《The Crimson Sand》 Chapter 1 According to the legends of the Jurii Clan, the Baasei desert stretched on for eternity. The crimson glare of the sun had seared, singed the rolling dunes of the north and the flat expanses of the south (where the Jurii resided) for so long that the sand had turned a vivid shade of deep, ruddy brown. Its beams reached every boulder, every outcrop, every minuscule nook or cranny. It bore no shackles, no restraints, as it never rose or set. The heat was relentless, but life was indomitable. From specks of sand it had grown, merging with hundreds and thousands of others until it formed a foot and a hand and a finger, and then eventually, a human. At first, it crawled and hid from the sun''s onslaught in whatever shelter it could find, and yowled, cried in helpless despair. But the Baasei was merciful. It granted the human the oasis, with water to drink, and the Soers, the sand grazers, as food to eat. The human thanked the desert, jubilant at the gifts, and proclaimed itself the Baasei''s humble servant. It swore to pass on the story of the desert''s kindness to all of its descendants, and pray for every sacred Soer they killed, and every sip of water they took. The Jurii has continued the tradition ever since. S''tai thought it was a load of old nonsense. He was crouched down on the sand, muscles tense in nervous anticipation. His hazel eyes were narrowed down to slits, patient and focused, strained on the flank of his prey. His approach had been deathly silent: each step was taken with the greatest care, for even the slightest disturbance of a stone under foot would send vibrations shooting through the ground, unnoticeable to a hunter but more than enough to alert the herd to his presence. It was a skill one could learn only through rigorous practice, and that practice was all but mandatory, unless you harbored a death wish. S''tai had devoted the time willingly and with all the fervour of the rest of his huntmates. He was confident in his abilities but the trepidation of a kill would set even the most accomplished Riua elder on edge. The Soer he''d singled out stood a good few steps away from the main body of sand grazers. It was a male, obvious from the vibrant hue of rich oranges and greens that comprised its hind pelt, though this mass of fur soon faded into smooth, oily skin as it reached the curve of the neck. Each individual had its own unique colourisation. It was pivotal for attracting a mate, and evidence of their masculine maturity. The females were devoid of this feature, thus often making it a challenge for hunters to differentiate between them. Once, S''tai recalled, he had begun stalking a female he''d identified as sickly, only to completely lose sight of her in the throng of the herd. But there was no mistaking this one. The enormous tusked head was bowed, and the long, jet-black tongue slowly extended to the dirt, lapping it up for the nutrients the Soer gorged themselves upon. He inhaled, exhaled, then recalculated the gap between himself and the male. An adequate throwing distance, certainly. He''d taken time to move downwind before drawing closer, ensuring that they wouldn''t pick up on his scent. Beads of sweat trickled down from his forehead and the sweeping dark hair all the way to his bare chest, but the sensation was so familiar to S''tai it hardly registered to him. The fingers of his right hand closed around the hilt of his Uerao, and slowly he drew it from the sheath attached to his loincloth. The blade of sharpened stone glistened, almost incandescent in the sun. It would be a fine catch, and any Jurii hunter would deem the pelt worthy for display on their garments- a symbol, a reminder of the prowess required to take down such sizeable prey. S''tai pushed the thought from his mind. Not wanting to delay any longer, he coiled back, holding the Uerao close to his waist. The Soer lifted its head, still unaware of the impending threat. It blinked, and craned its neck to the left. Convenient for S''tai, for it exposed the Soer''s most vulnerable and widely exploited weakness; a writhing blue nerve between the neck and shoulder, the severing of which shattered the connection between mind and limb, immobilising a supposed victim in an instant. Sensing the oppurtunity, he sprung to life, a moment faster than he''d initially intended. The Uerao flew from his palm in a looping arc, twisting sharply in mid air. An earsplitting squeal of shock and pain ripped through his eardrums. S''tai cursed, aghast as he watched the herd begin their instinctive charge to the horizon, followed in desperate pursuit by his prey. He''d missed the nerve, but the blade had served its purpose, deeply embedding itself in the flesh and leaving a trail of fluorescent yellow blood for him to chase. He leaped to his feet, spurred on by instinct and frustration at his own impetuosity. It quickly became evident why the Jurii relied on stealth to survive in the cradle of the Baasei. In a flurry of panic, the Soer herd tore away from him with ease, their taloned hooves propelling them forward at a far superior pace. Nonetheless, the figure of the mortally injured male lagged behind, unable to move or react accordingly to the significant blood loss it was already being forced to