Great plumes of smoke, malformed basalt pillars, rose skyward from the devastation, choking out the suns. Swaying gently, breasts heaving from exertion, I surveyed the carnage around me. The once serene ground of our Twin Suns Winter campsite was destroyed, overturned and stained from the previous battle. Covered in soot and mud, battered and bruised, skin decorated from arterial sprays as red as the God Sun, as crimson as my hair, I absentmindedly noted that the rivulets of blood flowed through muddy troughs in the disturbed soil, forming scarlet rivers.
“Kyrie, I’m finished. I’m of no use to you.” Keetara, my mentor, coughed out in painful agony.
Her bark-brown hair was matted, entrails caking her tresses. Her right arm was rent, shattered bone protruding from her skin, a huge gash from navel to knee. She could not walk, leaning heavily on Gerwin, the master weaver. Of the dozen of us settlers, only three remained.
The raiders wore the Imperial colors of Valencia. They desired neither sanctuary, nor food, nor a camp with their allies. The three-score soldiers sought blood and carnage; their wishes had been granted. The few surviving attackers had been routed, retreating as fast as their horses could carry them, southward, towards the capitol in Longvale. The treaty had been violently broken.
Expecting an easy quarry, only a platoon of Reavers, the empire’s best troops, had been sent. They had guessed that a Duel-dancer might have been among our ranks; they were quite despondent when they realized that three of us knew the dance of the Sky-steel. Of their original sixty, only four had escaped the music of our blades. Rather than mere Flame-dancers, the smiths of our clan, those that knew the secrets of forming sky-steel, and hunters, they met the full fury of Duel-dancers. The axiom, “one does not provoke a Soul-dancer lightly,” was edified in the conflict.
Of our original dozen, only three remained, myself, Keetara, my dance instructor, severely wounded, and Gerwin, the Cloth-dancer. Artoon, the other Duel-dancer and a Soul-dancer, lay on the funeral pyre, having slain nearly a score of the invaders by himself. I did not disgrace my clan. Despite not being fully trained, I had accounted for eight of the Reavers, myself.
“Blood for blood,” Keetara said to me. “Honor demands vengeance.” She smiled, her mouth crimson with blood. “Remember what I taught you. Engage…”
“Brain before steel,” I finished.
I am Kyrie, born under the zenith of the God Sun, raised in the ways of my clan, the Soul Dancers, sometimes referred to as the Clandancers. We are a fiercely independent people, bending neither will nor knee to any but our elders. Our traditions and history are told through dance, our pursuits are taught through ritualized dance. I am a Duel-dancer, trained in the art of blade and battle. I am also a Flesh-dancer, one that moves her body to the rhythm of music. Being not quite yet ten turns of age, I haven’t yet reached the pinnacle of my clan’s artistry; perhaps I never shall.
Our dead honored, our attackers left to rot beneath the twin suns, Gerwin and I collected the blades of the fallen; Sky-steel is one of the most treasured things in all the realm, not allowed to casually fall into the hands of kingdom-dwellers. Rigging a cart to carry the wounded Keetara, I bade them farewell. They would return to the North, reuniting with our people. As the sole, able-bodied Duel-dancer left, the geas of retribution fell upon me.
Searching the remnants of Fyonair’s forge, he having been a fire-dancer, adept at forging weapons and armor, I discovered the beginnings of what was to be my armor when I passed the final test of bloodying my sword. That task completed, the armor was now mine to claim. It was, regretfully, unfinished. The fine links, lighter and stronger than normal steel, barely covered my chest, the bottom skirt hardly begun, merely a loincloth of metal beneath my waist. Nonetheless, it was mine to claim by the rite of trial and honor, having danced through battle, earning my position of honor.
Stripping the bodies of the invaders, kicking their lifeless husks down the ravine, I claimed several coins and an amulet bearing the Imperial crest of Valencia. This meant that the new Empress, herself, was behind the breaking of the treaty. As she was ultimately responsible, it was she who would ultimately pay. The coinage was for supplies. The satisfaction of clan honor does not have a price, but it does have expenses.
I found and befriended a half-wild, half-crazed roan stallion. It had belonged to one of the Reavers; I didn’t hold that against the horse. Stripping it of armor and regalia, treating his burned mane, I climbed into the ill-fitting saddle, waved farewell to my clan folk, and turned south. Less than a mile south, I stopped and turned northeastward, towards the free kingdom of Harkeep. The surviving Imperial troops would be headed towards the city of Valencia in Longvale, for reinforcements, seeking safety behind high, thick walls. Suffering from myriad superficial wounds, exhausted and weak, I needed to heal, to plot, to plan.
