Topic: Hunting Wolves With Silks And Bells (Mature 18+)

ghetra · Date: 2012-10-20 13:14 EST

The skies were brooding in their shades of grey. And though thunder rumbled on the horizon where the great mountain range stood with its jagged crown to the north, there was more of a chance for sleet and snow than there was for rain. The north was where the Hel'Murein tribe ruled by Mril Ut?Noren, lived and usually died. They were a people known for jewels dug up out of the caves of the mountains and for living in long, thick-walled wooden houses that kept them all the warmer in the Dying Season of the winter months.

It was said that the people of the Hel'Murein tribe spoke to the white owls and walked in dreams with the wolves. But some suspect those who said as much were just jealous for the men having more than one wife to keep their numbers large and strong.

Ghetra preferred warmer lands, like the plains and forests where the Se?Leqi peoples mostly roamed in their tents as the nomads they had always been. The plains and forests in the regions to the south were still too warm for snow and the slave stood on a knoll to get a better look to the north again. She faced the wind and felt it pull at her hair for attention, whipping it about like a colt in a trotting run. The rope of the leathered animal bladder was held so that she did not drop it to the ground and spill the water out of it she had just filled it with.

She smelled the change of season on that wind and closed her eyes to relished the breeze rushing over the flesh of her bare, taut stomach and her arms and neck. Work leathers were worn in two pieces with a breast-hugging halter at the top and a skirt at her hips. They were not attractive in the opinions of many and were never meant to be since she wore them for the more laborious and messy tasks of gutting and skinning animals, tanning leathers, and gathering food and water in them.

"You are smiling, ghetra. What is it you are thinking of?"

His voice drew her out of her muted reverie. It was as familiar as the sound of the wind in the trees and against hip-high, golden and green grasses of the great plains. She bent her knees and brought herself down upon them. It was not as swift an action as she would have done had the tones of his voice been anything close to anger or intent. The water skin was put to the rocky ground before her knees and she did not allow the leather covered curve of her bottom to settle completely to her feet or to the dirt and grass.

Gracus u'Lor and ghetra
(Click picture to enlarge)

http://i599.photobucket.com/albums/tt74/ISjiraI/Gracus_ghetra_zpsxzh8x5mx.jpg

ghetra · Date: 2012-10-20 13:16 EST

With her head down and her gaze to send a look left, then to the right, she watched him at the level of his boots while she gave him the reply. She tried very hard not to pout or to whine though she did want to thrash at the thought of it all. "There is no want to go to the North, Master."

Gracus u'Lor frowned down at the dark head of hair belonging to one of those who served the tents of Se'Leqi. There was a hint of displeasure in his voice, but it was still as far away as the thunder that rolled on the distant horizon. "Your wants are not considered in this, ghetra. You know that they rarely are." He was near enough, within arm's reach, to do her great harm, but instead he came to a standstill at the right of the slave and looked towards the mountains for himself. "What are you thinking, ghetra?"

Her head turned, but nothing else moved except for the subtle rise and fall of her chest with the need to breathe and lips to give him an answer. "Master Mril Ut?Noren and third-son, Master Tav Ut'Noren." It seemed like an eternity passed before she could find her words and she was not shy at all like Kiroth's pet was. Merely, ghetra was being cautious and striving to find the words that would not have her feeling the harsh flail of Gracus' quirt. She glanced to his boots again, eyeing the handle of that quirt sticking out off of the right one that he wore. "The Masters do not care for you and their numbers are many. The snows are deep at those levels. And they sleep in those...wooden caves."

The leader of the Se'Leqi shifted somehow, but she didn't dare to look fully up to find out what he was doing. Instead, she felt it. A strong hand, heavily calloused, came down to lightly rest atop her head and let it travel from her brow to the back of her skull. "His blade will not find its way between my ribs, ghetra." He paused but continued. "You will accustom yourself to the snow and their ways while we are there without trouble to them or those of their longhouses." There was emphasis on the last word as he told her what the Hel'Murein tribe called their stationary homes of wood. His fingers curled into her hair, just enough to get her attention, then smoothed her hair again. "Now, tell me why you were smiling." Since none of what she had told him had yet answered the warrior of Llothgar's question.

