, he sent one of his swiftest riders back to report to Ba'atar that when the wagons began to move, to keep them moving to the cart until he heard back from him, and in no circumstances was he to travel due vask from where they would begin.
Two days later, they came upon a herd of tabuk. He ordered his men to only take down on large animal, that would have to feed them for the next few days. He did not want to decimate that small herd. Unless they were in migration, they should be in the same general area when the wagons came through, and his people could take down all they wanted. He had also noticed that the grasses began to grow thicker, higher, which was good, but there was still no sign of any appreciable water. Notes on this were made on the skin that night as he ate his share of the roasted tabuk, then finally lay out his ground sheet, propped his head on his saddle and tried to sleep.
The next day, he made the decision to turn back to the vask and continue his search. Late in the afternoon they were rewarded. He smelled it before he actually saw it. That sweet smell of water, or to him it was sweet. The kaiila began to pull at their reins, also catching the smell. They can go for many a day without food and water, but even they have their limits. They topped a small rise and there it was down below them. A small, serpentine river that flowed to the vask, They were almost like children as they rode into the water, laughing, splashing each other and drinking their fill of the sweetness of it. It was cool on the tongue, not one side of brackishness which led him to thing this was a good thing.
They camped there that night, and he made the decision to split his men. He gave Astin four of his remaining men, charging them to follow the river to see where it went, then to come back here and wait on him to return with the wagons. They would report to him, then he and Ba'atar would be able to plan their next move. He would take the rest and return in the direction that he hoped the wagons would be and would guide them to this place.
When they parted the next morning, long before the Central Fire was fully up over the horizon, there was much teasing, laughing, thumping of backs. With raiders from the other tribes, outlaws, wild sleens and larls, there were no assurances that they would ever see each other again, but that was the way of life on the plains. When they rode off, he did not even look back. For what use would it be?
He pushed his men and the kaiila hard, stopping only occasionally to eat and to rest the animals. He needed to get back and report. He needed to make sure his people were headed in the right direction. He needed to be home. This was a new feeling for him, the connection with people. For so long he had spent an almost hermit-like existence on the outskirts of the tribe, that this sudden desire to be among his people was a new experience to him. One that he found puzzling on one hand, but almost instinctual on the other.
Just like the water, he smelled them long before he came into sight of the fires. That unmistakable, musky smell of the bosk, that low roar of them moving around, milling against one another, doing what bosk do. Then there was the sound of outriders on patrol. Some sang to calm the animals, others shouted back and forth between themselves. They were all comforting sounds. Sounds of home.
As he approached, he was filled with pride when an Or of outriders rode out to challenge him, to find out what he was doing on Tuchuk lands. They were good men. Eventually he was allowed to pass and rode towards the circled wagons.
Home. Home with his people. It was a good thing.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
His Life, His Slave
By the time his men had made their reports, his morning meal would be ready. Sometimes it was left over stew, others meat, cheese and bread, if he had found an opportunity to hunt, so there would be meat. He rarely ate at the main fires, preferring food from his own fires, prepared by his girls to his liking. While he ate he would question kasra to find out if she had anything to tell or to inquire about. The quiet girl seemed to blossom more every day and it pleased him.
One thing about her that he found to be to his liking was that the girl had an astounding memory. If you gave her a message, after only one hearing, she could repeat it back to you not only word for word, but infections included. That, coupled with the fact she was fleet of foot, served him well. She was his messenger.
And she was also his conduit to much that went on around camp. A quiet, unassuming slave was almost as good as a weapon, if you were one that wanted information. And to him, there was no such thing as too much information. And the girl had this way of separating that meaningless kibble and gossip from what she heard, and only brought things to him that were of importance to him. He had tested this, and she had always passed.
She was given her chores each day, her messages to deliver, and from time to time, she was given an assignment of just where he wanted her to be for the day. Maybe she would watch the mate of a certain outrider that he had heard rumors of being dissatisfied, and speaking out of turn. If his mate went with her friends to the stream to do laundry, kasra was to go and do his laundry, and place herself near this mate to see what information she might garner there. Women were women, and they just did not seem to be able to keep their tongues from wagging, and for the greater part, they could not keep secrets, even those told to them by their mates. There were a few exceptions to this, but precious few.
She played games with the children. You would be amazed what children overhear and incorporate into their play. People do not always pay close enough attention to children, and that was a mistake.
Did he feel any guilt about having his slave spy on his people? Not one iota. In his mind, his job was to keep the Ubar safe and to head off any problems among his people before they grew dangerous or unmanageable. Sometimes, you just had to geld the young bull, and make him a steer before its' balls got too big. Especially, if it showed signs of being a maverick bull, one that might not be contained.
Did he reward her for these duties? She was still alive, wasn't she?
One thing about her that he found to be to his liking was that the girl had an astounding memory. If you gave her a message, after only one hearing, she could repeat it back to you not only word for word, but infections included. That, coupled with the fact she was fleet of foot, served him well. She was his messenger.
And she was also his conduit to much that went on around camp. A quiet, unassuming slave was almost as good as a weapon, if you were one that wanted information. And to him, there was no such thing as too much information. And the girl had this way of separating that meaningless kibble and gossip from what she heard, and only brought things to him that were of importance to him. He had tested this, and she had always passed.
She was given her chores each day, her messages to deliver, and from time to time, she was given an assignment of just where he wanted her to be for the day. Maybe she would watch the mate of a certain outrider that he had heard rumors of being dissatisfied, and speaking out of turn. If his mate went with her friends to the stream to do laundry, kasra was to go and do his laundry, and place herself near this mate to see what information she might garner there. Women were women, and they just did not seem to be able to keep their tongues from wagging, and for the greater part, they could not keep secrets, even those told to them by their mates. There were a few exceptions to this, but precious few.
She played games with the children. You would be amazed what children overhear and incorporate into their play. People do not always pay close enough attention to children, and that was a mistake.
Did he feel any guilt about having his slave spy on his people? Not one iota. In his mind, his job was to keep the Ubar safe and to head off any problems among his people before they grew dangerous or unmanageable. Sometimes, you just had to geld the young bull, and make him a steer before its' balls got too big. Especially, if it showed signs of being a maverick bull, one that might not be contained.
Did he reward her for these duties? She was still alive, wasn't she?
Friday, January 2, 2009
Scarring
Each warrior that he lays scars to is special to him in one way or another but the young man that was in his wagon right now he was keeping close watch over. He had bee a bit surprised that the young man's sister had not questioned him as Kaeli had.
He had instructed Gabe to take a bath in the herbs that he provided, then to go and make his prayers of thanks to the Sky. This done, he had taken the young man Argus with him to the bath wagon, and they had done the same. For him, the bath was a part of the ritual of scarring. The hot waters cleansed the body and the herbs, the mind. He caught the boy looking at the scars on his body with curiosity, and answerd that look with one word. "Life"
Bath taken they returned to his scarring wagon, and he carefully took out the rolled piece of leather that held his knives. Each one was inspected as he told Argus in a calm steady voice of the importance of this. A dull blade did not make a clean cut, and without a clean cut, the scar would not heal properly, nor would it look right. These were put into a pan of water that was simmering on one of the braziers, to make sure they are clean and held no residue from the last scarring.
