Lands Of Llothgar [Info, glossary, & stories]

[Sjira]

Appearance
Most Llothgarians are moderate to tall in height from 5?5?-6?. Their hair is brown to black in variations. Skin is naturally a chestnut brown in color though bronzes the more often they are in the sun. Eyes are brown to black in variations, but rarely are green or hazel seen and no Llothgarian has blue eyes.

Clothing
This varies from tribe to tribe from hunting leathers to leather and cloth to even robes or a combination of all of them. It depends on the immediate resources within the area and what trade is brought into it.

[Sjira]

(Posted: Sun Jun 24, 2007 11:27 am)
[Written as Gracus u'Lor]

At the end of the age of Var'Gus (Dark Sun), battles raged, pitting one tribe of Ekrons against the other. In those dark days, not even the children of each tribe could speak to one another, and marriages were forbidden. When the year came when battles no longer waned and peoples could not rest, a great sorrow rooted into the prideful breasts of all warriors and their families. They began to seek out a sign from their gods, to beckon and plead to them for one who would come and bring peace to their warring tribes.

What came was an answer in the eyes of all of them. A bastard among all of the tribes and one considered below the station of even a slave. Kinslayer by accident, in a matter that had been brought upon by the woman that had born him had labeled him as Shul ut'Vir -- Never To Belong (Outcast). By this name he was called when the dreams of the twelve tribes of Ekron began to plague him where he had taken refuge and made a home for himself in the mountains in the land of Brael.

It was a humble living, but never a restful one. He had taken a village girl, he called sh'spa, that would serve him and keep him company. She was not of the tribes and that much was good for Shul ut'Vir. It strengthened him for war to come and steadfast leadership to play out until he had passed the mark of a hundred years. When came his fortieth year, his fifteenth in exile, the dreams plagued him and drove him and hs vassal to find each of the tribes. A year of travelling and talks brought two distinct outcomes: Those who wished an end to suffrage brought from the onslaught of continuous battling amongst themselves ... and those who would rather die than to drink from the same waterskin of one from another tribe.

Shul ut'Vir and sh'spa met with those who longed for peace upon the ancient meeting place of Ikoreth. Rolling foothills with the mountains of Brael standing harshly in the background to watch over the pending, great war to come that would decide the fate of all tribes.

Shul ut'Vir was not a tall or overly powerful man of brute strength, but he walked with wisdom and his eyes were keen to notice the smaller things. When talks had turned to weapons making and repair, when weapons were at hand and men stood ready the women who could not bear arms and servants that would be needed for later were send into the forest of Lethis (Shadows) to hide themselves and the children until all was over.

* * *

The hills were covered and blood -- the grass blackened with it -- and while the cries of lament rose with the acrid smoke the call to lead rang out to the one who had led them through battle amongst themselves and banded them together. The called out Llothgar, naming him for the mythical, twelve-horned beast that could never die. Llothgar took the place as Qelin Tor (Great Leader or King) over all the tribes.

The age of Var'Gus was over and Llothgar's had begun. Llothgar had died hundreds of years ago, and still the barbarian tribes who had followed him still carry his name though ages had long passed.

* * *

Way Of The Wind
(Posted: Sun Jun 24, 2007 12:05 pm )

Wind was known to do damage, even to the harshest and strongest-standing of rocks to weather it down to nothing by pebbles and sand given enough years. And that same wind travelled from one place to another.

With the way of the wind, the tribes of Llothgar moved though tempered themselves from any haste in that movement. There was rarely cause for haste, even among those such as these barbarians.

Tents of varying sizes of animal hides were painted colorfully with animals, figures, and hand prints to show to any that neared each of them who it belonged to. People were milling among them or crouched beside local fires to each or at the central firepit at the core of the encampment. Children ran and played, chasing each other and laughing.