His girl's shoulder did not tense with worry, instead they relaxed in the wake of his touch and she smiled again. "Because both Masters should learn to walk quieter..."

"Or they might find my blade between their ribs?"

Ghetra laughed and turned to press a kiss against his clad, left outer thigh. She could not be more proud than to have a Master with such mettle.

"Come, there is still much to do and you smell of meat and blood still."

Ghetra smiled that he noticed it at all. She had worked with gutting and skinning the animals earlier, then on to other things before water had been gathered. "Yes, Master." The light tap of his hand to her shoulder was felt before she rose and followed him back to where the large gathering of tents and his people were.

But before they reached anyone's earshot, he added. "Clean well and bring with you oils, spices, and silks -- along with your veil and bells."

Then she grinned. She was to dance at some point for the mountain tribe. They were to go hunting among those wolves with the use of silks and bells, and ghetra was happy to be that proverbial lamb for him.

ghetra · Date: 2013-01-10 13:18 EST

At the time of a Llothgarian slave?s birth, the mother is allowed to name the child. But rarely is that child allowed to keep it since as soon as one that owns him or her names them immediately after taking ownership. Normally, one stays in the service of that person until their death, a debt-trade, or death of the one the one that claims them.

Ghetra?s tale was different. Hers was a story of sharply winding paths and treacherous ways. That she had lived as long as she had was a wonder, even to Gracus u?Lor. Ghetra had been named fael?sar when she was born. But since its literal meaning among the Llothgars is ?gentle breeze?, Gracus was forced to rename her.

She was only fourteen when a debt to him was paid with her. The girl was as wild as the kultraguns, eastern wildcats with a red and black thick coat and fierce teeth and claws. Ghetra had tried to gut him with his own dagger the first night he returned. It took her weeks of a heavy hand, kiss of quirt and worse, along with a harsh and steady public display of her before she relented to him. Then he disallowed her a name and a brand for almost a year until the girl could not stand the shame of it any longer and could not deny the yearning she had to not be publicly claimed by anyone for she was a true sharl?shan (meaning kneel down and kneel low ? this is as much a title of person?s status as it is a slur), slave of Llothgar.

When Gracus finally put his brand to her and laid that public claim, he gifted her with the name of Ghetra, which most blatantly meant ?dagger?.

She had fought and he had sheathed her, but she still had the steely strength and purpose she was named for. Sharl?shan were known not to be able to carry a weapons, except when there was war or some display of war in dance or other. But even then, most did not dare touch them. Ghetra was the exception. She wore the bone dagger he gave her with pride, when she was allowed to.

It was still raining and dark in the lower-lands while she was dressing, but other than taking mild notice of it, Ghetra. Her leathers were worn in two pieces: one to cover her bosom and the hip-hugging lower portion that was split up wither sides at her hips and kept low about her waist by a thick band of stout leather. Rains did not bother her much, but she was sensible enough to mind the long, cold rains that could make her ill and unable to serve Him.

A three-layered cloak, called the uavik, had a whole in the center, an oval long center panel and one for the back and front. It was made of oiled, sturdy hide that allowed snow and rain not to sit on it too long and a hood to cover a sharl?shan?s head. It had no fanciful or pelts to it or a lining of plant-wool to add another layer of warmth. The length of it varied, but normally was as long as their knees.

She didn?t put on boots. Those were only allowed in snows, but she packed them with the rest the items that were hers while in the service of the tents of Se?Lequi: boots, bone knife and sheathe, whet stone, strike-stones, leather bits and hook needles for repair of clothing and other things, binding leather and cloth, a brush of wood and horsehair, a comb of bone, oils of all sorts, spices for cooking and preservation, dancing silks, dancing bells and cuffs, and a veil.

