It was not tightrope or fence, but the bondchain itself that the small one walked. Since the death of Master Kiroth u'Lor S'jira had been lost and wavering between the offerings of a the ways of the free-born and what she was as a slave.

Her dreams troubled her of bare feet moving over spent, broken glass. Of stern eyes of a man in the sky above the foothilled forests in lands foreign and far from RhyDin. And she dreampt of drowning in a churning whirlpool of silk and wool - the silk vibrant and cool and the wool bland and harsh.

Another of the dreams had the small one bolting upright in her bed within the room that was hers at the Red Dragon. She gasped for breath and startled a look about at the darkness. A trembling hand slowly pushed the covers back from her bare form. Her feet met with the floor and quickly withdrew at the shock of the cold of it before touching down again more tentatively.

She drew the blanket about slender shoulders, shivering violently as her body strove to adjust to the temperature of the room that had cooled with the waning hours of the night into the very early morning. S'jira shook, lesser as she warmed a little, and moved towards the window.

Moonlight with its pale light touched her face. Tears had left tracks down her cheeks to wet at the fragile line of her jaw. Her hand slipped up through the blanket to steal the moisture away while she watched the snow fall to the ground that was just above freezing and refused it to do anything but melt.

Below the window, she watched a few citizens of the great city bustle from one direction or another. A hunched man with a few packs loaded to his back, a drunken women with her hair uncovered and in a disarray, and a large dog with the bones of its ribs and haunches showing that he had gone too long without food and the search was on for any morsel.

S'jira pulled the blanket tighter under her chin. Her head lowered as she gave into a turn that moved her towards the table in her room. A match was struck and a thick taper was lit. Ruddy light of it sputtered erratically at first, then calmed into a slow dance of that single flame.

There was happiness in her heart when she thought of Panther, as it was in that moment. To herself, she smiled. And at the same time, she knew that he warred with himself about her. In that, it weighted her heart a little.

To say that the hearth hadn't been cleaned in quite some time would have been the understatement of the century.

During the early night the fire had died. The embers had gone grey and cold in their grey, powdery heap beneath the thick, iron grate where burning would was usually held. It took a while to scoop, scrape and sweep the ashes out.

The bucket of water and scouring brush clunked against the flooring when she returned from the kitchen. Bending knees met with the outskirting flagstones. Hems of the garment snuck up a few inched on her thighs, staying out of the way while she cleaned.

Stone belly of the hearth was scrubbed and cleaned, taking a while before it was finish. Her hands darkened with char and a smudge of soot on her right cheek, the small one gathered herself up to delicate height for more than the fourth time since she had begun the task. Fingers curled about the horsehair rope and hauled the bucketful of filthy water up from the floor and took it outside and to the alleyway to empty it out.

S'jira hurried back inside, out of the cold. The swell of her hip bumped the door closed with care for it not to bang too loud. Bucket and brush were returned to the storage room. When the grime had been washed from her elbows down, she made her way back into the common room.

As there were no patrons within, all asleep or gone to their homes, the small one filled a mug of hot cider and traced a path through the tables and chairs back towards the hearth. The mug was placed carefully to the stone mantle.

One split log at a time was put the grate that she'd bedded with dry moss. A slender stick of kindling was used to light the dry moss. Slowly, very slowly the wood caught fire and began to warm the immediate area.
From the arm of the nearest couch, an old fur was dragged from it, bringing it down against the floorboards with a dull thud.

S'jira pulled the wolf pelt over to the far end of the hearth, just within the fire's light and spread it out furside up. Bending knees knelt against the fur and a sigh passed from her lips. To all fours, she stretched to be on three as she reached to take up the mug of cooling cider. As she lowered to the swell of her right hip, she tucked small feet in against her. Shoulder to the now warm wall of the hearth and the little one was blissfully comfortable.

Thoughts drifted in like snowflakes, one at a time and gentle as they touched her. A smile upon her lips, she looked about the common room and felt safe within it. Wearily, eyelids weighed until dark eyes closed. She rested there in a gentled lean against that riverstone hearth wall and sleep found the tired bondchain walker again.

"Yes." The word was on her lips without thought, driven purely by feelings that often swayed her into action. "Is it a very difficult learning, Mistress? Do you charge coin to mentor someone?"

Althare smiled and swallowed some cider. "Both, pet. Both. But before any of that, I have to see that I don't waste my time. Do you have any rhythm about you at all?"