The thin, bone needles and tiny strips of sinew were laid out on a wooden tray, to be ready for stitching the scars closed. Each of these were also explained to his new student.
Next he took out the pots of dried flowers and roots and began to mix them with small amounts of salt, vinegar and bosk dung, until he had the right shade. He explained each plant to Argus and promised to show him where they grew if he wanted. He was pleased that the boy asked intelligent questions and showed an interest in what they were about to do.
With everything in place, he sat back against the frame of the wagon, cross legged with his hands resting lightly on his knees, and closed his eyes to calm himself and to center his thoughts. From one cracked eye, he saw the boy do the same and he almost smiled. Closing that eye he waited until he heard the steps on his wagon platform. Standing he went to open the flaps so that the young man could enter.
He looked nervous, but that was to be expected. He has seen much older men, much more nervous in his career of placing scar. He motioned for the young man to lie down on the platform and calmly explained to him what was about to take place. He was a believer in full knowledge in these things.
They finally got down to work with Argus on the other side of the platform watching intently. When the first cut was made he had looked up to see the boy pale slightly but was pleased when he simply swallowed down the bile that he knew was in his throat and continued to watch.
Dye was worked into the scar, then it was stitched together in a loose fashion, to allow for more dye to be added over the next few days. The body would absorb the dye, so more would have to be added as the cut healed. He then motioned for Argus to trade places with him, and he made the cut on the other cheek, giving care that they were even, more or less. He took great pride in his work and it would show on the cheeks that he had scarred.
Finishing up he was also proud of the young man. He had barely made a noise through a process that was not only painful but scary at the same time. He gave him a mug of tea that would help him sleep, then carefully washed all of his implements and put them away, along with the dyes.
Stepping out onto the platform he inhaled the air and looked up to the Sky thanking her for giving him a steady hand tonight. He explained to Argus that he was welcome to return over the next few days to watch the application of the dyes. The young boy nodded then stepped away down the lane of wagons.
Watching him go, he knew he had much to think on and he would allow him that time to think. Dropping down to sit on the platform he had to smile when kasra approached with a mug of blackwine. Taking it from her his hand drops to caress her hair as he drinks and thinks.
The next few days would be difficult but if the young man in there on the platform had the same strength that he had seen on others of his family, he would be fine.
He had instructed Gabe to take a bath in the herbs that he provided, then to go and make his prayers of thanks to the Sky. This done, he had taken the young man Argus with him to the bath wagon, and they had done the same. For him, the bath was a part of the ritual of scarring. The hot waters cleansed the body and the herbs, the mind. He caught the boy looking at the scars on his body with curiosity, and answerd that look with one word. "Life"
Bath taken they returned to his scarring wagon, and he carefully took out the rolled piece of leather that held his knives. Each one was inspected as he told Argus in a calm steady voice of the importance of this. A dull blade did not make a clean cut, and without a clean cut, the scar would not heal properly, nor would it look right. These were put into a pan of water that was simmering on one of the braziers, to make sure they are clean and held no residue from the last scarring.
The thin, bone needles and tiny strips of sinew were laid out on a wooden tray, to be ready for stitching the scars closed. Each of these were also explained to his new student.
Next he took out the pots of dried flowers and roots and began to mix them with small amounts of salt, vinegar and bosk dung, until he had the right shade. He explained each plant to Argus and promised to show him where they grew if he wanted. He was pleased that the boy asked intelligent questions and showed an interest in what they were about to do.
With everything in place, he sat back against the frame of the wagon, cross legged with his hands resting lightly on his knees, and closed his eyes to calm himself and to center his thoughts. From one cracked eye, he saw the boy do the same and he almost smiled. Closing that eye he waited until he heard the steps on his wagon platform. Standing he went to open the flaps so that the young man could enter.
He looked nervous, but that was to be expected. He has seen much older men, much more nervous in his career of placing scar. He motioned for the young man to lie down on the platform and calmly explained to him what was about to take place. He was a believer in full knowledge in these things.
They finally got down to work with Argus on the other side of the platform watching intently. When the first cut was made he had looked up to see the boy pale slightly but was pleased when he simply swallowed down the bile that he knew was in his throat and continued to watch.
Dye was worked into the scar, then it was stitched together in a loose fashion, to allow for more dye to be added over the next few days. The body would absorb the dye, so more would have to be added as the cut healed. He then motioned for Argus to trade places with him, and he made the cut on the other cheek, giving care that they were even, more or less. He took great pride in his work and it would show on the cheeks that he had scarred.
Finishing up he was also proud of the young man. He had barely made a noise through a process that was not only painful but scary at the same time. He gave him a mug of tea that would help him sleep, then carefully washed all of his implements and put them away, along with the dyes.
Stepping out onto the platform he inhaled the air and looked up to the Sky thanking her for giving him a steady hand tonight. He explained to Argus that he was welcome to return over the next few days to watch the application of the dyes. The young boy nodded then stepped away down the lane of wagons.
Watching him go, he knew he had much to think on and he would allow him that time to think. Dropping down to sit on the platform he had to smile when kasra approached with a mug of blackwine. Taking it from her his hand drops to caress her hair as he drinks and thinks.
The next few days would be difficult but if the young man in there on the platform had the same strength that he had seen on others of his family, he would be fine.
Friday, November 28, 2008
A Lesson
Why had he done it? Because he could. Isn't that why most men do what they do? And, they expect certain things, for certain people to act in certain ways. And the slave did not.
A good slave knows how to tease and to tempt. This one did not. A good slave knows that their very existence was in the balance with each movement and each word. This one did not. A good slave would know the proper response to his question. This one did not. A good slave would know how to entice a man. This one did not. Even when his hand snaked out, fingers wrapping around her throat, a good slave would have known then, that she had made an error. This one did not. A good slave would have begged forgiveness. This one did not.
Was it because his brother sat there, and she expected him to intercede? Well, he didn't. Even when he lifted up and took her to his wagon, his brother did not stop him. His only words, were to not break his toy. He had no plan to break her, exactly.
When he questioned her in his wagon, he will admit that she was honest. To a point. But the point is, she just does not get it. She has an attitude that she has only one Master. He was going to endeavor to teach her differently.
Even when he stripped her, took her lips in a rape of a kiss, the reaction he got from her was unsatisfying. Did she think he would simply take his pleasure with her, then return her to his brother and it be over? Wrong. When he saw the binding of rope around her body and the knots, he had almost laughed. He can remember when old Nosam had taught them the knots as young boys. If he had wanted, he could have simply untied the knot, then bound and tied her back in the same fashion, with the same not, when he want. But, she needed to learn a lesson, so the rope was cut from her body. The rope that perhaps she thinks binds her to only one man.
He did not take her. Instead, she was chained to the slave ring in his wagon, and he left and returned to the fires.