From atop a small knoll, beneath an wide-girthed tree, stood a man. His long dark hair was unbound from the leather thong normally tied into it by one of those who served his tent. He hadn't wanted it after bathing that morning. Calloused hand moved over his mustache to rest against his chin, only to drop against the hilt of the sword that was rarely from gone from his side. Behind him, he heard the soft movement of bare feet.

When the form knelt beside him, he finally looked away from the numerous tents below to glance down at the woman upon her knees to his left. There was no smile to meet hers as he took the fruit that her hands had plucked from the tree. Teeth bite into the fruit as he turned back to the gathering of mobile dwellings, watchful of the activity in the shallow valley below.

Attention shifted towards movement on the horizon. Someone upon horseback and that pace was steady and swift to eat up the leagues easily. Silence held with the man upon the small hill until he saw that the other had ridden into the midst of those below and turned to cast a look his way.

"Come ghetra." Gravel was the tone of his voice, commanding without room for denial. Boots dug into the earth as he made his way down to where the others were, with the lithe woman with flaxe hair following in his wake.

Lengthy strides bore him towards the crowd that was slowly gathering near the central, large firepit. Logs were on it and stones about it well-tended.

"Gracus ... Gracus.. " He heard his name murmed and those of the tribes pulled back slowly so that his path for the man who had come could be easily reached.

Ghetra could not be found as she disappeared to get the man a waterskin of fresh water. When she returned with it in hand and left again to see to the mans horse, Gracus was already speaking with him.

"He travelled outside of the known-lands? Where exactly?" He motioned the man to sit upon a log beside the central fire.

"Your brother was seen travelling passed the Gates of the Gods."

Gracus continued to stand while the other sat and drank heartily from the waterskin. "How long ago, Hurs?"

Hurs swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, then shook his head trying to piece together what he knew. "Seven or eight months ago."

A nod towards Hurs and Gracus was quiet a little while more. "Yethren!" The name was bellowed and brought a burly man that was taller than Gracus away from his work with weapons. Trailing him was ghetra, in case she was needed as well by Gracus' tone.

Yethron threw a right fist against a leather vested left side of his own chest in salute. "Your want, Gracus?"

"You and I, and one from each of the other tribes, are travelling before the sun sets tonight. I must meet with some of the others. See that things are readied while I do. Ghetra!"

Ghetra stole into view out from behind Yethren, her blond hair tossed about by a bit of wind. "Yes, Master Gracus?"

"See that you help Yethren." Gracus paused to consider ghetra with a frown. "You, and not the others of my tent, will come with me. Send the girls into the tents of others to serve until my return. Hurry now." The latter said to both of them. Half the day would be wasted in talks, but it was the way of things. And there was no hurrying what was necessary. Seven months already passed, another several hours would not change matters.

* * *
A Readying to Leave
(Posted: Tue Jun 26, 2007 5:11 pm )

Gracus stood when the talks came to an end and stepped out of the long-tent to meet each of them at the hide doorflap of it. Each was spoken to in low tones, directed to instruct their familiar and those of their Tent that there was no knowing how long the group would be gone. Each man was clasped upon the shoulder and given a light hit against the side of his jaw. It was a thing of tradition, like Outlanders who shook hands in agreement on things except that it disposed the person receiving it to gently remind them who was leader.

There had been words over the matter of leaving, that where they were going were not known-lands. Discussion continued on of good grazing for the horses and what to hunt. But in the end, what would be needed and not found upon the land would simply be taken. And only if that was necessary. Even among the barbarians, there were limits to be heeded and those limits were very carefully lorded over by Gracus.

The day had waned into darkness. Talks and activities had slowed to quiet tones and most withdrawing off to their own tents. Families spent time amongst themselves and those who had no family took with him that which warmed the furs of his tent. Morning would come swiftly and no moment was wasted upon sleep when there was talk to be had, family to visit, and weapons and supplies to see to. Gracus was no different in this, except that he took the time to make certain that every man had returned to the Tent he belonged to. Until he stood beside the central firepit with his back towards the light of it and his face in full shadow.