endure. Reason told S''tai that the escape was only temporary, and soon the Soer would collapse to the ground, too weak and exhausted to offer meaningful resistance against the inevitable. He slowed to a jog, and then to a walk, but kept his stare fixated on the spasms of gore spattering the ground, all but assured of his success. The exhilaration of hunting had muffled the unpleasant hunger writhing in his stomach, but in tandem with the fall of his adrenaline he felt it return, more present than before. It was like a disease, festering in his stomach, malignant and spreading fast. This kill had been a lengthy process: locating the telltale evidence of a Soer herd had taken longer than he''d anticipated, and tracking it down longer still. The fruits of his labour were sweet yet brief, and soon S''tai would be forced to begin the exhausting cycle all over again. There was no rest in the Baasei. Life, he mused, was an unabating struggle, yet one so repetitive that the threat of severe dehydration, of starvation, of death at the hands of the Jurii, were as regular to him as breathing, and the sand beneath his feet. This area was the border to the tribe''s sacred hunting grounds, a fact which he''d been conscious and extremely wary of upon entering. The Jurii had little tolerance for intruders.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The sound of stampeding hooves began to fade away into rumbling echoes. S''tai had lost sight of them, his vision impaired by the assaulting blizzard of dust they''d left in their wake. He rubbed his stinging hazel eyes with the back of his arm. The terrain never hesitated to throw up its next life endangering hindrance- if the heat weren''t a formiddable adversary enough, the desert would send forth bellowing sandstorms to buffet and jacknife, and then, when its victim was at their weakest, it would conjure illusions, tricks and traps set to ensnare the mind and claim the body for its own. The hunter wondered when the desert had lost its splendour. Had their not been a time when S''tai had glanced upon the landscape and seen a merciless yet seductive beauty? Now, he saw only its desolation. That youthful perception had evaporated along with the innocence of youth, like droplets of water on the dirt. Fleeting glimpses, memories, of the boy that''s eyes widened in astonishment at each new wonder revealed to him by his mentor, terrified of the dangers they posed but equally determined to conquer, to make them his most coveted trophies. The time he first wielded his Uerao. The time he left camp on his first hunting patrol. The smothering cloud subsided gradually, once again granting him a clearer view of the hoof prints and blood imprinted on the sand. There was the slightest of winds brushing past his ankles, lugging the desert along as if itself were sentient and following the herd with every intention of challenging him for his catch. He looked up, and upon tilting his head to the left his eyes widened in surprise. Standing tall and defiant, having emerged seemingly from nowhere in the midst of the enshrouding dust, obtruded an enormous rocky crop. His failure to notice something so huge and pronounced perplexed him, but the hunting of Soer demanded a state of total concentration, wherein he was aware but unaware, alert and subdued. His surroundings fell by the wayside until it was only him and his prey, locked in the intricate dance of life and death, and the whole world was merely their audience. Strange, for something in the coarse, rugged surface of the stone called up a sense of vague recognition in S''tai. The hunts of his adolescence had rarely ventured so close to the frontier, and it seemed unlikely this specific bulk of rock, considering its mundanity, would carve an ident into his memory. Nonetheless, the deep crevices apparent even from afar succeeded in capturing his attention, and his eyes rose up to its peak, far narrower than the structure''s base. Up ahead, the trail began to twist, then veer sharply in the direction of the outcrop, drawing S''tai closer. The reach of its shadow was minimal but would nonetheless provide an ideal spot to rest and, at long last, shut his eyes. Tempted by the mere prospect, he quickened his steps, resolving to collect all that he required from his prey and then return. The brown hunting pouch that hung loosely over his shoulder was half empty, now filled only by his bare essentials; he''d been forced to abandon all the meat reserved from his previous kill, after the telling scent of its decay had began to settle under his nostrils. The Soer were huge creatures, nimble for their flight but well muscled for their mating standoffs, rendering it impossible for him to utilise all that their bodies offered, as the Jurii prized themselves for. The glistening white tusks were sharp enough for an impromptu weapon. The skin and fur were not only the fodder for the hunter''s trophies, but also a necessity for encampment sheets, water vessels like the one dangling from his waist and a thousand other particulars of tribe life. The dim shade splashed over his cheek as he reached its foot, and S''tai sighed in blissful relief. Throughout his life, he''d been forced to grow accustomed to the burning sensation that boiled