“Thank you my dear!” Her voice slithered through the bustling and rustling of the tavern’s folk who enjoyed the fineries and fancies awaiting at the end of their long days. The feeble creature, a gobokh born and altered by the cruel, cold nature of the north smiled back at the handsome girl appearing no older than thirty with a fair, almost pale visage blemished only by the smeared dirt clearly not there from harsh work outside the perimeters of Aimirion, the capital city of the eastern regions of the north.
On her slender, petite form a common, thick woolen coat twisted and turned with dirty fur trims, a thick and high collar growing from the broadish and featureless shoulders draping thickly over the sleeves, bosom and back hidden vaguely by the bland white shawl and the collapsing hood from which her hair dark as the brilliant night tumbled forth on the right side, its silken locks glinting as the candlelight and the arkhaine stones glow shone on them. Though it seemed to the gobokh servant the light could not penetrate through fully the shadows shrouding her handsome visage, still he was bewitched by those graceful and kind black eyes and wide, lustrous lips curving into an enchanting smile.
“Take these!” Eyes which reflected a morose empathy, bordering yet not a pity whilst her frail hands moved with languid grace as she placed five silver coins in the shapes of snowflakes on the table, each with differing amounts of tallies graven into their gleaming surfaces. He wanted to take it, but the scars of precise, binding runes squashed his desires with a torrent of mild pain and aching. “I cannot take it m’lady, but I thank you for your kindness.” He then bowed with a grimace telling of his many pains whilst holding the oaken tray against his bosom.
Her eyes followed the gobokh for a while as he disappeared in the lively crowd, returning to the side of his master. Even her fingers furled and her furtive gaze was laced with disgust and anger for a mere moment before it mellowed out as the door flung open followed by the silence of the hearty folk and the cold winds blowing their furtive winds, trying to snuff the candles with no apparent success. Standing in the door, a tall aevhe stood in his dazzling panoply of many refined plate segments, a thick cloak draped over it as his fair pinkish skin appeared a regal red as the freezing wind assaulted the face carven with magnificence of Maerhia and the menacing, slender contours of dragons.
A stern expression shrouded his face before it had fallen and his voice boomed through the silence with a merry tone. “Mind me not my friends, cease not your jolly time!” A heartful bellow greeted the tall aevhe, the clanking of his plates drawn out by the it as he stepped forth the precipice. “Now, Largruck the first round is on me!” Then as he reached the counter after jostling through the mass, he said placing a hefty sack of coins on the rough surface which the dwarf quickly took and counted with a wide grin beneath the lush and rough beard.
His attention – secretive and probing – flickered between the friends beneath him and the lone maiden sitting in the corner, alone strangely. The one who upon their gazes meeting and a secret understanding formed, stood up with half her wine finished and with graceful, but languid movements slipped past the group flocking towards the counter. She faltered before the first step and took one more glance, her lips moving and forming silent words reaching the mind and ear of the aevhe whose cheeks reddened and his eyes reflecting a hidden tiredness easing before turning back as he joined the serenade of clashing kegs, drinks spilling on the floor and counter and the joyful laughs as the troubles melted from the hearths of men and women.
After a few drinks shared with his people, he excused himself though many failed to notice in their drunkenness as he hurried towards the stairs, his limbs shaking from excitement and the desires suppressed for the past few decades he spent away from his dear home.
**
The two laid in the wide bed, the rough lining not so pleasant against their bare skin, yet their passion for each other overcame the discomfort whilst the cold air and the cool light of the Lunarius shone on the two lovers. Her slender arms gently wrapped around his honed frame adorned by scars, bite marks on his right forearm where tendon and marrow had to be regrown. Similarly, his legs were adorned by the marks of painful memories when crude, obsidian spears crafted from a malevolent material of the outer realms pierced through, inflicting him with long lasting wounds on his body and mind in tandem.
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“What ails your mind, my beloved Aimaar?” She asked, her cushion soft lips brushing against his neck, her pleasantly cold breath spreading and tickling, yet his gaze focused on the door. In the shadows of the dim room, lit only by the light of Lunarius, horrid shapes moved in the shadows, just like in the far south, in the opulent black pyramid of the wicked Pharaoh who resisted the dream of his kind. The smell of rotten flesh still burned his ears, the screams of his comrades echoed in his ears, a distant cry through time and space as he gazed with an apologetic look at the pale visage cleaned off by the saccharine sweat.
“Apologies my love.” He began, relapsing in silence, his head jerked up softly as he listened in the pervading silence. “The horrors of the campaign seemed to follow me home, that is all. But with you on my bosom my dear Mircalla, I feel them fading into the distance of land and history.” Their lips locked together for a short moment, they breath tantalizing to each clashed in a flurry of passion before they parted.
“I missed you so much, I have dreamt of you often, even awake in the harsh desert, under the searing gaze of the Illius.” He continued, a smile curving onto the young servant’s lips as she placed her head on his bosom, her hair spreading like a dark, wild storm of silken. “I too dreamt of you many a night.”
“What dreams did you had, if you don’t mind the question my love?” He asked, his curiosity awakened by the warm surprise.
“Some filled me with worry as I watched you march with the golden legionariir, worry borne of a queer perception of beings, monsters lurking and slithering beneath those gleaming and colorful dunes. Dreams of you meandering in narrow places where shadows veiled surreptitious creatures that should not exist.” A regret formed in him as he noticed the solemn turn in her eyes, avoiding his gaze.
Though before he could stop her from continuing, from evoking these nightmares, he found himself silent. “But then these dreams ceased and came those which filled me with hope, sent clearly by Septurrion and his ilk where I saw you and your comrades beating back, banishing these horrors, showing light to the blinded and heralding dawn upon the darkened vistas of the far-south. And I saw you hopeful, relieved as the end came with the three blows of the horn which boomed through space and time.”
“Bless the Hands that weave fate and our dreams.” Was all he uttered as his gentle grip tightened around the Mircalla, the servant girl whom he had fell in love with the first day she applied to serve his family. That warmth spring day of the Divine Mother still lingered in his mind, the moment he watched from his second-floor window as the feeble girl climbed the long stairs stretching down the hill with supple, languid movements. Her rapid breath creating the image of dragons bellowing fire with each mist that shot forth her lips while beads of sweat trickled down her unblemished forehead, wiped away by the dark handkerchief.
In his eyes, she was a small bird which made its way into the lair of dragons, fear in her heart yet she swallowed it and moved on with a determination he could not grasp until he himself walked in the same shoes in the past decades. Walking through the desert, under the blazing light and heat, above where the great worms slither and gnaw at the earth, and seeing them swallow a battalion deepened his respect and love towards this bird who appeared before him when the cooling enchantments of his gilded helmet conceded in the battle against the rays of the Illius.
“What dreams you had of me?” Then she asked as she raised above him like a prowling beast, a reassuring faux smile planting mellowing seeds as his hands gently stroked her sides and pulled her closer. “Simple, mundane ones that eased my poisoned mind.” As their lips locked once more, he went silent and the two wrestled passionately before they fallen on their sides, their eyes locked full of mirth. “I dreamt of you being there by my side, your cold hands a savior to my searing flesh and skin boiling under my tunic and plates; of me not being alone in the twisting tunnels gnawed not by worms but worse, a guiding light where light is drunk by the rancorous darkness. And even a confirmation that all the struggles may have worth it, knowing you awaited my return.”
“Good.” She whispered, confusing him for a bit, though the desire to ask never formed in his mind. Aimaar simply wished to enjoy the moment, before the two contended in passion, before the first light of the dawn began to banish the darkness and heralded the day in which they had to return to be master and servant.