When he had returned to the fire that night, he had tossed the severed rope to his brother and simply said that the slave needed time to think. And think she would, until he felt the need to release her from the slave ring in his wagon.
The next morning, he had his girl to take her food, and told her to make sure the brazier was fed and the wagon was kept warm, but to not talk to the enslaved creature. He had no doubts that his wishes would be fulfilled by the one he had taken as his.
There was simply an arrogance to the woman chained in his wagon that was unbecoming, and unattractive. Yes, she served, but it was with a manner that made her seem that she only did it out of duty to his brother. This was wrong. Every free man and woman in the camp was her better, and it was time for her to learn this. Some lessons are learned easily, and some in a much more difficult manner. He would see what her way of learning was.
Did he desire her? No. In fact, he did not have his brothers penchant for blue eyes, nor did he have visions of her lying in some supine position on his furs. He actually found her to be unattractive in a way. What he wanted for her to do, was learn what she was. A slave. Not some over-valued creature, but a simple slave to the Tuchuk. How quickly she learned this, would be up to her.
He would see that she was fed, kept warm and unharmed. For now. But, she would find plenty of time to think and reflect. Reflection is good for the soul. Even the soul of a beast.
A good slave knows how to tease and to tempt. This one did not. A good slave knows that their very existence was in the balance with each movement and each word. This one did not. A good slave would know the proper response to his question. This one did not. A good slave would know how to entice a man. This one did not. Even when his hand snaked out, fingers wrapping around her throat, a good slave would have known then, that she had made an error. This one did not. A good slave would have begged forgiveness. This one did not.
Was it because his brother sat there, and she expected him to intercede? Well, he didn't. Even when he lifted up and took her to his wagon, his brother did not stop him. His only words, were to not break his toy. He had no plan to break her, exactly.
When he questioned her in his wagon, he will admit that she was honest. To a point. But the point is, she just does not get it. She has an attitude that she has only one Master. He was going to endeavor to teach her differently.
Even when he stripped her, took her lips in a rape of a kiss, the reaction he got from her was unsatisfying. Did she think he would simply take his pleasure with her, then return her to his brother and it be over? Wrong. When he saw the binding of rope around her body and the knots, he had almost laughed. He can remember when old Nosam had taught them the knots as young boys. If he had wanted, he could have simply untied the knot, then bound and tied her back in the same fashion, with the same not, when he want. But, she needed to learn a lesson, so the rope was cut from her body. The rope that perhaps she thinks binds her to only one man.
He did not take her. Instead, she was chained to the slave ring in his wagon, and he left and returned to the fires.
When he had returned to the fire that night, he had tossed the severed rope to his brother and simply said that the slave needed time to think. And think she would, until he felt the need to release her from the slave ring in his wagon.
The next morning, he had his girl to take her food, and told her to make sure the brazier was fed and the wagon was kept warm, but to not talk to the enslaved creature. He had no doubts that his wishes would be fulfilled by the one he had taken as his.
There was simply an arrogance to the woman chained in his wagon that was unbecoming, and unattractive. Yes, she served, but it was with a manner that made her seem that she only did it out of duty to his brother. This was wrong. Every free man and woman in the camp was her better, and it was time for her to learn this. Some lessons are learned easily, and some in a much more difficult manner. He would see what her way of learning was.
Did he desire her? No. In fact, he did not have his brothers penchant for blue eyes, nor did he have visions of her lying in some supine position on his furs. He actually found her to be unattractive in a way. What he wanted for her to do, was learn what she was. A slave. Not some over-valued creature, but a simple slave to the Tuchuk. How quickly she learned this, would be up to her.
He would see that she was fed, kept warm and unharmed. For now. But, she would find plenty of time to think and reflect. Reflection is good for the soul. Even the soul of a beast.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
A Ride In the Night
There were some at the fires that would think his brother cruel for his decision about the young Kassar boy, but he understood it. The reasoning behind it was two-fold. One, the boy was Kassar and being Kassar he needed to be with his own people. Ba'atar's feelings on this were firmly rooted. It was just like his demanding that when they got to the northern grounds, for Jai to go and bring the young boy that was in Ina's care back to the plains, back to his people. He was not sure that Ina understood this, but the boy belonged with his people, not in some tainted city.
Secondly. The Kassar woman would probably more than likely die. Feelings of hatred of the Kassar ran deep and were not going to change for one woman. And if she did manage to live, it would mostly likely be in a collar. The boy did not need to see that either. What had happened tonight, would more than likely stay in the boys' memory, and the day would come when he was man, and would come to take his revenge on the people that separated him from his mother. If so, that is how the Sky wanted it.
He did not just ride off into the night with the little brat. He made preparations, took provisions, and an Or of his men with him. He also took one of the kaiila that he had ended up from the other woman that showed up and sat the boy in it with his hands still bound. It was then that they took off into the frigid night. The boy did well, once he stopped crying. He had tried to talk to him quietly, telling him that this was the night that he started to become a man. Somehow this seemed to sink into the child. Eventually he slept, slumped in the saddle.
Macik and V'Dao had rode ahead into the night, scouting the last known locations where they knew the Blood People to be. It was migration time, and they were on the move, just like the Tuchuk, but they rarely strayed from known routes. The night was quiet, actually too quiet. No wind, no animal noises, only the steady crunch of clawed feet as they transverse the snow.
The duo returned far too soon. He dismounted to talk to them in a quiet tone. They had found a small encampment that bore the standard of the Kassar not far away. Leaving the boy with the rest of his men, he rode with the two to have a look at this camp. They came close enough to approach the herds, and he was surprised that the outriders were stretched so thinly. In fact, they were able to dismount and sneak into the bosk to check the brands, which were indeed Kassar. Leaving the two men with the kaiila he had moved through the darkness to get a better look at the wagons.
It was cold, it was night, and he saw very few moving about, but one thing struck him as strange. What he mostly saw were women and older men. Men too aged to be riding patrol. Where were the men? He hid right there in their own herd, crouched and hidden within the bodies of the bosk until the camp began to stir. At one point, he had held his breath as an out rider rode by on his patrol, but did not find him. He finally wound his way back out and up to the men with the kaiila, and sent V'Dao to go get the boy, as he and Macik continued to watch.
When the alarm was raised, they would have to ride like the winds and hope that the Kassar did not over take them. But he was pledged to leave the boy. He had given his word. He woke the boy and pointed to the herd and the wagons, and spoke quietly into his ear, telling him those were his people, and they would be the ones to help him someday exact his revenge on the Tuchuk. Nothing like planting a seed in a boy's mind. The reason he did it, was to make the boy angry enough that when he slapped the kaiila on the flank, he would ride straight to the herd, and maybe cause enough chaos to give them a chance to escape.
And he did just that, he gave the kaiila a hard slap on the rump and it took off across the field to where the dark shadows of the bosk herd melted into the dawn. He watched as the kaiila with his small rider approached, and met no resistance, but for a few out riders who looked in their direction.