Engage brain before blade, were my thoughts as I headed to the wilder lands, away from prying eyes.
As I rode my roan, I pondered myriad things. The yellow, Mortal Sun was growing smaller by the day, the red God Sun beginning to dominate the skies. The twin-winter, shared by both suns, was drawing to a close. It had been a mild winter, snow only falling once, not even blanketing the earth. One could count few fingers the times a cloak was needed or fire for warmth, rather than for company.
This was to be my tenth God Sun cycle in the great turning, the cycle where my Soul-dancing was most likely to manifest, if I tranced at all. Not all Soul-dancers have the ability, and I was yet young, too young to tell for certain.
Born in the equinox of the red God Sun, when the Mortal Sun is not visible in the sky, when the last Emperor, Rodrick the fifth, emerged victorious from the Ascension Wars, due, in large part, to the Soul-dancers forging Sky-steel weapons for his troops, I had all the signs of a fiery Duel-dancer. Lithe in figure, strong and limber, hair the color of the red sun, I almost instantly found my true passions. The dances of battle thundered in my veins, the dances of the flesh possessed my body.
Raised in the “gifted” lands, territory in the northern reaches of Longvale, bestowed upon to us in exchange for our military aid, I knew the ways of our clans but had never visited our homeland. We had been promised that the lands were ours until both suns fell from the heavens and the mountains eroded to plains.
For ten great turnings of the suns, forty seasons, we had lived in peace and prosperity. King Rodrick passed into the great void under dubious circumstances; his eldest daughter, Cintra the Mortal-Haired, took the throne. Her reign resurrected the old ways, the cruel times; fealty was demanded, tithes were extolled. Our treaty promised neither. Rather than diplomatic envoys, her prized butchers were sent. She had begun the dance; I was the Soul-dancer. One does not cross us lightly.
It would be a few day’s ride to the border, still longer before I reached any settlement. Harkeep loses little love over the Empire of Valencia; I would be somewhat safe there until I was ready to strike. I plotted and planned for several days.
Game was plentiful, water in abundance. No marauders sought my demise; no bandits accosted me. The few creatures or people I encountered ignored me or waved cheerily. I thought of my quest and Keetara often.
Keetara had been my dance instructor, teaching me the various Duel-dances. She also helped me discover my trance. All Soul-dancers find various emotions that inspire them. Gerwin took inspiration from his great love of beauty and family; Keetara’s soul-dance was rooted in her driving fury. My inspiration came from within, the pleasure centers of my body. Rare, but not unknown, my Soul-dance was called the Untamed. My passion was rooted in my passion.
My swordplay was rooted in writhing, undulating dances, lusty and passionate. My Flesh-dances were mesmerizing, my entire essence succumbing to the heat of my torrid passions. I was only the third known untamed in my clan, the only living one born under the zenith of God Sun.
After four days, the river ferried, I crossed into Harkeep, unmolested, unchallenged. The God Sun dominated the sky; the Mortal Sun waned into a small ball of yellow fire; The God Spring erupted around me with explosions of life and color. Berries, game, and warm nights were plentiful.
On the sixth day, the brilliant crimson sun setting, leaving only the pale illumination of the moon and the fading Mortal sun, a lasting spring twilight, I came to the bawdy tavern known as the Crossroads. Famous in all the realm, catering to the powerful and affluent, the Crossroads is known for its fine, hearty fare, exotic ales and wines, and pleasures to delight the senses, including pleasures of the flesh. While those comforts were enticing, I mainly sought the comfort of a warm bath, a soft bed sheltered from the elements, and the renowned safety of the tavern.
A walled manor house of hand-hewn stone, rising three stories high, surrounded by stout walls, the Crossroads tavern was some ancient Lord’s estate, converted, over the centuries, into a thriving stopover for travelers and revelers. Patrolling guards could be seen in the distance; the sounds of mayhem, joyous celebration, could be heard. Donning a dark, woolen cloak to hide my Sky-steel demi-armor, I strapped my sword, recently named Splinter because when the edge met bone, that’s exactly what happened, to my back.
The guards manning the open portcullis nodded as I passed, smiling. The once-lavish courtyard was a bustling scene. Merchants, traders, and smiths had set up shop in the courtyard. Drunken revelers meandered aimlessly about, many of them with half-undressed painted ladies in their arms. Drunken fistfights to my left contrasted to the moaning trollops to my right, lost in the throes of the world’s oldest profession, enthusiastically giving their all.