just below his skin. He feared he would never reach such a tense, grudging stalemate with the persistent itchiness that accompanied it, however. The sudden fall in temperature also served as a jarring reminder of the dryness on his tongue, but to an outlander water was always in short supply, and there was no need to waste the healthy amount he''d managed to conserve on the hunt so far. S''tai allowed himself to sink down to his knees, brushing his hair back, lulled so quickly and deeply by the discovery of shelter that the dark shape to his side, partly obscurred by the bend of the stone, initially went unseen. At first glimpse, he thought it the corpse of an unfortunate Soer, its life taken by the elements or the hands of another hunter. But as his gaze lingered, he noticed the slimness of the frame, the skin of a complexion too light to be that of prey and the hair, spilling out like blackened sunbeams. Cinders of realisation sparked within. This was another of his kind. His breath hitched in his throat, and he quickly adopted an intuitive defensive pose. He reached for his scabbard, then cursed at the absence of the blade it should''ve encased. The reaction stemmed from the possible proximity of a Jurii patrol: it was against their code of honour to abandon a huntmate, and should one of them sustain an injury, they would remain, protective and dilligent, until they either pulled through or passed on. S''tai considered the scene before him. There was no one visible nearby (as he neared the outcrop any Jurii would''ve made their presence well known), which meant that, should this indeed by a hunter, they were almost certainly dead, or soon to be. Some of the catapulting nerves in his stomach began to settle. No. It stood to reason this was the final resting place of another outlander, like himself. S''tai, still plagued by apprehension, edged towards the shape with the caution of a young suckling, taking their first steps away from the warm and comforting caress of their mother''s bedding. To him, anyone foolish enough to be conquered by the Baasei prematurely deserved their fate, and whatever equipment they could gift before embarking to the camp of the sky would be better employed by one more capable. Namely, the hunter lucky enough to stumble upon their remains. Yet these were not remains. S''tai''s footsteps slowed, became more cautionary, until he stopped and squatted directly beside the body. Over the whistle of the wind came the barely audible sound of breathing, heaving, despairing pants. He''d been wrong. This was a member of the Jurii. A huntress. Her cheek was pressed flat against the sand, dirtying the hair which up close revealed itself to be, in truth, a deep brunette, and encrusting her sunburnt skin. She had collapsed, apparently from fatigue, if her sprawled arms and legs were any indication. The muscles were well toned, her figure curved and full. Young. Close to his age, S''tai estimated. He reached forward, ever so gently brushing a lock of matted hair aside, revealing her face to him fully. The Soer blood marking that set apart the Jurii who''d passed their K''uve, the initiation hunt, streaked down from the scalp to the refined bridge of her nose. Two streaks of scarlet that S''tai had never quite merited. Watery blue eyes fluttered open and closed repeatedly, and the mouth, the chapped red lips, were slightly parted. He felt the weight of her breath on his hand, breath that morphed to something almost incomprehensible on her tongue. He strained his ears to pick it up. ''Idrae...'' Chapter 2 The chrytho lies amongst the dulling stone, A single glimmer barely seen by most, Beside such sombre grey it seems alone, And thus all its surroundings stare, engrossed. It fails to fit or bend to nature''s will, An imperfection, clear and bright as day, And so the world shall view it thus until One finally sees the colour, not the grey. Its difference boasts a wonder that beguiles, And helps one''s eyes to see another shade, The ignorant must mock and shall revile, Yet chrytho shalt not listen, lest it fade. See now, the jewel that love had once forsook? To see her beauty one need only look. Lady Yresta the 64th of the Felizco ran her fingertips down the soiled page and, as she''d done dozens of times previously, smiled blissfully. She couldn''t quite recall where or when she''d been upon reading Sonetta 376 for the first time, or how she''d first reacted, but now the idea of not being aware of and adoring these 14 lines, strung together by that immaculate use of iambic pentameter, seemed close to unfathomable. It had certainly been her favourite poem before the term she''d spent studying it at the Rabousshe Academy, and immersing herself even further in the details of the metaphor that lay at its heart. How simple a concept, to liken the object of one''s affections to the currency of their society. So simple, and yet so profound. Had it come to Miss Ovarta in a sudden epiphany, or had it taken month upon month to come to fuitition, slowly and arduously, in the boundlessly fertile womb of her imagination? Had she realised the influence it would have on poets for generations to come, poets who would never come close to matching her wonderful talent for verse ever again? The story of