Rianaire looked at the tiny thing before her and then to the loose piles of skin and meat and fur and the legend of story and song who was loosing the contents of her stomach as fast as she could.
Rianaire smiled first and then laughed, uncontrollably. “I suppose we should go and find our carriage, then.”
U
Aile
The ride across the plains had worn on her and Aile was beginning to grow tired of travel by chariot. There was no possible way of sitting or standing that could be counted as comfortable. With nothing to lean against or rest upon the reality of the ride was hours spent standing, having her bones crack against one another at even the smallest pit or bump. She was sturdy enough that it had not worn on her before and among the sands of the White Wastes, there was little to complain about aside from grit and wind and boredom. But now the ground was cold and hard and the gross inefficiencies of satyr construction were making themselves painfully apparent.
The smoke from the horde was significant and was plain from a distance. Aile was curious to have seen it from so far out and when the camp came into view, she saw why. She could not know exact numbers but there must have been hundreds swarming around campfires spread over the area liberally, with space to spare between them. A chariot left the camp riding quickly directly at them and the horses slowed of their own accord bringing Aile and Ilkea to a stop amid dying grass.
A woman satyr had been sent to see to them, well-muscled and scarred across her entire body. She looked at Aile once and spit before turning to Ilkea. It was satyr tongue. She was annoyed to be reliant on only body language. It was often straightforward enough with satyr but trusting the past to prove out the future was how the ground gathered its meals. She seemed to chastise at first until Ilkea pulled one of the papers from her pack and said some words. Aile could not see the letters clearly from where she sat, so a calm hand slid to her hip and the hilt of a small dagger. The woman refused the paper and pointed toward the camp before riding off back to where she’d come.
“She says we must deliver it there.” Ilkea pointed to the camp.
A warm tingle ran through her at the thought of it and Aile rubbed a hand against her crotch. Ilkea set out ahead of her and the chariot followed. She was curious, though. Her minder had not hesitated at all. Perhaps she was taking to the idea of seeing her dead. The edge of the camp was a curious place for it, but she was close enough now that flight would require more than just turning the horse and being on her way.
Aile kept her quiet as they came to the edge of the camp. When the chariots had been taken, the satyr who saw to the horses pointed across the yard at a waiting man. Curiously light on fur for a satyr and much more well-groomed than she had ever seen. They approached and all the while Aile kept her hands casually over a weapon.
As Ilkea reached the man she hurriedly handed him the paper which he read over carefully before frowning as though something about it disappointed him. He spoke to Ilkea in the satyr tongue again. If they were questions, they were pointed, almost annoyed.
“You, hello.” The words were thick and awkward and slowly remembered, but they were not elftongue. It was Drow that he spoke. She could barely understand it through the harsh throat of a satyr. “I am pleased. You come. Very happy.”
He spoke as a child might and the curiousness of it made Aile all the more wary. She had heard her native language only rarely in the time since she left the Blackwood and she had not expected to hear it among a horde near the border of the river elf lands. She looked around the camp, unsure of what to make of things. The marquees that denoted the presence of centaur were certainly around but she had been brought into the camp. And now a satyr spoke to her in a language he could not have come by easily.
“I… I… do make sense?”
She was loathe to reply to him in Drow, so she tried elf words. “You make enough sense, yes.”
He cocked his head to the side and looked to Ilkea who spoke back at him, using centaur words instead of her own. He clicked at her, annoyed, and said something in satyr. It was a curious circle of languages that had begun to wear on her nerves.
“He does know the elf words, he says.” Ilkea looked at her a moment and the man spoke again.
“I… am Harekor. My pleasure… to see you.” He bowed.
Aile watched the spectacle still and wary. He stared at her expectant and smiling, clearly pleased with himself. She sighed deeply.
“You disgust me.” She said the words in Drow and stared at him.
He knew the words were of the language he wanted, but could not place them. She could see the search for meaning on his face and could only guess he had decided that whatever it meant, she had spoken to him in Drow. He laughed like young elf girls laughed when young elf boys fondled them in the dark and trotted in place, clapping stupidly and smiling moreso.
“A meal. You…” He pointed to her as though she was the one who didn’t know the language. “Eat?” He motioned to his mouth and she thought of cutting his throat. “Special. Special meal.” He nodded enthusiastically.
“Fine,” Aile said, and when he did not understand she sighed again. “Yes.”
He chittered high and bobbed his head. “Good, yes. Yes. Good. I make. You stand.”
The satyr ran off and left Aile standing with Ilkea who