Tethering my roan near the blacksmith’s lean-to, his hammer still working glowing steel, I addressed him. “My roan needs new shoes, how much?”
He stopped his clang-clanging and eyed me up hungrily. Cut and healing thighs bared, my taut stomach exposed, my mail top only half-concealing my nude breasts, I was shocked that, even in this den of delight, he took the time to single me out for his lusty appraisal. “Eight coppers unless you have other skills.”
Wagging a negative finger at him, coin bag emptied upon his anvil, I had just enough coinage.
“Nice horse, that,” he mumbled through rustic teeth. “What’s its name?”
“Fire Mane,” I responded, recalling its mane singed from the fires. Turning on my heel, cloak flapping like star-wren wings around me, I strode across the courtyard, marveling at the scenes of debauchery before me.
“Hold it right there, slut,” a half-drunken voice said with commanding authority. The three armed men manning the entrance were eyeing me up with lusty hunger and crooked, toothless smiles. The owner of the inebriated voice was a paunchy man, dressed in brigandine that had seen better days. His mail coif was crude, rusting, and in need of repair. His large sword was a few inches out of the scabbard, his right hand at the ready.
“Give me your name, doxy.” He eyed me up, noting the bottom of my breasts swelling under my much more delicately wrought Sky-steel mail, drooling over my fiery pubes showing through my scanty chain loincloth.
“Kyrie,” I said to him, smiling. “I seek food and refuge within.”
Behind him, at the top of the five stairs leading to the entrance, one of the others, clad in mail with a spangenhelm and spear, rifled through some papers. He shook his head negatively.
“Ain’t no Kyrie on the list, you l’il strumpet. Two gold talons for entry, unless you want to trade your services.” the first one said with a tone that made me feel uncomfortable.
“What services?”
He pulled up the front of his protective armor, showing a very tiny swell in his pants. “Kiss my snake,” he said. The others laughed, adding crass commentary, musing over my oral skills.
Stepping forward, I reached towards his groin, a cruel smile upon my lips. I hefted it in my hand, feeling its pathetic swell in my grip.
“That’s not a snake,” I guffawed. “More like a little worm. No wonder your sword’s so big, are we compensating?”
“I’ll fuck your dead skull, whore,” he shouted. He unsheathed his sword; I mentally lamented over its poor condition.
I pirouetted back, Splinter, my thin blade of Sky-steel gleaming in the twilight. Shirking off my impeding cloak, I stood ready for their onslaught. The other two reacted much more slowly. The spearman lowered his weapon and thrust it forward. I noted that; it made for an easy advantage as he could not thrust it towards me with his arms extended.
Onion-breath interposed his broad blade between myself and him. His grip hinted at an upward preparatory swing; I’d step in, turn and trap his blow, mid-stream, and dance my point into his kidneys. The third man turned heel and ran through the open, double doors, for reinforcements, I assumed.
“Let’s dance, you and I,” I said. I could feel the heat well up inside me, untamed. It melted my thighs, caused my body to ignite, made me lust for battle and the pleasure that would come afterward. “Two against one,” I taunted. “Not quite fair. Shall I await your reinforcements to even your odds?”
“I’ll have your blood,” he cried as he stepped forward.
His attack was crude, slow, and sloppy. A quick step and stop-thrust beat his much heavier blade aside. I danced outside of his poorly-executed attack and readied the thrust. The battle would be ended before it even began.
“STOP,” bellowed a strong, feminine voice. The voice held true authority, true power.
I obeyed out of curiosity, kicking the half-drunken doorman to the ground, my knee impacting the worm between his legs.
“Lower your weapon, you fool, “she said to the spearman.
She stood tall and proud, regal. Graying hair, once Mortal Sun yellow, cascaded around a delicately-featured face, gray eyes glowing like soft, ash. Her dress was of yellow velvet, all finery, suitable for royalty. She held a jeweled, silver chalice in one hand. She was smiling with true amusement, coupled with a stern, commanding visage directed at her guards.
“Jacquil, you’d be a corpse right now if I hadn’t intervened,” she addressed my attacker. “Lower your weapons, boys, before you see why the Clandancers are so feared.”
“The whore’s a Clandancer?” came the spearman’s incredulous voice.
“Yes,” she said levelly. “With a sword forged of Sky-steel, as well.” She addressed me. “You’re a Duel-dancer, are you not?”
I nodded, sword still held at the ready.