Miss Ovarta''s incredible rise to fame was well documented, and one that fascinated Lady Yresta. It was astonishingly rare for a commoner to establish themselves in the Arabou court on merit alone- she''d had no patron, no one to vouch for her abilities, yet the 29th Queen of the Felizco had been intrigued by the rumours of a poet whose abilities far exceeded that of her current favourites and requested a copy of one of her manuscripts. It had been the prelude to her now famous epic poem, The Beginning of All, which described the tale of the Felizco''s genesis; how they''d been given life by the breath of the Mountain, weary of its age and solitude, which layed the foundations for the Citadel in its stomach and the chrytho deposits beneath their feet. Astounded, she''d quickly requested Miss Ovarta''s audience, and blessed her with the esteemed position of Debaur''e. Thus began the most prolific decade of her life- with the adoration of the Queen and the jealousy of all the court at her feet, she''d composed her 1000 Sonettas, cementing her place as the defining poet of all Felizcian literature. The First Unabridged Collection of Miss Ovarta''s work was published posthumously. It was the highest selling book in history excluding the Holy Paesterh, and one of those millions of copies was currently lying in Lady Yresta''s lap. She''d come to the conclusion, after a lifetime of deliberation, that her favourite stanza was the first. It was something intangible in the rhyme, in the rhythm, in the sibilance which many an academic had speculated on the purpose of, that she could never quite pinpoint. The works of Miss Ovarta had, incidentally, been turned into a fourteen hour long Operuia, though she''d always found the melody used for Sonetta 376 somewhat unsatisfying; then again, she mused, even the purest of melodies would fail to capture the beauty of these transfixing words. The very nature of love was elusive, but this was the closest any Felizcian had come to pinning it down, to trapping it in pen and ink. Not that she would know. Love. Now there was a mystery. This was a concept so gargantuan that Lady Yresta thought it awfully inappropriate to describe with such a tiny, four letter word as "love". The Mothers of the Yustea often preached of what set their species apart from the winged beasts lingering in the depths of the Mountain. It was their intellect, the unyielding strength of their faith and, most importantly, the intensity of their emotions and empathy for each other. No primitive savage from the surrounding desert could be capable of love, they argued; yet another reason for them to remain confined in the embrace of their Creator instead of bracing that frontier (call her regressive, but Lady Yresta viewed the newly emerging theory of "evolution" and indeed the expansion of their boundaries with thinly veiled skepticism). She tore her eyes away from the book, looking out to the balcony on the right of her stone chambers. The two torches, bathing the room in a flickering red, stood beside her queen-sized bedposts, and their light waltzed on the glass of the window. The view of the Citadel was magnificent, yet she''d glanced down at the winding streets so many times that even a sight as breathtaking as this had become dull and monotonous. She knew that a sea of fire akin to that beside her lit up each district, such as the chrytho mines and banks on the outskirts, and the suburbs of the middle class. As one approached the centre the glamour gave way to impoverishment, the vile reek of the ever-growing slums and the terraced stone housing of those working long hours for a pittance. The expendable victims of society, required to keep the cogs of factories, of markets, of academies turning. Despite their sheer numbers, there were never enough to satisfy the unquenchable demand for labour, hence their growing slave population, transported across the desert and shoved, bound and gagged, down the marble steps that connected the jaw of the Mountain to the Citadel below. The enormity of this stairway, fashioned by the Felizco''s ancestors, was exceeded only by its opposite number: the Gate of the Arabou, guarded by permanent sentries of the Stone Guard. The Arabou court, residence of their Queen, towered above all, and Lady Yresta''s occupancy of one of the 100 rooms the palace rested solely on the favour of her gracious monarch. Such was the transience of the Debaurs. Should anyone inquire as to her feelings towards this magnificent palace, Lady Yresta would undoubtedly declare that she was "in love". Was this not an inaccurate use of the word? Would fondness, for the understated yet elegant architecture and indulgent splendour of their balls and banquets not be more suitable, or were they one and the same? The latest edition of the Rabousshe Felizcian Dictionary defined it simply as "a strong feeling of affection", which struck her as rather flawed, for not only did it assume the reader''s understanding of a synonym as equally blurred in its meaning, but it compounded the love of family, of platonic friendship, and of romance without bothering to differentiate between them either. On all three, Lady Yresta felt woefully uneducated, which never failed to irritate her. She prided herself on being