Seeing the boy was safe, he and his men turned around and rode as if their lives depended upon it. And there was this niggling fear that ate at him. Did the Kassar have no drummers? Even if he had not been able to read the beats of their drummers, there should have been drum. But there were none. Except for the sound of his men, there was nothing. After a great distance, he motioned his men on, and turned to back track to see if they were being pursued.
Nothing. Not a rider in sight. It sent a chill to his very core. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Secondly. The Kassar woman would probably more than likely die. Feelings of hatred of the Kassar ran deep and were not going to change for one woman. And if she did manage to live, it would mostly likely be in a collar. The boy did not need to see that either. What had happened tonight, would more than likely stay in the boys' memory, and the day would come when he was man, and would come to take his revenge on the people that separated him from his mother. If so, that is how the Sky wanted it.
He did not just ride off into the night with the little brat. He made preparations, took provisions, and an Or of his men with him. He also took one of the kaiila that he had ended up from the other woman that showed up and sat the boy in it with his hands still bound. It was then that they took off into the frigid night. The boy did well, once he stopped crying. He had tried to talk to him quietly, telling him that this was the night that he started to become a man. Somehow this seemed to sink into the child. Eventually he slept, slumped in the saddle.
Macik and V'Dao had rode ahead into the night, scouting the last known locations where they knew the Blood People to be. It was migration time, and they were on the move, just like the Tuchuk, but they rarely strayed from known routes. The night was quiet, actually too quiet. No wind, no animal noises, only the steady crunch of clawed feet as they transverse the snow.
The duo returned far too soon. He dismounted to talk to them in a quiet tone. They had found a small encampment that bore the standard of the Kassar not far away. Leaving the boy with the rest of his men, he rode with the two to have a look at this camp. They came close enough to approach the herds, and he was surprised that the outriders were stretched so thinly. In fact, they were able to dismount and sneak into the bosk to check the brands, which were indeed Kassar. Leaving the two men with the kaiila he had moved through the darkness to get a better look at the wagons.
It was cold, it was night, and he saw very few moving about, but one thing struck him as strange. What he mostly saw were women and older men. Men too aged to be riding patrol. Where were the men? He hid right there in their own herd, crouched and hidden within the bodies of the bosk until the camp began to stir. At one point, he had held his breath as an out rider rode by on his patrol, but did not find him. He finally wound his way back out and up to the men with the kaiila, and sent V'Dao to go get the boy, as he and Macik continued to watch.
When the alarm was raised, they would have to ride like the winds and hope that the Kassar did not over take them. But he was pledged to leave the boy. He had given his word. He woke the boy and pointed to the herd and the wagons, and spoke quietly into his ear, telling him those were his people, and they would be the ones to help him someday exact his revenge on the Tuchuk. Nothing like planting a seed in a boy's mind. The reason he did it, was to make the boy angry enough that when he slapped the kaiila on the flank, he would ride straight to the herd, and maybe cause enough chaos to give them a chance to escape.
And he did just that, he gave the kaiila a hard slap on the rump and it took off across the field to where the dark shadows of the bosk herd melted into the dawn. He watched as the kaiila with his small rider approached, and met no resistance, but for a few out riders who looked in their direction.
Seeing the boy was safe, he and his men turned around and rode as if their lives depended upon it. And there was this niggling fear that ate at him. Did the Kassar have no drummers? Even if he had not been able to read the beats of their drummers, there should have been drum. But there were none. Except for the sound of his men, there was nothing. After a great distance, he motioned his men on, and turned to back track to see if they were being pursued.
Nothing. Not a rider in sight. It sent a chill to his very core. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The Taking
He had been on patrol all night and was cold, tired and mentally drained, and had just stretched out onto his furs and closed his eyes when he heard a noise on the platform of his wagon. Reaching for the quiva that always lay beside his head and sat up. Shaking his head to clear it he got up and went to untie the flaps and saw something unexpected.
Knelt there in the icy platform was that girl that belonged to Cana with a covered bowl in her hands and a bota over her shoulder. He was not happy and growled at her to ask what in the name of bosk she was doing knelt there. The wince could not be missed but she drew a breath and told him that the mate of her Mistress had told her to bring him a meal when he got in from patrol. She offered up the bowl and the bota. Rubbing his hand over his scarred face he motioned for her to come in, and tied the flaps closed behind her.
She knelt again with the bowl and bota and for a brief instant looked up at him then quickly lowered her eyes as she held the bowl out to him. Sitting down on the platform of furs he motioned her closer and you would have thought he threatened her very life. She did scoot closer holding the bowl up which he took and uncovered. Inside were strips of tarsk, fluffy eggs and two rolled up pieces of still warm flatbread. Hunger overtook him and he began to eat like a man that was starving, which he was.
She quietly asked if he had a mug and he pointed to one on a shelf. Standing she went to fetch it and returned to fill it with hot blackwine from the bota and held it up for him to take when he wished. Taking the mug he chew and watched her and finally asked what her name was. She whispered kasra, if it pleased him. Please him? He could care one way or another but he needed something to call her by.
He asked why she was trembling and she could not answer. Leaning closer he lifted her chin so that he could see her face which wasn't bad to look at. Again he asked if she trembled from the cold or from fear. She swallowed and that faint whisper told him both. His thumb ran over her lips as she spoke and he watched her closely and asked why? She had no real answer for him, which irked him a little but he kept asking. It took time but he was able to get her to put into words that all men scared her.
Sitting back he studied her as he drank his blackwine. Now this was an odd girl. He knew she had been in her collar for a long time because Cana said she had owned the girl since before the oldest boy was born, so it wasn't a matter of the newness being a part of her fear. He was blunt and asked her if she had ever served the needs of a man and that was when the tears began to drip from the corners of her eyes as she shook her head. When he asked why she told him that the Mistress had bought her not too soon after a man had collared her in her small village and that none of the men that the woman had been mated too seemed to have interest in her.
This fascinated him a little. He told her to take off the coat and boots so he could get a better look at her. For a ihn, he thought she was going to bolt but she did as she was told and removed the heavy coat and the boots and went back to kneel and that was when he stopped her. He motioned with his hand for her to turn around, which she did slowly. She had some training somewhere because when she turned she reached up to hold the mass of brow curls up and away from her body.
Now, it is hard to assess a slave when they are wearing leathers and a tunic due to the weather, but he could tell that the form beneath the clothes could be appealing. When she faced him again her eyes cast to his bare feet he told her to come closer. With a tremble she stepped within his reach.
Now he has trained kaiila foals before. Some you have to do it with a firm hand and brute strength and others you have to be more gentle with. This girl would take the latter. He never gave a thought that she was owned by someone else. There was no such thing as reserving a slave among them. That was a dweller notion.
Reaching out his large fingers wrapped around her wrist completely encircling it then some. He could feel the delicacy of it and how small the bones were, how fragile they were. With only the smallest pressure he could destroy that wrist and for some reason this sent a thrill through him. But, he simply pulled her closer motioning for her to sit on his thigh. There was just something delicious in how her body trembled when she sat, and how the curve of her buttocks seemed to fit where it lay.