The dancing garment tucked into a section of the multi-pocketed, long leather carrier that held all of her belongings. She smiled to know that she would dance for the mountain people. Ghetra did not care for them, but the meaning of it was well-ingrained in all of the tribes: she was a treasure on display. She wondered what Master Gracus was planning if she was to be put out there in such a way. Her pulse quickened and she rolled up the pack and tied the leather straps of it securely.

A woman with a spirit of fire and a mercurial smile, Gracus? girl half-danced her way from the tents that were coming down and the horses and wagons were being readied.

The journey would be too long to have even the sharl?shan walk alongside those on the horses and carts. Ghetra was motioned by Gracus towards a cart that was full of pelts, a thick layer of skins and leathers, and small barrels of drink, seasonings and salted meat. She hesitated only a moment, but that was to adjusted her pack on her right shoulder and take his food pack, two wine and one water skins to her other shoulder. A hand grabbed to the back of the wagon and hauled herself up easily; strong, despite being one who looked to have more the form of a dancer than someone who was used to the hard labors of a nomadic living.

She tossed her hair over her shoulders, like a wild horse?s mane, and settled down between the mounts of leather and furs. It was a good place to be and several others joined her in that same cart. A few of the large sections of worked, tanned leather were pulled over their heads and faced to stay as much out of the cold rain as possible. And as the journey started, they talked and laughed of things that had happened and yet to come.

ghetra · Date: 2013-02-14 17:35 EST

It was more than cold, it was deadly and bitter.

Snows had stopped, too cold for even the thought of something so pretty that day. More than a day they had travelled as they were with some upon the horses, a few on foot, and others within the carts. The path up the mountains was treacherous and barely wide enough for two upon horseback to ride side-by-side.

Ghetra was bundled up and has strategically placed herself in the middle of a handful of Llothgarian slaves. Between the heads of two of her sister slaves she could see the fading landscape of the plains and forests below, and scowled. Roughly, she pulled the hides and furs about her body until only one eye peered out to see what was going on. She hated the cold and furthermore, she dreaded seeing Mril Ut?Noren and his third-son, Tav Ut'Noren.

All within Llothgar were barbarians to those who existed outside of their world and lands. But Tav Ut'Noren and his father were cruel in senseless ways. Most in the lands had reason for what they did; But Mril Ut?Noren would kill a man or woman for no reason at all.

But she was looking forward to dancing and feasting. They had great meats, seasoned in ways other tribes did not. And there was the ritual of the pl?turai, meaning ?slave honor?. It was a time when a girl could compete against others of her same low standing and win prizes of cloth, weapons, gold, and other things for the one who owned her. It was a time to bring riches to that tent and higher status. Already she knew that Master Gracus would allow her to compete. His ?dagger? was fierce in these things and she excelled to be the winner with no fear of drawing another?s blood to make it happen.

The thought of it all made her smile under all the layers presently keeping her warm.

Lothgarians were barbaric. Most were strong to endure the lands they lived in and the weather that came their way. Tribal wars were common with fighting over grazing areas, animal stock, slaves, honor, and even their level within their own tribes. Even amongst the slaves, there were those who were above others within that lowest of levels. The weakest ones were treated the worst. There was rare understanding for the genteel and the weak. Ghetra had never understood weakness. Not when she was a child. Not as a woman.

But even she was lucky to be alive. Gracus could have killed her for coming at him with a dagger years ago when she was in her fourteenth year. But instead, he had seen her for her survival and for her fierce grace even in that moment, even when she struggled against him and bucked the leathers of ownership he had on her.

While the other girls chatted on without heed to the ridiculousness of topic or sound of their voices, ghetra was thinking about the wood caves, the longhouses. And even Tav Ut'Noren. The gods knew well enough that he was one of the only things she fear, beyond the reach of Master Gracus' reach of his quirt. Ghetra feared him. He could cut her with a look and could bruise her with his voice. Not even Master Gracus had that kind of power over her. The mere thought of him made her want to wail aloud, to mourn the horrible feeling it brought to her soul.