exemplary. She''d studied industriously, tenaciously, throughout her adolescence at Rabousshe, applying herself to the best of her abilities even in the subjects and for the stuffy professors she loathed. She''d graduated and taken her well-deserved position in the court with straight 12s- why they''d felt the need to change the previous system of letter orientated attainment still bewildered her- and quickly established herself as an upcoming poet of staggering potential. That had been five years ago. Now, she was 23. A similar age to when her idol''s literary career begun to spread its wings, not that she had such arrogant illusions of her own grandeur. Her ego was of, or so she''d like to think, a healty inflation. Confidence led to popularity, likeability and acclaim from the vultures referred to as artistic critics, but cockiness led to ridicule in the court, as many foolish Debaurs had proven. But how she wished her abilities reached those lofty heights. It was a lifelong ambition to achieve the position of Debaur''e, but she feared her queen''s obvious preference for music would impede a personal betterment of this kind. She sighed, and turned the page over to Sonetta 377. Last night a prince did grace my- A knock rung out. ''Lady Yresta? May I enter?'' ''Of course,'' she replied dismissively, not even looking up as a woman slightly older than herself gently pushed the thinned stone door aside.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. She was clad in a disgusting chalk-white frock and shoeless, both indicative of her lowly rank. This was her personal chambermaid, assigned to Lady Yresta, as was traditional, at the moment of her birth from one of the Citadel''s numerous orphanages. Her entry was expected and routine. First, she would draw the curtains and make up her fourposter, then prepare and undress her mistress, helping her bathe should it have been the final night of the week. Lady Yresta thought it a testimont to her inexhaustible generosity to those who did not necessarily deserve it that she allowed her chambermaid to speak. The practice was unheard of in the court, and though she liked to hint that this break of convention stemmed solely from her own kindness, it was in actuality a decision she''d made in her youth out of that sparkling curiosity possessed only by children. Had she the oppurtunity to reverse this choice she certainly would, for conversation between them, no matter how inconsequential, suggested a familiarity that she wasn''t entirely comfortable with. It didn''t help that her chambermaid never quite adopted the persona of submission and passivity that was proper. She wasn''t rude or disrespectful, but maintained a certain degree of dignity, only dipping her head when directly addressed and even being so bold as to tease her (though she only ever received a sharp reprimand in response). ''Good afternoon, my Lady,'' she said, walking over to her window. ''I trust your day has been pleasant?'' Lady Yresta didn''t answer. She wasn''t in a polite enough mood to indulge her chambermaid''s boldness. ''Ah,'' she murmured, drawing her curtains and adamantly refusing to take the hint. ''Are you still having issues wi-'' ''You''d be wise not to intrude on your mistress'' business.'' She didn''t regret the bluntness, mostly because her chambermaid''s words rung with a hateful truth. Over the past few months, her usually free-flowing stream of inspiration had slowed from a cascade to a trickle. She worried that this foreshadowed a case of total Writer''s Block, and positions had been lost in the Arabou court as a result of the dreaded hinderance, should it be longlasting. Never before had she been forced to toil into the night, where the torches of the Citadel were extinguished like the deep Mountain fireflies in the mines, to finish her work. She loved her poetry, as anyone loved that which was familiar; this was her first experience of writing without pleasure, or relief, or excitement. This was the first instance where her natural talent had not seen her through, and it was the blood, sweat and tears that shoved her hastily through the worst. The concept for the project had been conceived at a ball held in celebration of the queen''s birthday- a typically lavish affair, with no expenses spare by any of its guests, as was the expectation. They''d laughed and danced the traditional Borauq, a dance that was slow and provocative and fastidiously sensual, designed for lovers. As the Rabousshe''s contemporary tutor had once disclosed to her as if were not painstakingly obvious, it was an allusion to the act of procreation. There were no male partners, of course, so the Debaurs treated it as something of a joke. Lady Yresta always found herself laughing, swept up by the raucous absurdity of several dozen well educated aristocats behaving so common, but in its breathless aftermath, when she''d returned to her quarters, she''d been hit with a stark reminder of why they all enjoyed it so in her humiliating sexual arousal. The heat had raged between legs, encircling her like a frenzied inferno, but she''d restrained herself. It was repulsive, to find her body so attuned to what should only be appealing to those of the... queer inclination. And illegal, she might add. But