He lifted a piece of the flatbread and put it to her lips and told her to eat. He noticed that the brown eyes that looked to him had flecks of gold in them and were pretty in away, and the lips that parted for the bread seemed to beg kissing, but she was not aware of it. His arm wrapped around her a large hand coming to rest on her hip pulling her closer to his chest. He continued to feed her along with eating himself, watching how her jaw moved when she chewed, finding it fascinating.
There was just something that appealed to him about the terror that she held in her soul. Setting the empty bowl down his hand lifted to her face again, calloused fingers caressing her cheek then rubbing across her lips. Now, was that shiver that just ran through her body different? He would test and see. Turning her face towards him he leaned in and took her lips in a kiss. Not a rape of kiss like he would one of the normal sluts that he took his pleasure with, but a firm exploration of those soft, full lips. And there it was, that tremble again. It almost made him smile. Almost. Again he caressed her face and looked into her eyes. There was a light there, it was hidden deeply but there was something there. His voice was low and firm when he told her to stand and undress. And there it was, in those eyes, a flash of terror. And that terror affected him more than she could ever know.
When she stood she undressed with trembling fingers, dropping the clothing to the floor. How had his brother missed this? Her body was one that men should be paying more attention to. The breast were firm, round and tipped with pinked nipples that were already in tight little buds. There was no excess fat on her, the entire body taut, toned and supple. Her skin was almost golden where it had been kissed by the Central Fire. Right now it was covered by those small bumps of fear and cold but still exquisite. He told her to nadu and slowly she lowered to her knees with them only a few horts apart as she would around a woman. His bare foot snaked out to press the knees farther apart until he could fully appreciate what he had before him.
He motioned for her to stand and told her to display for him. She rose with a grace that surprised him and slid her feet apart, her slender arms moving to again pull her hair up and hold it. He twirls his finger and tells her to turn around which she does. Her back was as lovely as her front. The delicate shelf of shoulders, the straight line of bones of her spine that ran down her back, her rib cage lifting and falling with her breath. The waist was tiny, a man could encircle it with his hands and her hips flared just right and there was enough there to grasp. He could almost envision how that flesh would look with the reddened print of his palm on them.
Standing he moved in close to her running his hand down her side and around her stomach to embrace her, pull her closer to him, his fingers playing lightly in that soft down of hair at the juncture of her legs. Lowering his head he inhaled deeply of her and savored the way she trembled, and was that a moan coming from her? He would see. Dipping a calloused finger between her legs it searched out her moistness and he felt her knees buckle and his other hand went around her to support her. He saw the tears that flowed from her eyes and leaned to taste them with his tongue. There was just something about the taste of fear that aroused him.
With not a word said he lifts her up and moves to the sleeping furs with her, laying her down and using his hands to spread her legs so that he could see all of her. When she tried to turn her head away from him, he leaned over and took her chin firmly in his grasp and looked into her eyes. "Never, and I mean never, hide your face from me, do you understand?" There was terror in the tear filled eyes but she gives a trembling nod of her head. Much better, much, much better. He longed to see the fear there. In some small way, it was his. The body, the fear and the passion that he could see in her eyes, were his.
Standing he stripped out of his leathers and loin cloth and moved to kneel over her, his hand reaching out to cup one firm breast, his thumb moving over the nipple, feeling it harden more. And all the while, he watched her eyes. If they varied or tried to look to the side his other hand would move to grasp her face and again he would tell her to look into his eyes. Moving to lay beside her he began to explore this treasure that had been sent to him. Fingers bury themselves in the mass of hair, feeling the texture of it, noting how there were strands that had been kissed by the Central Fire that had a red cast to them. Lowering his head he inhaled it. There was no flowery scent, nothing extraordinary, just the aroma of soap, water and cleanliness. He would have expected nothing less of a girl that belonged to that particular woman.
Pushing the hair back his fingers began to explore more. One trails along the shell of her ear and he studies the delicacy of it, how parts seemed almost translucent. Leaning in he kisses the pulse that was throbbing just below the surface of the skin on her neck, noting how quickly it pulsed. It was like the wings of a small bird beating a trembling tattoo beneath the skin, and when his lips touched it, it trembled faster. A small nip of his teeth tested it and he was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath from the girl and a noise from her throat. He was pleased.
Fingers stroke slowly across her collar bone and again he is amazed at the fragility of it, of how easily it could be snapped. Turning his head he could see that her eyes were closed, which would not do and he commanded her to open them. His hand moved to between her breast, to lay there above her pounding heart. If if beat much faster it would simply beat itself to death and that pleased him. Watching her parted lips tremble he was intrigued and leaned to suckle the lower one between his own, pulling and tugging on it, then biting down until he tasted the coppery taste of blood and drew a shuddering moan from the delicate little beast. Yes, it was good.
Lifting his head he stared down into those frightened eyes as his hand explored her breasts, cupping them, testing their firmness, their weight. He would tweak a nipple and watch the shock in her eyes and feel the tremble of her body and how the nub of nipple hardened more. At one point he lay his hand flat on the breast, massaging it and watched how she reacted how her throat constricted to suppress a moan.
Slowly he worked his hand over her belly, feeling the firmness of it, and how the muscles beneath the skin seemed to search for his touch. Lower and lower he went massaging, testing, teasing and the entire time, never taking his eyes from hers. The fear was there but there was something more beginning to smolder there. He would lean in, kiss the swollen lips, taking from them what he wanted and when he felt her begin to respond to his kiss he would draw back making her wait.
When his fingers brushed over the thatch of hair, just testing the softness of it, he felt her body tense and her back arch slightly off the furs and her eyes changed. The fear was there, but the desire was edging it out. Parting those sweet nether lips his finger slid along the moistness there and he got the response he desired. It is instinct in a woman to search for that touch, to crave and need it. It was just that no one had ever taken the time to train this girl in the touch of a man. She was like the fresh snow that lay outside on the ground, untouched, virgin. And wanting.
Those sweet, tender, bruised lips parted and the breath that passed from there was more ragged and the desire in her eyes divine. There is nothing more beautiful than the eyes of a woman when she is first awakening to desire and passion. His finger slipped slowly inside of her and he found that he was right. She was tight, unopened and primed. He did not go too deep, he would save that for later, but his thumb moves to that quivering little nub of nerves and flesh, dragging around it slowly, torturing her, and she responded in kind, arching to his touch. He teased and tormented her, watching her face, watching her body, seeing the heated flush flow along that soft skin. When her breathing grew more ragged and the muscles along her belly began to tighten, signaling she was about to release into the passion, he stopped.
Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and through parted lips, she begged. This was the moment he waited for, her begging for his touch, her need responding only to him. Parting her legs he crawled between those silky thighs and took his member in hand, dragging it along that silky wetness, still watching her eyes and feeling the response of her body.
His other hand moved up her body, beneath her shoulder to come around to her neck. Carefully he encircled that slender column with his fingers, and the fear came back into her eyes. The fear that she was to die at this very moment. That aroused him even further. Slowly her breeched the fortress between her legs, feeling the resistance that the virgin territory presented. Slipping a hand under her ass, he held her firm and there was not gentleness to it, there was not waiting, he simply entered her fully with one shove of his hips.