She had travelled with Master Gracus twice into the mountains and each time Tav Ut'Noren had been there. Perhaps he had been killed and the word had not yet reached her Master? Then she smiled and chuckled, calling a small amount of attention to her from the other girls huddled in the back of the wagon. She dropped her smile when they looked at and glared a warning at them before shoving them from her attention and looked beyond the flap of large leather they were using to keep the snow and cold as much from them as possible. Beyond the edge of the brown leather, she could see Master Gracus riding atop his horse, riding alongside one of his Tent brothers. When he finally glanced her way, she lowered her head...and smiled.

ghetra · Date: 2015-06-21 19:57 EST

The Northern Tribes called themselves the Hel'Murein (Hell'Moor-Ayne) and their leader was called Mril Ut?Noren. Among all of the peoples in the lands of Llothgar, it was often said that the Hel'Murein were the most ruthless and most savage. Though the Hel'Murein considered themselves to be the strongest, most noble, and knew the worth of fire and steel more than any man or woman in any part of the Greatlands.

The homecliff, as they called it, was a huge plateau along one the lengthy, northern mountain range known as Valutor. Valutor mountains held little or no life on most of it that was human, but it was plentiful of trees, rock, ore, animals, and more. And, of course, the Hel'Murein. They were a very hearty people that numbered in the thousands. And their homes were stationary on the plateau they called Sha'Toran (Mother Rock). It looked as if thousands of years ago a piece of the mountain's side had broken away and left a great shelf. There, grass and trees grew and where a few large holes were left in the ground, water from rains and melting snows created lakes. Grooves in several areas of the mountainside created side-streams or wall-rivers as they called them that brought plentiful fresh water from higher elevations were snows fell and provided to them as if it were an underground spring.

Mril (Muh-rill) shoved aside the door of wood belonging to his home. As he stepped out of the large, long-house they referred to as a nalgut (nal-gut). And with him he brought the scent of food, firepit smoke, furs, leather, wood, and more.

Mril was a big man. He was not fat, but very solid at a height of six-foot-three and two hundred and thirty-five pounds. He always wore leathers their people reserved for war since they were thicker and more durable than any other they made. Tunic and britches to cover him from chest to ankle while his boots were sturdier still with good soles on them to keep rocks from cutting through. About his shins and calves were pelts as well as over his right shoulder hung a pelt of a full-grown kulbalik wildcat about his shoulders. The large skin and pelt white, black, and grey in color. And he wore that particular animals white claws on a strip of leather about his neck.

His boots crunched against the snow. His path was one through the area that was dotted with other nalguti. He was the woman gutting animals and cleaning them, cutting them to hang. There were also their men and children, and even those where considered lowest among them, the sharl'shani (slaves). The men brought a their right fist lightlly against their left shoulders, the women brought the inside of their right wrists to their foreheads, and the sharl'shani knelts in the snow and cold mud. All of them in various dress of leather and furs showed their respect to the one they considered their lord and king and did so without the slightest hesitation.

The fires from the various nalguti firepits inside and workpits outdoors brought a smokey film to the immediate area when the winds didn't push them away soon enough. Snow steadily fell and the bite of the air was nothing like it had been months ago. It was their summer and they were enjoying it. Children were running about with dogs and other animals. Somewhere on the wind he heard singing. This was not a group of brooding, down-trodden people. The plateau's people loved being where they were.

Behind him, he heard snow being crunched down but it was with far less weight than a grown man in the tribe. He turned his head a little and glanced over his shoulder to find one of the boys. Kgaltur's only son, by the small look he got of him before he darted off with his own cloak of reddish-brown black fur.

?Ma'torak.? It was Kgaltur himself that greeted Mril with the respect of calling him 'highlord or king'.

Mril could hear the singing in the distance, the sound he was headed towards without knowledge given to anyone else that it was his destination. But he slowed to a stop and turned to see Kgaltur outside of his nalgut. Not far from Kgaltur was his wife and children who were working, except for the boy that he rushed by and around Mril, as if the child had been on a great hunt with his wooden dagger.

