If you stand upon the docks at the right hour, you are present at her arrival.

The ship, its name wiped from your memory by the sight you do see, has but now drawn up and made fast. The gangplank lowered, the first off the ship is one well wrapped in a heavy cloak. Naught shows, but a face, yet even that is not needed to tell you the one within the cloak is a woman; her walk does that. This is not the roll of a sailor's "sea legs", but a wide and sensuously-smooth swing of full hips. The steps are slow, careful, in a near-liquid glide.

Ah, but her face does show from out the close-wrapped hood; her face, and but a pair of midnight tendrils framing it and falling to her waist. Her face is dusky, her glittering eyes as dark as her hair, her full soft mouth set in a quirk of amusement, as she looks over the dock. This one, you can tell, is from the far desert lands, said to be the home of beauties who dance in grace and heat.

Noting your riveted interest, she raises one dark brow. Her look to you is cool, but the heat of her desert home is behind it. She turns her head to look over her shoulder, momentarily revealing her smooth neck to your glance. A young sailor, scarce past being a cabin boy, appears and descends the gangplank, carrying a large chest, the repository of her possessions. She smiles upon him, and he grins inanely, eyes locked on her. She turns to the docks again, smile transforming to smirk, knowing the youth is captive to her beauty. She walks to the foot of the gangplank, and turns, making for her destination. Her moves show the fiery grace she brings to her dancing is only banked, not extinguished.

Your eyes are captured by her grace, your soul by her heat and untamed sensuality, as she leaves your sight.