She smiled at me, glanced around. “You can lower your sword. They won’t hurt you; I doubt they could. Follow me.”
Sheathing Splinter on my back, I shrugged, helped my drunken adversary to his feet, and followed. The third guard had emerged, both he and his spear-wielding companion giving me wide berth. I had to stifle a laugh when I shot them a venomous glare, causing them to jump back in startled fear.
The interior was utter, blissful, chaos. A great hall, lined with balconies overlooking the flagstone shot upwards, the ceiling beams mostly concealed by smoke. Huge fireplaces with roaring bonfires dotted the sides, the center crowded by minstrels, with buxom, lithe maidens of every description, in various stages of exposure, darting throughout the cavernous chamber with drinks in hand, feasts upon trays, and many a spank and grope on their behinds. A sea of people dressed in roughs to courtly attire intermingled. Some danced, some cavorted, some sang; others took liberties with the harlots, working girls, at or on the tables, in their chairs, against the walls.
Many a man and wench stared at me as I followed the matron into a side-chamber. “Be seated,” she said, “and pour yourself some wine.”
I did.
“I heard the rumors that the Soul-dancer settlement in Longvale was destroyed, is that true?”
I nodded.
“There’s a bounty of ten gold talons for any Clandancer brought before the crown. Do you seek refuge? ”
I gulped the sweet, fruity wine, coughing a bit as the implications of her words set in. “No, I seek revenge.”
She laughed at that. “I’ll have none of that here. Your ambitions, as well as your fears, can be left at the doorstep when you enter the Crossroads.”
“Thank you, lady….”
“Ursula,” she informed. “I’m no lady, though. I own the Crossroads. Welcome to my humble business. Do you have your tithe?
“Perhaps we can work something out,” she continued as I shook my head negatively. “What dances do you know?”
“I am a Duel and Flesh-dancer.”
“Do you Soul-dance? Has the trance set in?”
“No, m’lady Ursula.” She smiled and nodded at that.
“You look young, how old? Eleven, maybe twelve turnings?”
“I’ll be ten this God Sun equinox.”
“Delightful! Born in the God Sun with hair to match. You’d be surprised how many of my whores rub henna in their hair and pose as one of you, you’ll be quite popular.”
She looked me up and down, waiting for me to break the silence. I did not.
“What is your trance discipline, your Soul-dance, have you found it?”
Shrugging, I told her, “I’m untamed.”
“Ha!” her peals of laughter drowned out the crowd in the main hall. “A flesh dancer, untamed, and you haven’t been married off to some king? You’re a treasure. You’ll go for a high price. “
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, so silly of me. Here’s how it works.” she refilled my tankard, filled her silvered chalice. “The patrons pay a gold talon each for entry; they also pay for their food, lodging, and meals. Any wenches or man-harlots they want are also extra, paid to the barkeep or me. Any of my working girls get free room and board, and I take a percentage of their wages when they spread their legs. If you’re not on my list, the entry is two golds. Pay now or earn, that’s the choice, even for you.”
I was insulted. “I don’t spread my legs for gold, only for pleasure. I’ll be going; perhaps I can find lodging in the village down the road.”
“Don’t be so hasty; perhaps you could dance. I’m sure you’ve danced for others. If you’re even remotely as good as the bards sing, you’ll get my paying clients all worked up and bring in lots of coin, inspire them to rut with my other girls. Deal?”
“If I dance, what do I get?”
“And they say that the Soul-dancers aren’t mercenaries! You get a private room, all the food and drink you desire, a warm bath, and a trio of bathers; how’s that?”
“Deal. Food first, though. I haven’t eaten well and will need sustenance.”
Fists touched together, formalizing our mutual oaths of honor, I was led back into the main hall. Ursula's word was good, as was her food. Feasting on roast venison and fowl, stomach warmed with hearty mead and wine, the rigors of the dust-laden road soon were washed from my throat. Handing my rare and coveted weapon to the barkeep, seeing him safely lock it, I was prepared to earn my keep, dancing the Flesh-dance, channeling my untamed passions into my movements.
Ursula cleared the revelers from the floor, hushed them, nodding at the minstrels to ready their instruments.
“I have a rare treat for you, my kings and queens,” she began. “From the wilds to the far north, where the suns always shine, and clothing is hardly ever worn,” she paused to let the crowd react, “lives a tribe of wildlings, known for being the fiercest warriors, the most passionate artisans, and famous for the skills in both dancing and weaponsmithing.