Mril Ut'Noren
http://i599.photobucket.com/albums/tt74/ISjiraI/Mril%20UtNoren5_zpszz2sixwz.jpg

Nalguti interiors
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http://i599.photobucket.com/albums/tt74/ISjiraI/Longhouseinterior_zpss4kympl7.jpg

http://i599.photobucket.com/albums/tt74/ISjiraI/Longhouseinterior2_zpsrrx7qigd.jpg

ghetra · Date: 2015-06-27 16:49 EST

Almost every tribe within the known lands of Llothgar had some marking of ink upon their person. To no be marked at all and be a grown man or woman ? no matter if one walked the path of a slave or a king ? was to call into question ...why? An unmarked man or woman was someone in most Llothgarians' views as being a person who was lost, someone that had not been through a particular trial or triumph. One who had absolutely no story to tell at all. No footstep ever taken.

Ma'torak of the Hel'Murein tribe had plenty of ink on his skin. Some on his neck, check, shoulders, arms and others that current war-leathers and winter furs covered. He idly scratched flesh at his chest, just underneath layers of leather and fur at his right shoulder, while he looked upon Kgaltur. He waited with what seemed infinite patience for one of his tribe to finally speak and ?though he saw them ? ignored Kgaltur's wife, son, and even his slavegirl al'torii.

Kgaltur approached him, even as light snow floated about them on the air at such a great altitude. It might have been the heat of summer in the valley, plains, and even the jungles below, but there is was always some form or degree of winter. Only the strongest of Llothgarians could endure such a place. Or so the Hel'Murein boasted enough to make others believe it.

?Ma'torak, forgive the intrusion. A moment of your Rest to talk of the Se?Leqi?? Kgaltur could see nothing outwardly change on Mril Ut?Noren's face or posture at the mention of the 'lower tribe', except that the man's idle scratch to his chest was ceased.

?You may have two moments of my Rest, Kgaltur.? The way in which 'rest' was mentioned by both men was to give it more depth than to speak superficially of sleep. It meant something deeper, in the expenditure of their valuable time. Hel'Murein did not believe in wasting time. There was always purpose to every moment and every moment should be accounted for with the measure of worth, whether it was hunting, gathering, teaching, and learning. Even in sleep, there was a chance for all four of such things. Even in Rest ? when it was obvious a person was not laboring --there was always a chance for teaching and learning. ?What is it you want to discuss of the Se'Lequi??

?It is known by all that their ma'torak comes here with some of his tribe. But none know why.?

?You want to know the purpose of Gracus' visit? Why he wastes his Rest??

?Yes, my Ma'torak.? Kgaltur was not a builder, mender, or anything so meek in either of their gaze. He was a fellow warrior among all of their tribe and had a standing of honor often at Mril's right side. But he made certain that he did not assume, ever when it came to Mril.

Mril frowned. He scrubbed hand over his face from forehead to chin, to steal the cold, wetness from it where snowflakes had settled and melted from the warmth of his body with that contact. ?To waste my Rest, Kgaltur. That is all I know at this time. My eyes are Veiled to his intentions.?

Kgaltur frowned. As did his ma'torak.

?But, my tribe-brother always has had his knife in his hand, Kgaltur.?

?I do not trust him either, Ma'torak.?

?Good. Now, see that the others are prepared for their coming. The kaltoran have seen their approach from the crags. They will be here by the morning light.? Scowling, Mril turned. He needed to find the source of the song he had heard earlier and could still hear on the cold afternoon air.

Kgaltur
http://i599.photobucket.com/albums/tt74/ISjiraI/Kgaltur_zps30fsg7xw.jpg

ghetra · Date: 2015-06-28 13:46 EST

The sleeveless, leather work dress was not like most of the others worn by sharl'shani. Theirs had sleeves to just above the crook of the elbow and were as long as their knees. Gracus' tastes suited him a bit differently. He had insisted that the only girl he owned be in summer-leathers and not work-leathers. It was absurd to most of those who looked on his property, but the man was the ma'torak of the Se'Leqi tribe. He would have his 'little dagger' sheathed in whatever he saw fit for her to wear.