it provided the inspiration for a dramatic monolage. It was narrated by a nameless participant in one of these Borauq''s, and at its publication a week ago, she''d been dreadfully worried if the physical undertones she''d strived so hard to keep as undertones would come across too blatant. It was one of the oldest challenges of the Debaurs: their work couldn''t be so formulaic as to be forgettable, but couldn''t be so esoteric as to be difficult. It was once a century that a poet, musician or dramatist came along who managed to bridge this divide, and appeal to both the simple audience of the Citadel below and the aristic stuffiness of the Arabou. She''d recited the poem, entitled simply "The Dance", at the latest Soiregh verse reading in the palace as carelessly as ever, however, and its reception thus far had been positive. Very positive, in fact. It seemed to Lady Yresta as if she should have more faith in her reputation. Lady Yresta returned to ignoring her chambermaid as she carried out her chores. Reading the works of Miss Ovarta was, for her, a well paved and reliable route to inspiration, and she certainly felt inspired, but the thoughts adamantly refused to translate, to correlate onto the blank parchment beside her. The black feathered quill stood in its ink pot on her bedside table, untouched. ''Hurry up,'' she snapped, grateful for the conveniently placed buffer for her exasperation. The brunette''s movements became hastier, but a disapproving frown remained etched on her lips. Lady Yresta felt like rebuking it, but chose not to. There were more effective methods of getting under her chambermaid''s skin. In a more forgiving temper, Lady Yresta might''ve looked upon the hair that, if it were subjected to a much needed combing, and those arresting green eyes and grudgingly admitted they boasted an element of womanly charm. Nothing comparable to herself, of course. Where she was curvacious and alluring, her chambermaid was flat and angular. The years of luxury had been generous to the Debaur, and the silken blonde hair so many had glanced upon appraisingly clawed down at her waist, should it be allowed to roam free down her narrow shoulderbades. She was fully aware that she was beautiful (one would find it exceedigly difficult not to notice) and knew with an intrinsic awareness how to flounce it. How to choose the dress that clutched her figure in all the striking places, in order to get what she desired. Her professors, many of them old and nearly all of them virginal, had never protested to her staying behind when all the other students had been dismissed (any sexual attention, even from the same sex, was warmly welcomed), when the need for such persuasion arose. The brunette wouldn''t know how to dress favourably even if the oppurtunity presented itself. Indeed, she sometimes mused over whether her chambermaid curved inward, an assessment brought about the existence, or rather nonexistence, of her bust. After finishing with the curtains, the brunette turned to address her mistress, and for a heartbeat her gaze settled on Lady Yresta''s long, slender legs, partly exposed by the cut of her dress (a lilac sewn from a fine chyrtho amalgation). She smiled at the latest hint of these pitifully misplaced affections. At first, she''d been unsettled by the discovery that her chambermaid harboured feelings of this strength and depth, but more so by the knowledge that the only person ever to see her in her undergarments would find the experience arousing as opposed to any false sense of modesty. Now, she was somewhat grateful, for it gave her an influence over the servant that, no matter how disrespectful her actions, she would never quite be able to escape from. The blonde pretended to stretch, fully revealing the smooth, pale skin of her thigh. Her chambermaid coloured, and Lady Yresta had to suppress a grin. ''Um... shall... may I-'' she stammered. ''Prepare me for bed? Undress me?'' Another shade darker. Revelling in the discomfort settling over the room like a cloud of pillowing smoke, she got to her feet, gently placing the book on the covers of the bed, and faced the opposite direction. She knew that the favourable light would cut straight through the thinness of the fabric desperately clinging to her shoulders, leaving her back bare. She''d already taken the liberty of removing the obligatory corset- why had that dreaded item of clothing come back into fashion?- yet without it she felt strangely naked. All the better, she supposed. ''Well?'' She heard a swallow, and Lady Yresta thought she might temper to disobey, but then cold, clammy palms touched the crook of her neck and she shivered. Hesitation. Then, they continued, grasping the dress and undoing the buttons located at the bottom of her spine, pulling it lower, past the shoulders and past the level of her breasts. She feigned a stretch once more, twisting her frame slightly to the right. Her chambermaid''s fingers begun to tremour at the sight; Lady Yresta smiled, imagining the wholly satisfying look of embarassment on her no doubt flushed cheeks. Nonetheless, she mustered the strength, though with little dignity, to drop the crytho fashioned garment down to the floor and remove it from around her mistress'' legs. Then, she