Behind him, barely a sound of it could be heard, but he heard it all the same. And the scent of flower-oil on the breeze told him exactly which of the girls among the entire encampment she was. Light touch of a much smaller hand than his own met against the crook of his arm and he looked down to find ghetra. The breeze played with her blond hair and swept it against her the ornately decorated leather about her neck. "My son sleeps?"

"Yes, Master Gracus. He was bathed and tucked into soft-pelts, then sung the song of Llothgar, but fell asleep before the end of it."

Calloused fingers rested over those fingers of hers, but it was a mere thing that didn't last long. "The other girls have been sent to Tents that can take them without a burden on that Tent's food and water."

"Yes, Master. Z'sir is most upset. She mourns your absence and you have yet to."

Dark eyes took in the side of the ghetra's face that the firepit danced light upon. "Z'sir is young and still new to know her place at my feet." There was understanding his words, his tone hushed as he spoke with her. ?Come. There are several hours left of the night. I want to watch my tent's firelight on you as the furs are warmed by us tonight.? Though lowered voice of his was quiet, there was intent in the crevices of it. He made certain she felt the strength in his grip when it found her arm and took her with him, half-dragging her towards the largest of the tents that belonged to him. Despite, there was no need to really drag her. She was favored by him and ghetra served loyally, and all knew it well. For as he stepped into his tent and the door of it was dropped closed, there was rich laughter on her part.

* * *

[S'jira's addition to this tale]
(Posted: Tue Jan 01, 2008 11:55 am)

January was the month those here called it.

S'jira knew it as the time when Master Kiroth has been killed. One year ago, The Barbarian had taken himself and S'jira into the lands of RhyDin and away from those who had wished him dead. There in RhyDin were those of all walks of life, all types and forms of creatures. There, Kiroth and the girl had found months of respite from those that hunted him. Kiroth would not have run from a fight, but his caring for the slave had faulted his thinking and took her into a realm he thought would keep her safe by removing himself as well from lands and the dark eyes of others that sought him.

The small one wake from dreams of him that morning and lay back in the bed weeping. She clung to the pillow and coverings of the bed that had been hers for over four months now. Cloth that encased the pillow dampened with tears shed. As she lay there, heart mourned him as she had in the past, but found the pain did not cut so very deep this time.

When tears had run their course, she left the bed. Bare feet met with the cold floor as she moved to the trunk and took out a shinlength underdress of thick cloth and a dark blue dress she had bought from one of the shops when Panther had taken her shopping months ago. The night's thinner, shorter shift was shed. Slender, long strip of cloth was wrapped about her chest to support the flesh there before the unbleached underdress was donned. The blue dress opened down the front with ties and toggles of wood and leather. She worked her arms into the long sleeves before she started to bind the leather ties of the dress up the front of the skirts; the cloth of the undress showing fashionably through where the ties were not. Toggles buttoned the top of it from her waist up to an inch above her breasts to completely rid any hint of cleavage.

It all felt too much and too heavy, but not as much as the first day she had put them on. One of thousands of things S'jira was coming to know in her time since being in the realm and since she had begun to walk the path in and out of Panther's shadow.

The bed was made with a care of those hands and a brush run through black lengths of hair until it shown. She did not hurry, but heart tugged for that visit. It was necessary in many ways.

S'jira closed the room and moved down the steps from the second level of the inn to the common room. At the door, to its side, moved to where she had left her boots. Little feet were put into each of them, her toes wriggled about in the warm wool inside. Then tugged the brown shortcloak from the peg to pull it about her shoulders. Hems of it only met thighlength but it would warm her enough.

Out into the cold of the day she went.. in the direction of the bridge and the graveyard. The walk in the light snow and barely blowing cold would have detoured some and encouraged others. For S'jira, the snow for the while went unnoticed except to put the small cowl of her cloak up over her head.