"Rhythm?" S'jira knelt upon the fur and set her own mug to the flagstones before the hearth. "Some, yes." There was no bragging in it, and truly, she didn't know if the woman would think she had any at all to claim. Even in that time, for that while, it did not occur to seek Panther before venturing into it. Something that might later plague her, but for now, she delved in curiously.

The dancer's bejewelled hand flippantly waved her to rise, but her voice was tinged in curiosity. "Stand and show me. I will...clap out a rhythm for you. Show me what you know of dance. If it is a decent foundation, we will build on it." Althrae gave no warning but clapped out a slow beat with her hands, bringing the jewels and linked chains to them into a shivering of metal and music of their own.

Only alone had she danced, never in the public eye and the slave hesitated. Her hands lifted outwards, and hips canted to the right very slowly and akwardly before swivelling back to the left. Tinted cheeks flushed a slightly darker color as the workers had stayed a while more to watch the early morning goings-on. S'jira tried not to see them, tried to concentrate on the dancer's hands and their rhythm..

Althrae stood inside the common room of the ancient chapter house. By the look of it, it hadn't been used on a regular basis in years. The fine line of her nose wrinkled at the smells of wood, leather, and metal that still hung in the air like a musty old attic and assaulted the caravan dancer's senses.

She was used to the open air of travelling. Or the spiced winds of faraway silk markets across the great waters. Here, things were cramped and close-quartered, even when there were forests between one building to the next.

The dancer moved through the chapter house common room with grace that had been with her since she had been taught to walk as a child. One the balls of her feet, movement to make a sandswalker envious, she strolled the room and looked to old paintings and dust-covered benchest and tables.

Her clothing was highly ornate. A leather halter that had taken hands hundreds of hours to braid had slender straps over her shoulders and the wide section of it hugged her full bossom. Her darkly tanned midriff was naked until the belt of woven coins low at her hips. Below that belts of leather and coin were colored layers of lucid silk of bright green, blue, black and red. Sandals covered her feet as if the winter's cold beyond those grey, stone walls did not exist.

The door groaned open as the small one hurried herself inside out of that cold. Drab, brow shortcloak was hugged tight and clutched under the curve of her chin. Dark locks of hair unbound blanketed against her shoulders and back, dampened by the cold mist that had hung in the air most of the day.

"You are late, S'jira." Althrae did not hesitate to chide the slave girl and bring the fact bluntly to her attention. But anger wasn't in her tone as eyes moved over the smaller woman. "Warm yourself first or there'll be nothing of rhythm to be found in your limbs short of what can be seen when to stick are clicked together."

S'jira inclined her head respectfully, gratefully towards Althrae. "Please forgive. The fisherwoman is to her bet with a broken leg." It was not as much as an excuse, but explanation to where she had been or the why of being detained. The girl moved off towards the enormous hearth that could have fit five men standing within it abreast and without the need to duck. Bending knees found warm flagstones before the large hearth. She presented her hands to thaw them.

Althrae prowled towads the fire and stood off to the side of it. "We will begin again with simple things. You must learn and know them before I teach you the harder talents." The dancer lifted her own chind with an air of regality, of pride. "I will not have others know that I allowed anything short of grace and perfection."

"Again, it is very generous of you to teach a girl what is not normally done by you, Mistress Aelthra."

"Rediculous. You are paying, are you not? And for what you are, you have even more need of knowing dance than I do."

To S'jira, it sounded dubious, but she offered a small smile even as the flames had begun to warm her enough to removed the shortcloak. It was draped neatly to a backless bench while her eyes roamed over the old chapter house gathering room. For a moment, she could imagine it full of men who bore the sword with pride and honor in the defense and demand of king and kingdom.

"Balthane!" Althrae called out in a sing-song voice to herald a reedy young man from one of the adjoining rooms. He

Balthane was wiping the back of his hand against his beardless, gaunt face as he entered the room. A tunic was belted with a simple strap of leather. His trousers was brown, to match his green tunic, with the leggings tucked into a pair of boots. He carried with him a double basined drum and moved to sit on the stones at the floor before the fire where it was warmest.

For a few moments, he lightly thrummed out a practiced rhythm until Althrae nodded to him. "Keep it slow. I'll not have her injuring herself before she can properly roll her hips." Something in what she sound, the dancer found funny and richly laughed aloud. Then sharply, enough to startled the smaller woman, she clapped her hands. "Let's begin! I have dinner in a couple of a hours with a fat lord that has an even fatter purse that I do not intend to miss... "