reached behind and replaced it with a white nightdress, previously strewn over the side of the bedsheets. Lady Yresta stepped into it slowly, allowing her far more time than was necessary to observe, to notice, and waited until it was pulled up and retightened around her waist. The fingers brushed lightly against the skin along her back, sending goosebumps shooting across the Debaur''s skin, shivering, quivering in the light''s illuminative glow. ''That will be all,'' the blonde all but crooned, breathlessly. Her chambermaid nodded, not meeting her eyes, before leaving the room with her legs held close together. Lady Yresta laughed. Chapter 3: When S''tai returned to the outcrop, his huntng pouch had been replenished with the rich pickings of his kill. The musty, pleasant scent of its spilled innards persisted, coating the air. The Soer hadn''t mustered the energy to run much further, and the herd, displaying none of the stubborn loyalty and honour the Jurii valued so highly, had abandoned it to fall to the dirt, the yellow blood now blemishing his fingers trickling from its fatally wounded neck. This was, of course, relative to the incredible stamina these creatures possessed. It always struck S''tai how an animal could appear so bizarre and ungainly, with its disproportionate features and muscles that jutted out along towards the bottom of its hooves, and yet move with such astonishing speed. Its unelegant size and thew, almost paradoxically, was what granted them the strength to trample a hunter who''d unwittingly come within striking distance, and streak away in tandem with their herd when danger arose. Upon skinning the beast, it was all the more evident. S''tai had never been squeamish, but the sight of bloodied arteries as he cut dirty yellow flesh from bone, taking extra care along the thighs where the meat was softer, would surely send a shiver down the spine of an onlooker that was unfamiliar with the process. He''d also taken the precaution of cutting one of its tusks away; the extra weight pushed down heavily on his back. The huntress, though still donning the traditional garb of a Jurii warrior, had been stripped of all her weaponry. The whole situation, in his eyes, was distinctly unusual, and it was instinctive for him to be wary of what he could not comprehend. After resolving to retrieve his catch before taking any further action, he''d shifted the woman over to the edge of the outcrop, leaning her back against the surface of the stone while she moaned and grunted unintelligibly. Always the same name, over and over and over. Idrae. The name was one of the most common in Jurii culture- the sun, it meant. It was used for men and women alike, but considering the ringlet of stone pierced through her left ear, indicating to him she''d already found her Siseuf, S''tai thought it likely to belong to a hunter. He''d been surprised upon discovery of the ringlet. The Jurii''s mating ritual was permanent, and not one to be taken likely: the penalty for adultery, for the breaking of their sacred vow of bonding upon the Baasei''s name, was execution via quartering. Siseufs did everything together; they joined each other''s hunting patrols, ate and drank together, danced in worship by the fires together. The connection required between both needed to be unyielding. As strong and intense as the sun''s wondrous beams. Many hunters and huntresses, after completion of their K''uve, laid with each other, but it was rare for someone so young to undergo the ritual. Typically, it was considered the final trophy of an older, more distinguished member of the tribe, and a symbol to their tribe-mates they thought it time for personal ascension to greater pastures of authority. Even stranger were her ugly, noticeable wounds. As he kneeled down beside her frame, his eyes scanned over them, and once again he noted the lack of any true penetrative cut on her skin. If she were attacked by anyone knowledgable of the Jurii''s killing techniques, as most outcasts and bandit hordes were, she would not have escaped with her life. Hunters threw their Uerao''s for the vulnerable areas that woul only result in the death of their target. The neck. The heart. Perhaps the legs, if the intention was to prevent escape. The only injuries sustained around the latter were minor grazes. The kind one would receive if they were running from something or someone and, in the process, fell to the unflinching sand. The most potentially damaging writhed at the top of her right shoulder, where the skin, in a mess of puss and dried blood, appeared to have been scorched black. The only weapon capable of such damage he knew of were fire arrows, shot from bows only forged and granted to the Riuas. He thought it unlikely an Riau would turn on their own tribemate. If they had, she certainly wouldn''t have lived to tell the tale. ''Idrae...'' He reached into his pouch, pushing aside the tusk until his fingers closed around his canteen, now also of a more of a satisfying weight due to his kill. The Soer''s second stomach, located beneath its considerably larger counterpart, employed solely for the sparing and hopefully lasting retention of water like the Garhuo plants located north of the Jurii''s territory, had contained more than enough for a full refill. S''tai didn''t plan on wasting a single drop, but if the huntress was to survive for longer than a few more hours then she needed water, and quickly. She was already in a state of patent dehydration.