Ghetra's moved with pride through the group traveling from well-known plains into the mountains. They had made camp at the walgru'zah. The walgru'zah (broken lakes) were at the base of the mountains, to the border where the Hel'Murein tribe territory began. Two larger, oddly shaped lakes resided next to one another and two smaller pools were not far from those. Her summer-leathers did not keep the cold from her; worn in two pieces with a snug halter about her breasts and a low-riding skirt with animalhide hems that covered her to her thighs. If it wasn't for his allowance for her to where a uavik (a thin, three-layered cloak worn usually by sharl'shani), she might have been at risk for illness. The layers of the uavik flowed about her hips and thighs, playing at her knees as she walked. Xi'maell, leather pieces wrapped against the feet of sharl'shani to protect them from harsh climates or cruel terrain, allowed ghetra to feel the ground beneath her. Though it was no longer winter to the Se'Leqi of the lower valleys and plains, it felt as if it was truly the Dying Season the closer they drew to the homecliff of the Hel'Murein.

She carried with her leather packs and pouches from the carts to where Master Gracus and the men stood near a fire. Their words were not of complaint but a fevered discussion about the Hel'Murein. Ghetra made herself known with the sound of bells she had strapped about her right wrist that morning. There was no call for subterfuge or stealth. The other tribe knew they were coming. The quiet sound also helped the men there know that their words were not private in her approach. One of them cut a look at her, then dismissed her to look back to Gracus.

?...he is a gutnoran!? It was Virusht who had spoken. His hair was long and full of braid but he looked nothing like a woman. His thick hand tossed a bit of wood into the nearby fire. It was clear by the way he spat out the word that meant 'one that cannot fight' that he was in as foul a mood as possible.

Even ghetra could feel the line of her shoulders tighten. The word was a dark slur and it was meant to cut very deep at anyone called it. Needless to say, it was rarely used. She respectfully minded her gaze from the Faetra'arlzaen (bloodblade warriors) and came to stand between Gracus and the fire that burned and blazed. She bent at the knees to lower herself down on the ground there; her empty hand sweeping forward to pull the front hem of the uavik beneath those knees before they made contact with the bitter ground.

While the men spoke, ghetra put one of the packs down and took a carved, blackwood mug from the depths of it. The fur-covered wine pouch was opened and poured it to fill the mug within a small measure from its cusp. Then with the pouch and pack on the ground, she lifted the dark wood mug upwards, above her lowering head.

The valley below the homecliff of the Hel'Murein
http://i599.photobucket.com/albums/tt74/ISjiraI/View%20from%20the%20HelMurein%20homecliff_zpsanjjd3aj.jpg

ghetra · Date: 2015-06-28 14:08 EST

The men continued to talk and this time it was Gracus who spoke to his men. His was a tone that broached no argument, firm and to the point. ?Of course he is. I do not trust him at all. But what I need from him will not come without some kind of fight, enticement, or both.? A shake of his head, he continued. ?We already know that they live in the long-houses. They are complacent in this most basic thing. It makes them weak. They will be weak in other things. I know this to be fact. But we do not go to wage war with them, Faetra'arlzaen. No bloodshed unless the time comes.?

?Will you take his wife and daughters, at least, Ma'torak?? Virusht was beside himself. He did not understand Gracus' reluctance for bloodshed. ?Have you sided with him? Do you shift your weight to be a gutnora---?

Virusht did not get the chance to finish. Ghetra felt the cold breeze rush passed her. Her head went even lower, until her chin pressed in against her collarbone tightly. She knew her Master had moved and moved quickly. So quickly, that Virusht was on the ground with such force that he grunted. Ghetra peeked through the layers of her long, wind-wild hair to see that Gracus had the bloodblade warrior on the ground, on his back with a knife to his throat so harshly that its edge was cutting into the flesh there. Gracus' grip on the knife was so tight that it trembled at one point to keep himself from killing the man.