The scream that came from her caused his eyes to close as he savored it. He did have the kindness to allow her to adjust to the assault on her being, then drew back and began a steady pace of taking all of her. Removing his hand from around her neck, both hands were placed to either side of her head and his head was right over hers, watching her eyes as he plumbed the depths of her at his own pace. She became lost in what he was doing to her, her body writhing and thrashing beneath him, making the entire experience that much more sublime. When he withdrew from her abruptly, there was a moan that came from her that most would not imagine she was capable of.
He stared into her eyes, then reached beneath her and flipped her over, his hand beneath her belly lifting her to her knees. Kneeling between her spread thighs, he grasped her hips and entered her again and began an unrelenting barrage of her depths. As his passion rose, he drew back a hand and applied a firm slap to the cheek of her ass and gained much satisfaction from the redness that appeared almost immediately, and even more from the scream that sprang from her throat and the stiffening of her body.
Time and time again he applied his hand to her ass and each time he was rewarded by a renewed response to what he was doing. Her moans echoed off the walls of his wagon, and each time she rode over the brink and tightened around him, his own groans were mixed with them. Grasping her hips, he was unrelenting in his assault and when he felt his own passion build to the point of no return he reached to grab her hair, pulling her head up and released into her, filling her, feeling her throb around him.
When he was finished, he dropped her back to the furs and took deep, cleansing breaths as he watched the trembling of her body, and reached to run his hand over the heated palm prints of her flesh. She did not seem to know what to do now, and he pondered a moment as to whether to show her the kindness that could come from this moment, or to toss her out into the cold, to teach her just how abruptly it could all change.
Finally, he lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms, urging her head to lay on his chest, the hot tears cleansing his skin. Pulling the furs up, he said little. Little needed to be said.
"Now we sleep."
Knelt there in the icy platform was that girl that belonged to Cana with a covered bowl in her hands and a bota over her shoulder. He was not happy and growled at her to ask what in the name of bosk she was doing knelt there. The wince could not be missed but she drew a breath and told him that the mate of her Mistress had told her to bring him a meal when he got in from patrol. She offered up the bowl and the bota. Rubbing his hand over his scarred face he motioned for her to come in, and tied the flaps closed behind her.
She knelt again with the bowl and bota and for a brief instant looked up at him then quickly lowered her eyes as she held the bowl out to him. Sitting down on the platform of furs he motioned her closer and you would have thought he threatened her very life. She did scoot closer holding the bowl up which he took and uncovered. Inside were strips of tarsk, fluffy eggs and two rolled up pieces of still warm flatbread. Hunger overtook him and he began to eat like a man that was starving, which he was.
She quietly asked if he had a mug and he pointed to one on a shelf. Standing she went to fetch it and returned to fill it with hot blackwine from the bota and held it up for him to take when he wished. Taking the mug he chew and watched her and finally asked what her name was. She whispered kasra, if it pleased him. Please him? He could care one way or another but he needed something to call her by.
He asked why she was trembling and she could not answer. Leaning closer he lifted her chin so that he could see her face which wasn't bad to look at. Again he asked if she trembled from the cold or from fear. She swallowed and that faint whisper told him both. His thumb ran over her lips as she spoke and he watched her closely and asked why? She had no real answer for him, which irked him a little but he kept asking. It took time but he was able to get her to put into words that all men scared her.
Sitting back he studied her as he drank his blackwine. Now this was an odd girl. He knew she had been in her collar for a long time because Cana said she had owned the girl since before the oldest boy was born, so it wasn't a matter of the newness being a part of her fear. He was blunt and asked her if she had ever served the needs of a man and that was when the tears began to drip from the corners of her eyes as she shook her head. When he asked why she told him that the Mistress had bought her not too soon after a man had collared her in her small village and that none of the men that the woman had been mated too seemed to have interest in her.
This fascinated him a little. He told her to take off the coat and boots so he could get a better look at her. For a ihn, he thought she was going to bolt but she did as she was told and removed the heavy coat and the boots and went back to kneel and that was when he stopped her. He motioned with his hand for her to turn around, which she did slowly. She had some training somewhere because when she turned she reached up to hold the mass of brow curls up and away from her body.
Now, it is hard to assess a slave when they are wearing leathers and a tunic due to the weather, but he could tell that the form beneath the clothes could be appealing. When she faced him again her eyes cast to his bare feet he told her to come closer. With a tremble she stepped within his reach.
Now he has trained kaiila foals before. Some you have to do it with a firm hand and brute strength and others you have to be more gentle with. This girl would take the latter. He never gave a thought that she was owned by someone else. There was no such thing as reserving a slave among them. That was a dweller notion.
Reaching out his large fingers wrapped around her wrist completely encircling it then some. He could feel the delicacy of it and how small the bones were, how fragile they were. With only the smallest pressure he could destroy that wrist and for some reason this sent a thrill through him. But, he simply pulled her closer motioning for her to sit on his thigh. There was just something delicious in how her body trembled when she sat, and how the curve of her buttocks seemed to fit where it lay.
He lifted a piece of the flatbread and put it to her lips and told her to eat. He noticed that the brown eyes that looked to him had flecks of gold in them and were pretty in away, and the lips that parted for the bread seemed to beg kissing, but she was not aware of it. His arm wrapped around her a large hand coming to rest on her hip pulling her closer to his chest. He continued to feed her along with eating himself, watching how her jaw moved when she chewed, finding it fascinating.
There was just something that appealed to him about the terror that she held in her soul. Setting the empty bowl down his hand lifted to her face again, calloused fingers caressing her cheek then rubbing across her lips. Now, was that shiver that just ran through her body different? He would test and see. Turning her face towards him he leaned in and took her lips in a kiss. Not a rape of kiss like he would one of the normal sluts that he took his pleasure with, but a firm exploration of those soft, full lips. And there it was, that tremble again. It almost made him smile. Almost. Again he caressed her face and looked into her eyes. There was a light there, it was hidden deeply but there was something there. His voice was low and firm when he told her to stand and undress. And there it was, in those eyes, a flash of terror. And that terror affected him more than she could ever know.
When she stood she undressed with trembling fingers, dropping the clothing to the floor. How had his brother missed this? Her body was one that men should be paying more attention to. The breast were firm, round and tipped with pinked nipples that were already in tight little buds. There was no excess fat on her, the entire body taut, toned and supple. Her skin was almost golden where it had been kissed by the Central Fire. Right now it was covered by those small bumps of fear and cold but still exquisite. He told her to nadu and slowly she lowered to her knees with them only a few horts apart as she would around a woman. His bare foot snaked out to press the knees farther apart until he could fully appreciate what he had before him.
He motioned for her to stand and told her to display for him. She rose with a grace that surprised him and slid her feet apart, her slender arms moving to again pull her hair up and hold it. He twirls his finger and tells her to turn around which she does. Her back was as lovely as her front. The delicate shelf of shoulders, the straight line of bones of her spine that ran down her back, her rib cage lifting and falling with her breath. The waist was tiny, a man could encircle it with his hands and her hips flared just right and there was enough there to grasp. He could almost envision how that flesh would look with the reddened print of his palm on them.