“From the reaches of the wilds, with hair the color of the God Sun, I bring you Kyrie, the Clandancer, dancing exclusively for your pleasure, doing the sensual dance of flesh.”
She paused dramatically and walked towards me. “Keep your cloak on and cowl up until the timing is right, then win them over,” was whispered to me. I stood as the musicians began a light, festive song.
“Not like that,” Ursula scolded. “She is a creature of emotion, in harmony with the wilds; play something primal, slower.”
Quickly consulting each other, they began a slow, pulsing rhythm; the hushed crowd looking on in eager anticipation. Very aware of the eyes upon me, I strode, as slowly and gracefully as I could muster, into the open spot in the middle of the floor. Hair and face hidden in my cloak, body covered except a hint of bare leg as I stepped, I absorbed the music, feeling it flow within me.
The leading beat of the drum reverberated my loins, the cascading strings of their lyres and lute tingled my hair. The woodwinds, singing soulfully slow, ethereal, ignited my flesh. My Sky-steel chain armor, little more than a wisp of a garment, felt searing against my bare, excited flesh. My breathing tuned itself to the cadence; I began to sway.
“More Clan-stander than a Clandancer,” one of the patrons erupted, igniting the heckles and jibes of others.
Ignoring their cackles and jeers, I unleashed my primal self, my internal emotions of passion guiding me. Scornfully throwing back the hood, my green eyes sought the one that hurled his ridicule, found him, smiled at him both maliciously and sensually as he cringed under my wanton, powerful gaze. His eyes lowered, eventually finding the strength to meet mine once more. Pursing my lips at him, timing it perfectly, I opened my cloak, revealing my mostly-nude body beneath, still covered in bruises and cuts. A collective gasp of appreciative awe rose.
Strutting to the beat, back arched, breasts jutting forth, I rounded the crowd, enticing them with my eyes, beckoning with my hands. The passion of my arousal, body writhing in pleasure, lungs inhaling glory, combined into fluid movements. Hips bucking in patterns, legs revealing themselves, neck offered to a lover's bite, I humped the air in lust, caressed my torso. Turning my back to them, facing the minstrels, my cloak dropped, revealing my figure. Applause and offers spewed from the throng; I ignored them, allowing my rutting desires to build, illustrated in my movements, proven in my gestures.
Dripping with lust, feeling the pre-orgasmic passion of my untamed desires possess me, I danced the dance of flesh, the dance of desire. All were affected; all grew enthralled by my lithe, animal contortions. A comely wench became my prey; she fell beneath my furious emotions of raw lust, legs spreading wide, inviting my impassioned fingers to explore her folds, her moans echoing in time with the music. My hands danced her to orgasm, leaving her wet and weak. The large, muscular, handsome man reaching for me was teased into weakness, his offer of marriage ignored, his cock hardened and leaking.
First, a coin or two fell before me, then a gentle river, finally a cascade. Paid escorts whispered into ears, their hands busy, stimulating already hardened cocks. I danced on, lost in a world of passion; the heat of both suns scalded my now-exposed flesh, my love nectar wetting the floor.
It seemed timeless; the music and my lust were all I knew, all I had ever known. Still the fires burned in my core; still, I danced to the beat of my heart, the tunes of my overpowering sexual need. The minstrels stopped their music, me ending in a flourish, one arm held high, nipples pointing skyward, my body heaving, my breath coming in sharp moans of passion.
Silence, an eternity of silence, then a cacophony of applause, hoots, hollers, and shouts permeated the air, causing quite the uproar. Weapons were thrashed against shield and armor; screamed invitations, enough bounty to buy a merchant ship, were offered for them to lay a single night with me.
One of the guards bade me be seated, promising to collect my “well-earned coin.” I took my seat off to one corner, needing to stop every few steps to have adoration poured upon me. A smiling Ursula approached.
“You’ve more than earned keep, some wine?” she plopped the uncorked, still-full bottle before me. I took a long draught. “I’ll have your room readied. Any requests for the night?”
“Yes,” I said, coming down from the all-consuming desire just barely enough to speak. “I’ll have that one, and that one, and that one over there,” I pointed, “as my bath-maidens.”
“As you wish,” she smiled. “Sentra, Adele, Miriam! You are now paid for by Kyrie, our honored guest. Report to the warrior’s suite.” They nodded, smiling at me, and ran up the stairs. I watched, locating my room, as Ursula plopped the key on my table.