But it was not before a form in the shadows saw who it was that left the inn and move down the steps in the direction of the stone bridge. The form in his own cloak did not reveal himself to her but followed at a distance.

"Master Kiroth, your girl is here."

It was how she had, many times, greeted him. Or where he lay beneath the stone slab within RhyDin's cemetery. To the bottom corner of the smooth stone, the small one sat herself. She leaned to touch the emblem of a hawk clutching arrows in its claws. But she did not lay against it mournfully as she so often had in the past. Less and less, she had done that.

She was unaware of the man that had followed her there. Nor did she know that she spoke within earshot of one of those who claimed to be of the Tribes of Llothgar, Kiroth's people.

"May you know great hunting and honorable war where you are, Master Kiroth." The greeting was given as she pulled the cloak back about her small form. "Please forgive.. it has been nearly two months since a visit to you has been made. There is much to say though. The bondchain is no longer served, Master Kiroth." Even then, she could not call him by anything but what she had for years. Her hand touched cold stone again before tucking in beneath brown cloth that she was wrapped in. Her head lowered but her words were soft and warmer than the air about her. "Mentioned before was one called Panther. It was within his service and shadow that one served these past months. He has done very well to protect this property -- " For herself, she corrected her words. "-- to protect this girl. These very hands gave back to him the pendant he had given to publicly say what was his and guarded."

S'jira fell quiet and ducked her head more against the cold and onyx locks veiled her cheek. Snowflecks glittered and dampened her hair. "But no longer is he served, but it is thought that he still watches over this girl. He is certainly watched over." She had found herself doing that more and more. Despite the cold, her cheeks warmed. "Too much, it is thought. One will try not to do so much so openly."

When she stood, even then, she did not know or see that a shadow watched her. "May you hunt well, Master Kiroth.. " Said before she moved out of the area of the graveyard and along the road that lead back towards the bridge, and the other side of RhyDin where she was more accustomed to being.

Unbeknownst to her, that watching shadow finally moved, south to where the camp of Gracus u'Lor, brother of the late Kiroth, were.

***
[Kiroth's part of this unfinished tale]
(Posted: Thu Mar 13, 2008 8:25 am)

The tents of the Llothgar stood another six days where they had been on RhyDin soil for a while now. Mood among them was sour and Gracus' blood still boiled with how the creature had snuck up on his men. It might have made some who didn't understand the ways of the tribes wonder how the exchange had happened without bloodshed ? but even barbarians had their laws.

Panther had come to them to regain the girl in a way that amounted to a cue. He had entered into their camp alone, without detection, and without bravado of any kind. Trade had been offered to put in the place of the loss. In the eyes of Llothgar, this was acceptable despite the itch for the drawing of blood or the roiling in their blood to dance with blades.

The group moved about the area to finish bundling the leather canvas of the tents, iron stakes, pelts, barrels and pouch bags of other supplies into the wagon. More were added to a few pack horses and to the saddles of the mounts they rode. Except for the dormant firepits and where the tents refused the snow to the ground the area was otherwise undisturbed.

Ghetra emerged from the nearby woods. Her soft animal hide shift and boots were dyed black and contrasting against the snowy ground so that she was easily seen. The small, motley of pelts stitched together was her cloak against the cold. She smiled towards Gracus for a moment, but sobered to see that his mood was still sour. The girl had been more trouble than worth, she thought. With a determination to improve his mood as soon as the chance presented itself, she grasped his hand tightly as he hauled her up onto the horse to sit to leather and wood saddle before him.

Gracus hauled the hood of the animal fur cloak up over his head to keep the cold and flitting snow from it. Arms went to either side of Ghetra to grasp the reins before he nudged the horse into movement. It was a long way back to their lands and they were all in the mood for something other than pleasantries.

[Sjira]

(Posted: Sun Sep 12, 2010 3:07 pm)

For two months, perhaps more, the small one had not been seen at all in the lands of RhyDin.