Standing he moved in close to her running his hand down her side and around her stomach to embrace her, pull her closer to him, his fingers playing lightly in that soft down of hair at the juncture of her legs. Lowering his head he inhaled deeply of her and savored the way she trembled, and was that a moan coming from her? He would see. Dipping a calloused finger between her legs it searched out her moistness and he felt her knees buckle and his other hand went around her to support her. He saw the tears that flowed from her eyes and leaned to taste them with his tongue. There was just something about the taste of fear that aroused him.
With not a word said he lifts her up and moves to the sleeping furs with her, laying her down and using his hands to spread her legs so that he could see all of her. When she tried to turn her head away from him, he leaned over and took her chin firmly in his grasp and looked into her eyes. "Never, and I mean never, hide your face from me, do you understand?" There was terror in the tear filled eyes but she gives a trembling nod of her head. Much better, much, much better. He longed to see the fear there. In some small way, it was his. The body, the fear and the passion that he could see in her eyes, were his.
Standing he stripped out of his leathers and loin cloth and moved to kneel over her, his hand reaching out to cup one firm breast, his thumb moving over the nipple, feeling it harden more. And all the while, he watched her eyes. If they varied or tried to look to the side his other hand would move to grasp her face and again he would tell her to look into his eyes. Moving to lay beside her he began to explore this treasure that had been sent to him. Fingers bury themselves in the mass of hair, feeling the texture of it, noting how there were strands that had been kissed by the Central Fire that had a red cast to them. Lowering his head he inhaled it. There was no flowery scent, nothing extraordinary, just the aroma of soap, water and cleanliness. He would have expected nothing less of a girl that belonged to that particular woman.
Pushing the hair back his fingers began to explore more. One trails along the shell of her ear and he studies the delicacy of it, how parts seemed almost translucent. Leaning in he kisses the pulse that was throbbing just below the surface of the skin on her neck, noting how quickly it pulsed. It was like the wings of a small bird beating a trembling tattoo beneath the skin, and when his lips touched it, it trembled faster. A small nip of his teeth tested it and he was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath from the girl and a noise from her throat. He was pleased.
Fingers stroke slowly across her collar bone and again he is amazed at the fragility of it, of how easily it could be snapped. Turning his head he could see that her eyes were closed, which would not do and he commanded her to open them. His hand moved to between her breast, to lay there above her pounding heart. If if beat much faster it would simply beat itself to death and that pleased him. Watching her parted lips tremble he was intrigued and leaned to suckle the lower one between his own, pulling and tugging on it, then biting down until he tasted the coppery taste of blood and drew a shuddering moan from the delicate little beast. Yes, it was good.
Lifting his head he stared down into those frightened eyes as his hand explored her breasts, cupping them, testing their firmness, their weight. He would tweak a nipple and watch the shock in her eyes and feel the tremble of her body and how the nub of nipple hardened more. At one point he lay his hand flat on the breast, massaging it and watched how she reacted how her throat constricted to suppress a moan.
Slowly he worked his hand over her belly, feeling the firmness of it, and how the muscles beneath the skin seemed to search for his touch. Lower and lower he went massaging, testing, teasing and the entire time, never taking his eyes from hers. The fear was there but there was something more beginning to smolder there. He would lean in, kiss the swollen lips, taking from them what he wanted and when he felt her begin to respond to his kiss he would draw back making her wait.
When his fingers brushed over the thatch of hair, just testing the softness of it, he felt her body tense and her back arch slightly off the furs and her eyes changed. The fear was there, but the desire was edging it out. Parting those sweet nether lips his finger slid along the moistness there and he got the response he desired. It is instinct in a woman to search for that touch, to crave and need it. It was just that no one had ever taken the time to train this girl in the touch of a man. She was like the fresh snow that lay outside on the ground, untouched, virgin. And wanting.
Those sweet, tender, bruised lips parted and the breath that passed from there was more ragged and the desire in her eyes divine. There is nothing more beautiful than the eyes of a woman when she is first awakening to desire and passion. His finger slipped slowly inside of her and he found that he was right. She was tight, unopened and primed. He did not go too deep, he would save that for later, but his thumb moves to that quivering little nub of nerves and flesh, dragging around it slowly, torturing her, and she responded in kind, arching to his touch. He teased and tormented her, watching her face, watching her body, seeing the heated flush flow along that soft skin. When her breathing grew more ragged and the muscles along her belly began to tighten, signaling she was about to release into the passion, he stopped.
Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and through parted lips, she begged. This was the moment he waited for, her begging for his touch, her need responding only to him. Parting her legs he crawled between those silky thighs and took his member in hand, dragging it along that silky wetness, still watching her eyes and feeling the response of her body.
His other hand moved up her body, beneath her shoulder to come around to her neck. Carefully he encircled that slender column with his fingers, and the fear came back into her eyes. The fear that she was to die at this very moment. That aroused him even further. Slowly her breeched the fortress between her legs, feeling the resistance that the virgin territory presented. Slipping a hand under her ass, he held her firm and there was not gentleness to it, there was not waiting, he simply entered her fully with one shove of his hips.
The scream that came from her caused his eyes to close as he savored it. He did have the kindness to allow her to adjust to the assault on her being, then drew back and began a steady pace of taking all of her. Removing his hand from around her neck, both hands were placed to either side of her head and his head was right over hers, watching her eyes as he plumbed the depths of her at his own pace. She became lost in what he was doing to her, her body writhing and thrashing beneath him, making the entire experience that much more sublime. When he withdrew from her abruptly, there was a moan that came from her that most would not imagine she was capable of.
He stared into her eyes, then reached beneath her and flipped her over, his hand beneath her belly lifting her to her knees. Kneeling between her spread thighs, he grasped her hips and entered her again and began an unrelenting barrage of her depths. As his passion rose, he drew back a hand and applied a firm slap to the cheek of her ass and gained much satisfaction from the redness that appeared almost immediately, and even more from the scream that sprang from her throat and the stiffening of her body.
Time and time again he applied his hand to her ass and each time he was rewarded by a renewed response to what he was doing. Her moans echoed off the walls of his wagon, and each time she rode over the brink and tightened around him, his own groans were mixed with them. Grasping her hips, he was unrelenting in his assault and when he felt his own passion build to the point of no return he reached to grab her hair, pulling her head up and released into her, filling her, feeling her throb around him.
When he was finished, he dropped her back to the furs and took deep, cleansing breaths as he watched the trembling of her body, and reached to run his hand over the heated palm prints of her flesh. She did not seem to know what to do now, and he pondered a moment as to whether to show her the kindness that could come from this moment, or to toss her out into the cold, to teach her just how abruptly it could all change.
Finally, he lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms, urging her head to lay on his chest, the hot tears cleansing his skin. Pulling the furs up, he said little. Little needed to be said.
"Now we sleep."