My heat was still overpowering. Viewing the spectacle before me increased my need. Wenches were being taken hard and fast on tabletops, on the floor. Two men were servicing a raven-haired beauty, her tits spilling out, being fondled by onlookers. A young man, foppish in dress, was sucking the cock of another dandy. Watching silently as two women, one nude, the other bottomless, attacked a man with a mammoth cock, my hands lingered on the table, then sought the heat between my legs.
As the orgy, inspired by my Flesh-dance, conquered the flesh and loins of those in the hall, I plunged two fingers into my dripping hole, my other hand grabbing the wine bottle, rubbing it against my most sensitive spots. My untamed nature, my dance powers coming from horny lust, consumed me as I moaned aloud, my cries echoing off the smoky ceiling, others barely paying heed, lost in their passions. A hard, quick, orgasm welled up inside me, causing me to overturn the table in the throes of ecstasy. One comely whore with henna-dyed hair approached me, her lips seeking my tight, erect nipples beneath my chain top. I allowed her to touch me, suckle my tits, sending my orgasm even higher, building upon its crest, causing another wave of heated lust to explode in me.
When the throes of bliss had settled, my untamed, carnal passions barely under control once more, I retrieved my sword, Splinter, and ascended the stairs, retiring to my room. My three companions for the night were already nude, kissing and caressing each other. A large heated bath, more than spacious enough for all four of us, was steaming nicely, smelling of flowers and exotic oils. They beckoned with enthusiasm and lust-filled faces.
Cloak discarded, chainmail loincloth dropped, Sky-steel bra-top untied, I climbed over the high, tiled wall that bordered the bath, descending the steps into the hot, sweet-smelling water.
“First a bath, then we’ll address my lust.”
Six hands bathed me, caressed me, teased my now-hot and clean flesh into raw desire. I bathed them chatting with one another, getting to know them before I tasted their delights. A small fire in a diminutive hearth cast a live, warm glow, adding sensuality to the already sensual, shapely women attending me. The grime of travel washed off me by tender, feminine hands, I climbed out of the bath and lay on the bed.
“I need sex,” were my only words.
Giggling with delight, drying each other off, putting on quite a show of flesh, I awaited my paid professional lovers. My hands caressing my thighs, still throbbing pussy set once more aflame, I watched as they kissed and fondled each other, hips humping against hands, moans loosed into kissing mouths, fingers probing, hands roaming.
Again, six hands caressed me, not the gentle, loving, tender hands of being bathed but eager, aroused hands exploring the contours of my nude body. Dripping cunt lowered to my mouth, I lapped the folds with untamed abandon, another hand groping an unseen breast, nipple growing hard beneath my fingers.
First lips, gently then with more urgency, kissed my dripping cunt, followed by a gentle, flicking tongue that spread my intimate petals invitingly. Feeling a soft, perfectly canted finger invade my soaked canal, I moaned into the humping flesh grinding over my mouth. As my hips bucked in ecstasy, my blond-haired strumpet rode my face, her juices coming in pulses as she collapsed over me, legs shaking, mouth moaning.
Rolling to the side, sucking my nipples hard and wet, her teeth grazing across my pleasure nubs, another hot, dripping snatch replaced her previous position. Grabbing her by the shapely hips, feeling the muscles of her legs pressing against my skull, I licked her cunt, nearly trancing out in my desire. Hands, mouths, tongues, and fingers assailed my overheated flesh, triggering an orgasm so powerful that I screamed out in lust.
Round and round we went, not a single one of us sated until we were exhausted, pleasing one another until all of us fell asleep in each other’s arms. I was thankful that the warrior’s suite had a huge bed, warm and soft, with down-filled pillows.
In the morning, the reddish haze of the God Sun filtering through the tinted window, we dined in my room, had another round of feasting upon each other, and I made to pay them.
“We cannot accept your coin,” I was told. “We should be paying you.” such is the lot of a flesh-dancer.
My wounds mostly healed, spirits high, I took Ursula’s advice and moved on. There was a price on my head of ten gold talons. Before I made my final stand, the price would be a hundred. It was with a full purse, my payment for the night’s performance, and a full stomach that I left before word of my presence reached the wrong ears. Ursula promised me shelter for a dance if my travels ever brought me near again.
Retrieving Fire Mane from his hitch, I rode off into the God Sunrise, the Mortal Sun coloring my back. The outline of a plan began to form. It would be a long, hard journey to vengeance. If I could get her attention, draw her to me, my task would be much easier than assaulting her stronghold. Laughing with the wind, Fire mane galloping with newfound glee, I turned southward once more. The capital city of Valencia was my destination. Adventure awaited.