S'jira had finally gathered enough courage to dare the take up the path that led to Llothgar - to homelands. She had not travelled alone, since courage had not been hers in that great a wealth, but had been lucky enough to find favor from one of the men she knew well by now and worked with on the docks in RhyDin.

As a brother, she saw Garet and had come to laugh again. It was in his strong, but friendly shadow that she had stepped foot within the barbaric lands of Llothgar again. Both had gone as armed as they knew how to be.

And there, they would find the one she knew only as a sister - by blood - though had never seen with her own eyes. It would take the two of them months to find the one the tradesmen called Sha'vuNar, meaning "for whom the drums beat". As all of those in Llothgar, names had meanings and S'jira's was not different meaning "little dancer". Both beyond being sired by the same father...this was where the similarities in them stopped.

Sha'vuNar was found in the village of Ghalmas to the south. Unlike the more warlike peoples of Gracus -and most other nomadic tribes of the lands --that S'jira had been with, Sha'vuNar had been raised by the JaPika -- known for being lovers of people. But they were not to be thought of as weak.

JaPika were more fierce in their fighting than any of the warriors S'jira had ever met, but they held great hatred against those who held others as slaves.

It had not been until the last month that S'jira was in Llothgar that she had seen Sha'vuNar. She had found her not among nomadic ways, but ones more stationary. The JaPika lived in stone-build homes with thickly thatched roofs. Smaller homes encircled a long-house that was known for meetings and others gatherings.

To S'jira's happiness and delight, she had finally found her sister and came to know her under the most peaceful of circumstances. To the amusement of her travelling companion, Garet, the blood-sisters danced, laughed and walked the tall, grassy plains for hours. He would also be witness to the tears that flowed of both happiness of that finding of one another and heartache when it was finally time for S'jira and Garet to leave.

The return back to RhyDin was otherwise uneventful, to the relief of both S'jira and Garet. And within a week of their return, both were back to work without too much dirt stirred about where they had been all that time.

[Sjira]

(Posted: Sat Jan 01, 2011 3:29 am )
[Told from the perspective of Ghetra of Llothgar]


(Cosplay pic, models unknown. Depicting Tamina and Dastan (Prince of Persia))


The Dying Season of winter had reached the barbaric lands of Llothgar. Passed the craggy horizon of the great mountain range, to the west in the lands where the Se'Leqi tribe moved from one hunting ground to the next in their nomadic ways the snows had begun.

The tribe of Se'Leqi was known for their talents with wool, furs, horses, and leather. These things were worked expertly and traded with the other tribes when movement within their seasonal path brought them in contact with them normally during warmer months.

The tents of the Se'Leqi were of varying sizes of animal skins that were painted brightly and colorfully with figures of men and animals as well as simple handprints to show to any that neared each of them which tent belonged to whom.

People moved among them or crouched beside local fires to each or at the central firepit at the core of the encampment. Children ran and played, chasing each other and laughing. A dog could be heard barking in complaint of something. One posts and poles of wood, seasoned meats were hung nest to pelts and skins.

Free born men and women along with their property were at work with things that were needed to keep the encampment and tents alive, from gathering food and wood to tending to children and animals.

Feathery bits of snow were floating on the air, errant in their fall that seemed to take longer than usual on the cold, flighty wind of the midday.

At the rocky bank of the river than ran nearby the slave of the tribal lord Gracus u'Lor stood. A few others of her status were busy dipping the mouths of jugs and leather bladders into the cold, rushing water to fill them while Ghetra stood there with two water skins in hand. The full weight of them pulled at her, digging their leather straps in against her palm but she ignored it. Leather halter and low-riding panels of leather worn as a version of a very short skirt did little to warm her. A wolf pelt about her shoulders did better for her and wraps of cured leather on her feet lay between her flesh and the bitter ground beneath.