?You know that I am no gutnoran, old? friend.? Gracus' teeth were clenched and his eyes were alive with the heat of anger. ?I have more than one reason for traveling to the mountains. Only one of the reason I have told any of you. You will serve well and serve strong, or you will die the next time you question why I am doing something.?

?Yes, my Ma'torak...? Virusht grunted out the words without moving his jaw. He was not entirely stupid and did not risk his leader's anger again so soon.

?I am glad our view is the same.? The knife was pulled back, his hand balled into a first about the grip of the blade and then struck his bloodwarrior soundly with a blow across the face hard enough to break his nose before Gracus soundly met the ground with a boot and rose up to his full height. ?We will leave as soon as all are readied. Do not linger long here for any other reason than water. It is time to go.?

Virusht was left to get up on his own, his fellow fighters knew better than to help him up since he was not close to death. Gracus' strides bore him back to the fire and where ghetra still knelt with the drink held above her head. ?Thank you, s'ghetra.?

She smiled without trying to conceal it. There was a reason why her Master lead their people. He was strong in many ways. That he had easily brought down one of the men was not ill against their skills as warriors, but a lifting up of praise to the abilities of Gracus. He called her s'ghetra and she smiled warmed as hands lowered to rest at her knees. Little dagger, that literally meant, and the way he said it was meant with a fondness that was rare from him.

Virusht
http://i599.photobucket.com/albums/tt74/ISjiraI/Virusht_zpsheu5e08j.jpg

ghetra · Date: 2015-06-28 14:10 EST

While he brought the mug up to drink the wine, his hand was at the top of her head and slid down into her thick, dark hair. She was petted, caressed in a way that he was proud of what was his and did so in front of the other men. Fingers stroked her and paused eventually to tightly hold her there by that leash of her locks. Already he was looking back at his men. ?The plan still stands of a celebration of tribes, a meeting of the ma'torak, and ghetra to dance for Mril. While she does, we will take back what was stolen.?

The men laughed and grinned, even Virusht who was again on his feet and swiping the back of his hand against his mouth where blood had seeped from his nose. Various words exchanged amongst them and they were headed off to see to all that belonged to them and ready to move on.

Gracus still stood there by the fire and was slowly finishing off the wine that had been brought to him. His grip in her hair tightened until her back began to dip and lips parted to give him a soft utterance of pain from her lips to know that it was by his hand that she lived, died, was controlled and guided. ?Did you bring with you your dancing veil, s'ghetra??

She took half of a heartbeat to take a breath into her lungs. ?Yes, Master.?

He abandoned a look at the fire and slid it to her face, bettered in that view by the way he held her head back. “I know you were his before you were mine. I want him to only know who you are when you finish dancing. I want him...distracted. Is that fully understood??

Scalp ached and her neck was fully exposed to him while he held her like that while she knelt on the ground at his side. ?Yes, Master.? Her tongue passed against her lips, finding them suddenly so very dry. ?Will you want him ...danced for in all ways, my Master??

?No.? His fingers tightened. ?You warm my furs alone. No others. But in all other ways, I want him to think of you and your dance, without him knowing it is you...until the dance is done. Then I want your pride to show as bright and sharp is your dagger.?

Ghetra was already thinking of what to do and how to do it. Her smile that was there earlier was fully drawing at her cheeks. ?If it pleases you, Master, it will certainly be done.? Laughing warmly as she felt his mouth claim hers.

He then shoved her off to the side and ground, releasing his hold on her hair at the same time. ?The veil and silks are put on now, before we are too close, ghetra.?

His girl shivered. Perhaps it was the way he was looking forward to seeing her dance, or perhaps it was the fact that ghetra was going to be close to death from the cold to put on dancing silks a half-day's journey away. But the element of surprise was demanded by him and she would. She gathered the pack and wine pouch up, took his empty mug up from the ground where he tossed it and ran off towards the horses, tents that were being brought down and the carts. There was much to do and only moments to be finished before the entire group would resume their travel.

It was almost time to hunt the northern, Hel'Murein wolves with silks and bells!

Gracus u'Lor
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