Fisted Conversations

"Did I tell you how those Paravaci wear so much jewelry?" I was currently holding the string of bells around my ankle, toying with one of the whorls of metal that created such a delicate tone. Dee sat opposite me, relaxing with a bota of water, within the wide open space of the slave wagon. It was lesson time, that time of day when we worked specifically on some idea or movement or position that Dee thought I should know as the slave of Fonce of the Tuchuk. She told me she had heard of their penchant for all things gaudy and expensive looking, though she had never seen it first hand. Then she told me sometimes I would be asked to move in such a way that my bells would make -no sound at all.- I thought surely she must be kidding, but she assured me she was not. I studied those little songmakers dubiously, wondering if I could ever master the finesse it would require to do such a thing.

It was not the first thing that had stumped me. Many other things seemed beyond my reach and capabilities and more than once I found myself clenching my hands into fists of determined frustration. I was capable enough in the matters of kneeling, standing, walking. Capable, but that grace and confidence, that sensual demeanor, were not yet mine. I wondered if it was my upbringing, or something in my composition, that prevented me from being able to move my body like a smoky tendril captured on a tropical breeze.

Dee asked me if I was a virgin. "Of course I am," came out quickly. Dee looked at me with a quirked brow, and I felt the heat creep upward from some place around the neckline of tunic I wore. This is definitely one of those differences between a woman meant for companionship and a slave. Dee suggested that as I learned more of such things, I might learn to move differently as well. There is both a woman and a girl within me. I felt all the girl at that moment, eager at fifteen to touch and learn everything, and yet so unaware. Then I thought of how I might learn of such things, and everything....changed.

Dee had gone to find her Master, leaving me to my own thoughtful rhythms. Ringing out through the conglomeration of wagons, the drums beat a tune of urgent notes, seeming to match the rapid pounding of my heartbeat. I had found a few tunics piled up in the corner of the Brave Warrior's wagon when I prepared His furs, and the dust that burst free from just a touch convinced me that they were in need of washing. I knew we were not near a stream, but the water barrel was quite full and would give me enough buckets full to do the job. I was rinsing out the last one, having draped all the others over the railing, when a voice boomed from over my right shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

I jumped, having been lost in the sensations that accompanied doing such a task, captured in the lingering memory of essence of the Warrior, and clearly not expecting anyone nearby. I told the burly man that now was standing right next to me that I was just washing tunics. I shifted uneasily under his scowling look, setting those melodious chimes to brrring softly. The scowl deepened, and the back of his hand met my cheek in a dull sickening thud. I fell back, as much in surprise as from the force of the impact, hearing him among all the throbbing in my ears, "there is a water shortage, do you not hear the drums?"