Exotic eyes watched the opposite bank of the river and a stag that stood there to watch her in return. Other than its wild beauty, Ghetra watched it for other reasons that lips told nothing of at that time. The creature did not bound off but remained there a long time before taking a quick drink, then wandering back into the thick forest until Ghetra could no longer see him. She smile and a quick, quiet sound of mirth was in her throat.

The hand that held the full water skins lifted and bared the metal cuff about that same wrist in order to adjust the pressure of the skins against her palm. Then the slave girl made a clucking sound of her tongue from the top of her mouth to just behind her bottom teeth. The sound was enough to turn the heads of the other slaves. Some hurried with filling their vessels while others drew to their feet and moved away from the river and headed back to where the tents stood.

Ghetra moved not as if she was in the horrible cold of winter but the pleasant enthrall of spring. For none in particular to see, her hips swayed as she walked. Step by unhurried step, the girl moved back into the main camp area, passed the outer ring of the tents themselves. Her black-brown hair in its torrent layers held specks of white from the flecks of snowflakes coming down. A few strands were wet enough by now to cling to her neck and forehead.

She moved passed stone encircled firepits and groups that were gathered around them in their work or need for warmth. Out of the corner of their eyes, a few of the men grabbed a look of her but it wasn't something that lasted long since Ghetra was not theirs.

Snow crunched beneath her feet quietly as she moved on further until she stood before the biggest of the Se'Leqi tents. Painted figures on it were of a two stags to either side of its opening. She reached for the flap-door, feeling the weight of tied stones along the bottom of that leather barrier and pushed it aside long enough to duck into the tent.

Bowl braziers on long chains hung down from the thick, central beam that was at the ceiling of the tent that belonged to Gracus u'Lor. These both served to light and warm the nomadic home, along with two firepits. To each of the corners of that tent were numerous storage containers filled with everything from clothing to weapons and food. Ghetra moved passed the first of the two firepits, to the second of them. As she moved, her feet within their leather wraps met with a thick carpet of animal furs that disallowed the contact with the hard winter ground or any cold at all to seep in from under its sides.

The slave sank down upon her knees and shrugged the wolf pelt from about her shoulders as hands saw to putting one water skin near the fire. Then she rose and took with her the other skin and the lupine fur she had used as a cloak against the weather of the day. Both were placed with neat care beside the great storage jars at the back of the tent. There, she unwrapped her feet. The swatches of soft leather and those bindings were folded and tucked away. Bare feet wriggled in against the thick carpet of the tent.

No one else was presently within, but she did not waste time. The large skin of water set next to the firepit was soon in her hands when knees bent again. She knelt and leaned while she removed the cork to allow the fresh, clean river water to pour into a stone pot. It was set directly to the hotstones of the pit to start it heating with the need for it to boil. Fingers then pushed the cork back into the mouth of the water skin then leaned again to tie it off to a peg in one of the support posts where others of wine hung there.

A throaty, warm hum emanated from her while she cut meat and vegetables on a large flatstone that served as a crude surface for that preparation. Where some yearned to flee their constraints of position, Ghetra was one that strove to succeed within those confines. Firelight glinted off of her metal wristcuffs while she worked with the food. The light of the day earlier noted had told her that the hunting party would soon be back, and with it, her lord and Master.

(Completed)

[Sjira]

(Posted: Thu Jun 28, 2012 11:35 pm )

(Told progressively from Winter to s'jira's return to RhyDin)

The Search For The Fire-Flower

Fierce fires burned in the stone braziers that stood as tall as 'jira ever would be. The thrumming of tribal drums on the early Spring night was as heated as the promise of the coming Summer.

The horse shifted beneath the small woman and S'jira touched that equine neck with the gentlest of fingerstips. "Be at ease, Trygg..." Lips murmured the whisper to the beast that Panther had gifted her so long ago. She heard his front, right hoof pound into the soil beneath over and over again with something mixed of nervousness and impatience.