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Nonetheless, it wasn''t a sense of happiness deriving from the kindness of his actions that had spurred him to return to the outcrop after this unlikely discovery. The ony way he could justify this somewhat uncharacteristic display of pity was the indoctrenated Jurii code of honour that still lingered, etched like a sand carving into the marrow of his bones. Even as the precious droplets of fluid escaped from the mouth of the vessel and splashed onto chapped red lips, the urge to withdraw and leave her to be consumed by the Baasei, fading like distant memories on the spiralling wind, adamantly refused to stop pestering him. Suvival was not a priviledge or a right. It was a gift, earnt with each stolen breath, each fleeting moment, each light footstep on the sand. For whatever reason, this Jurii huntress appeared to have been attacked or forsaken by her hunt-mates; it was not his place to intervene, as he, in turn, had been forsaken by her tribe. He shouldn''t care. He was Jurii no longer. He was no longer bound by their foolish codes, or burdened by their faith in the ridiculous concept of the divine Baasei. But he could not deny that he now bore a circumstancial responsibility for her. Their paths had crossed completely by chance, and the huntress would die if he did not take action. Obligation. It crossed his mind how quickly she would''ve abandoned him if they''re positions were reversed. Perhaps it was best that, to this notion, he turned a blind eye. She moaned, providing S''tai with a distraction from his musings. He withdrew the canteen, unwilling to sacrifice any more, and lightly slapped her right cheek, hoping to revive her from her half-delirious state. ''Idrae...'' ''S''tai asks if you can hear him?'' he grunted questioningly. No reply. ''S''tai wishes you to speak.'' ''Idrae...'' He looked away, frustrated. His choice seemed to be becoming more regrettable, more apparently futile, by the second. Being fully aware how luck had decided he wasn''t worth the time thus far, was expending needless time and effort on what could easily be a lost cause only tempting another show of its indifference towards him? He stood to gain nothing, unless you counted some indiscernible moral comfort as substantial, which S''tai certainly didn''t. There was every chance this huntress wouldn''t last another hour. An hour passed. The huntress didn''t pass on, and he didn''t leave. He occupied the time by, despite his better judgement, granting her additional sips from his vessel. Upon closer inspection, he noted there was a lack of evidence in the area suggesting a large scuffle or fight. No other bodies. No other bloodtrails excluding the huntress'' own, the majority of which had already been lost to the Baasei. He followed it round the outcrop, then watched disparagingly as a particularly strong gust of wind rushed past him at full pelt, effectively blowing away the few remaining footprints in the sand. The fight, if he was correct in assuming one had taken place, could only have transpired some distance away. The thought faded as he circled back round and saw, to his shock, a cough erupt from the huntress'' throat. She was resting her arm against the rock, pulling herself up to a seating position. He rushed to her side and knealt at her side. ''S''tai asks you not to move,'' he said, again reaching for his water vessel. She didn''t reply, and didn''t look up. The only sign that she''d heard him at all came when, with an almost petulant reluctance, she rested herself back down against the stone. He knew she''d be too weak to make any sudden movements, let alone get up to her feet, until her sunburn had died down and her wounds treated (or rather, treated as much as his limited medicinal knowledge would allow). There was a moment of palpable tension. S''tai''s muscles suddenly felt stiff, his nerves alert, his eyes darting back to the burn wounds on her shoulder. The scowl contorting her features told him they were just as uncomfortable as they looked. ''S''tai asks to know your name?'' ''... Resuraa.'' S''tai was absolutely certain this wasn''t her name. It had been silly for him to assume a Jurii would impart something as personal as their name at a moment''s notice. And to an outlander at that. In truth, he shouldn''t have done so either. ''S''tai asks where your hunt-mates are?'' he ventured. Instead of replying in the same rasping whisper as before, she reached out for the water vessel. He hesitated. ''One sip. No more.'' She did so, never granting him a clear view of her face. His pupils narrowed. The blatant show of disrespect was one he''d grown used to in his encounters with the Jurii tribe since his exile. ''S''tai will find some Fuere plants to dress your wounds in awhile,'' he told her, getting back to his feet. ''There is a Soer corpse S''tai killed nearby. If you are hungry, S''tai will collect you some more food.'' He was used to silence in the Baasei, but on this occasion, it cut a little deeper than he''d be willing to admit.