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Tracks
When he had reluctantly drug himself out of his furs it was still dark. Squatting by the brazier he absorbed what warmth it gave and watched the water boil for his blackwine. He ate a Spartan meal of blackwine, flat bread with butter on it and a couple of sticks of jerky. Over time, he had learned what it took to keep his body fit, and rarely indulged in excess of what was needed. His main vice was the blackwine.
The meal eaten he stands to dress for the bitter cold outside. Before he pulls the long sleeved, verr wool tunic over his head, he stops for a minute to run his fingers over the scars on his chest and shoulders his memory flashing back to where, when and how he had gotten them. For just the briefest moment a small shiver of fear raises in him only to be beaten back by the stronger part of him that is in control most of the time.
Fully dressed he steps out onto the platform and scans the area around the Ubar's wagons. Everything was quiet and dark. He knew they had returned late to their wagon because he heard the laughter and whispers as they passed by his wagon. Scanning the area again, he puts on his helm and drops the chains into place. Not because he was going into battle, but because the mail offered a some protection from the ice crystals that hung in the air. The black was still tethered to the wagon wheel and he goes to take the thick furs off its' back, adds two extra blankets then saddles the animal. Squatting in the snow, he checks all four clawed feet, working some ice out between talons with his fingers. Standing he pats the kaiila on the shoulder and hand feeds him some jerky. He has hopes that they might spot some small game today so the kaiila can have a proper meal. Pulling up into the saddle they walk slowly through the rows of wagons until they break free of them and he is able to urge the beast towards the outer perimeter of the bosk herd.
He sees a figure breaking from the edge of the herd of bosk. A mounted man, riding slowly, leaning in his saddle to look at the ground. Approaching him he rides alongside of him and looks down. Blood and the tracks of where a body has been drug through the ice and snow. He tells the outrider to go back to his patrol and to not say anything about what he has seen, or he would suffer the ire of the Ubar. Backtracking, he rode his kaiila through the tracks to obscure them. There was no need in starting a panic until he knew more.
Turning around he moves back along the tracks, walking his kaiila through them to try and destroy the evidence. He followed them over a small rise, and was not surprised in what he found. Sliding down off of Lestat, he was a more cautious of the signs and the tracks. There were few remains to investigate. It looked to probably have been a yearling calf. All that was left was a portion of the head, bits of fur and gnawed bones.
Squatting he took his helm and gloves off and was immediately regretting it. The frigid air attacked him with no mercy. Looking at the tracks, his hand dropped, fingers running around the ridges of the. There was no doubt, they were larl tracks. Had it been the tracks of one larl, it might not have chilled him so much, but there was evidence of more than one. He could make out three distinct sets of tracks, and there were possibly more. The snow had managed to obscure some of them. He was not a man that frightened easily, but larls that were hunting in a pack were more dangerous than the single animal hunting alone. A single larl could take down a man or a calf. A pack could bring down a full grown bosk or kaiila. Or more.
Almost by instinct his hand lifted to rub through the layers of cloth to the scars on his chest. His head lifted and he searched the lands looking for any other signs. Standing, he scoured the white landscape, but saw nothing. He did get an eerie feeling that he was being watched, then his ears picked it up in the distance. There was no doubting that it was the grown of a larl, once you have heard that sound, as he had, you never forget it. But it was the answering growl that sent the real chill through him. Quickly, he bent to pick up what was left of the head and carried it back to lash to his saddle to take to his brother.
When he turned Lestat back towards camp another sound came to him, an even deeper growl and grumble. The terrifying thing about it, was that it was near and the icy ground began to shake.
When he had reluctantly drug himself out of his furs it was still dark. Squatting by the brazier he absorbed what warmth it gave and watched the water boil for his blackwine. He ate a Spartan meal of blackwine, flat bread with butter on it and a couple of sticks of jerky. Over time, he had learned what it took to keep his body fit, and rarely indulged in excess of what was needed. His main vice was the blackwine.
The meal eaten he stands to dress for the bitter cold outside. Before he pulls the long sleeved, verr wool tunic over his head, he stops for a minute to run his fingers over the scars on his chest and shoulders his memory flashing back to where, when and how he had gotten them. For just the briefest moment a small shiver of fear raises in him only to be beaten back by the stronger part of him that is in control most of the time.
Fully dressed he steps out onto the platform and scans the area around the Ubar's wagons. Everything was quiet and dark. He knew they had returned late to their wagon because he heard the laughter and whispers as they passed by his wagon. Scanning the area again, he puts on his helm and drops the chains into place. Not because he was going into battle, but because the mail offered a some protection from the ice crystals that hung in the air. The black was still tethered to the wagon wheel and he goes to take the thick furs off its' back, adds two extra blankets then saddles the animal. Squatting in the snow, he checks all four clawed feet, working some ice out between talons with his fingers. Standing he pats the kaiila on the shoulder and hand feeds him some jerky. He has hopes that they might spot some small game today so the kaiila can have a proper meal. Pulling up into the saddle they walk slowly through the rows of wagons until they break free of them and he is able to urge the beast towards the outer perimeter of the bosk herd.
He sees a figure breaking from the edge of the herd of bosk. A mounted man, riding slowly, leaning in his saddle to look at the ground. Approaching him he rides alongside of him and looks down. Blood and the tracks of where a body has been drug through the ice and snow. He tells the outrider to go back to his patrol and to not say anything about what he has seen, or he would suffer the ire of the Ubar. Backtracking, he rode his kaiila through the tracks to obscure them. There was no need in starting a panic until he knew more.
Turning around he moves back along the tracks, walking his kaiila through them to try and destroy the evidence. He followed them over a small rise, and was not surprised in what he found. Sliding down off of Lestat, he was a more cautious of the signs and the tracks. There were few remains to investigate. It looked to probably have been a yearling calf. All that was left was a portion of the head, bits of fur and gnawed bones.
Squatting he took his helm and gloves off and was immediately regretting it. The frigid air attacked him with no mercy. Looking at the tracks, his hand dropped, fingers running around the ridges of the. There was no doubt, they were larl tracks. Had it been the tracks of one larl, it might not have chilled him so much, but there was evidence of more than one. He could make out three distinct sets of tracks, and there were possibly more. The snow had managed to obscure some of them. He was not a man that frightened easily, but larls that were hunting in a pack were more dangerous than the single animal hunting alone. A single larl could take down a man or a calf. A pack could bring down a full grown bosk or kaiila. Or more.
Almost by instinct his hand lifted to rub through the layers of cloth to the scars on his chest. His head lifted and he searched the lands looking for any other signs. Standing, he scoured the white landscape, but saw nothing. He did get an eerie feeling that he was being watched, then his ears picked it up in the distance. There was no doubting that it was the grown of a larl, once you have heard that sound, as he had, you never forget it. But it was the answering growl that sent the real chill through him. Quickly, he bent to pick up what was left of the head and carried it back to lash to his saddle to take to his brother.
When he turned Lestat back towards camp another sound came to him, an even deeper growl and grumble. The terrifying thing about it, was that it was near and the icy ground began to shake.
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