The daughter of Llothgar felt like a stranger in the wild lands where she had never, truly been free. She watched the normally nomadic peoples move amongst the long houses and round houses in a place where they met once a year as an enormous, dysfunctional family -- and not separate tribes. As she recalled to memory, the gatherings did not go long without some kind of upset.

Leather of the saddle beneath her made faint noises as she shifted her light weight upon it, then eased down enough to drop from the back of the very tall, black horse that was laid with a bed roll, packs of food, and more. With care not to do so too quickly, 'jira made her way towards the buildings, tents, braziers and firepits...and the people of her homelands with a slight, uneven flittering about of her heart. S'jira had come in search of the Fire-Flower, leaving Kruger in RhyDin for possibly longer than a heart and head dare to.

The darkness of her gaze passed from left to right, beneath Trygg's head since she was so much shorter than the horse she drew alongside her as she walked nearer. The attention of others was on her immediately to see who she was or what threat she might prove. But other than cold and untrusting stares from men and women alike, none had stopped her from that approach.

The groups of men around the fires were as full of ceremony as they were crude. Furs of winter months had been shed and hunting leather britches with sleeveless vests of earthy reds, brown, and black were worn as much by the men as by the women. Even those who served drink and food did not move about with silks upon them but more sober shifts of coarse, dark cloth or work leathers.

S'jira had changed her own clothing after making her way through the stomach-lurching travels of the portal, knowing it would draw far less attention to be in a dress of work leathers with its hems to reach just above her knees than to have worn one of the shin-length dresses she often wore within RhyDin in the past, few years.

Dark layers of her hair was left unbound and free down the course of her back, except for two sections of locks braided down from her temples and pulled back to be tied off, together at their ends.

The only jewelry she wore were the two necklaces: the cat's eye and the star burst. Beyond this, nothing of great worth was on her person. Not within the barbaric lands of hunters, warriors, and gatherers.

Constantly, she searched the groups of those gathered and those taking up singular paths too and from fires, the river, and back to the meetings houses and tents. Much was still missed, as short as she was, but she strove to see if any face among them was familiar. It would not be by her vigilance that she would notice anyone. They came to notice her first.

"You are without song, white-lock."

S'jira had not been called that at all, by any one in the lands she had ever walked, but she knew it was for her. Only one lock of her hair was white and had been for a very long time. The small one slowed to a stop and held the reins in her left hand and touched Trygg's neck with her right, even as her head turned to steal a look towards the woman that had spoken.

By her appearance, her work leathers were very short and bells were fasted well about her left ankle. A brand was at her right, upper arm near her shoulder. Black hair mingled with fingers of auburn through it like a dying fire in the dark, was long and wild about the woman's face and shoulders. She carried a sack over one shoulder while arms were wrapped about a clay jug. Despite the rocks jutting out of the soil, here and there, the woman approached 'jira as if she were walking on the softest, coolest of sands.

"Song...?" S'jira glanced to the slave girl's bells and knew her meaning, then slipped a look back upwards to her face with curious caution. "Song has been missing for a very...long time." Slightly, she paused and continued. "Are any welcome during The Talks?"

The other woman, seeming a handful of years or more older than 'jira continued to look her over at length and with great study. "What is your purpose here, white-lock?" Brazen as the fires burning in the braziers not far away, she came to stand too close to s'jira.

"Please...s'jira.." Her hand lifted to touch fingerstips lightly against the line of her own collarbone, near the two pendants worn.

"Yes. The name is known. You were property to Master Gracus u'Lor."

Though it should not have mattered after all the years that had passed, the small one gently corrected the girl. "Not to Master Gracus, but his to his brother, Master Kiroth u'Lor."

"This is known as well." The girl rounded s'jira and the horse, smiling easily over the saddle and back of the mount with her height being a bit more than 'jira's. "Do you seek either of them, then? Perhaps another Master? " The woman's nose wrinkled as if a foul smell had wafted her way. "Though she have the smell of a free-born about you and you are probably ruined to these things, yes?" Laughter sounded and bells called when the woman turned slightly and repeated herself. "What is your purpose here?"

"To search for a sister of blood. To find one called Se'vrasi."

"Se'vrasi? Fire-flower..." Something in the other woman's face sobered and she regarded s'jira with narrowing, curious eyes of dark green. "It's not known if she's here, white-lock. But we will find out. Together, yes?" With that, she caught her by the arm and drew her towards the largest of the meeting houses.

Torrent Sun and Soothing Wind

Days had bled into weeks before 'jira had realized the passage of time. None had seen her sister, Se'vrasi, but always there was a possibility or a hint of a notion to check with this person, or that.

As there was no tracking of days like there was in other lands, it wasn't until the blossoms were growing from the great trees and the golden grasses on the plains had reached waist-high upon her that one of many letters from Kruger began to make their way to her. By those signs, it must have been a few months into the year much like it would have been in RhyDin.

How or the why of the young man conveying them to her left her bewildered each and every time for the boy did not speak, knew her seemingly on site, and stayed only long enough to put the missives within her hands.

Each time, she watched the young man leave as quickly, swiftly as he had come to find her. The ways of RhyDin were strange, magical and mystical. Sometimes, it was better not to know how things came to be.

But the first time, it had not been one letter but a few of them. And with each she received so far from the the place she had come to call home, each letter weighed more and more with hope and sometimes despair.

Guilt riddled her more and more with each word read and felt. Soon, she would return soon. The letters were neatly folded and tucked away into one of the packs she had brought with her.

The small one gently, softly touched the leather of the pack and stood. "Hopefully soon, these eyes will see you again, beloved Kruger." There was work to be done, her keep to be earned if she was to continue to travel with one of the tribes to a meeting place to the south-east where there was word her sister had been taken and travelled to.

As much as a heart wrenched and ached, she kept to that path to see where the gods would lead her.

[] An unfinished tale at this time.[]

[Sjira]

(Originally posted 2012)

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, girl?"

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.

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...to the mountains, Master."

Gracus u'Lor frowned down at the dark head of hair belonging to one of those who served the tents of Se'Leqi. The best of those who served him. 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 her and looked out towards the mountains for himself. "What else 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 of those Masters should learn to walk quieter..."

"Or they might find my blade between their ribs?" One eye narrowed at her.

She did not need to look up to his face to feel the he was not angry with her. In some things, and after so long in Gracus' shadow, at his side, she could feel and anticipate a great many thing. 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. The warrior within reach had been seen exacting his skills in battle or deep in his cups and still clear-headed enough to always see the morning's light as victor of conversation, bartering, games of bones, or anything else.

"Come, there is still much to do and you smell of meat and blood still." He slanted a look at her.

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. "As you say, 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."

Like a feline usually on the balls of her feet and toes, she was usually smooth in her steps. If anyone was looking at her in that moment, they might have seen a flaw, the very smallest flaw, in her footing. A grin started at her lips and was already in her gaze that was watching the ground and where he walked.

She was to dance at some point for the mountain tribe! If he wanted her to dance for them, he had a reason or more for that. It was never just for them to watch her dance. Perhaps he wanted to see who the greediest, weakest, and most vulnerable were amongst these of the mountain tribe.

A sound of laughter left her, so quiet but it was rich and warm. It was full of excitement and anticipation. 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!

[Sjira]

******

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. She 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.

The girl was anything but gentle.

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 head of a sharl'shan. 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.

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.

[Sjira]

******

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 lightly 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.

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, 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.

[Sjira]

******

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 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---"

[Sjira]

******

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, it literally meant, and the way he said it was meant with a fondness that was rare from him.

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. "As you wished it, Master Gracus."

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. "It is understood, 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 and his tone was flat. "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."

His permission to be that bold and open, to show that conviction for all to see when unveiled made her heart soar. 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." The promise was made with steadiness and certainty. 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. With haste now."

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!

(To be continued...!)