Chapter One: Cold Fire
A black paw reached down to a belt, pulling out a short knife. It's keeper gazed over the silent desert from the "safety" of a tent. The Anthromorphic canine returned to the task at hand: carving nutmeg into warm milk.
Haarim leaned back, leather covering her torso, shoulders, and legs creaking. Her bow, quiver filled with arrows, and trusty sword were by her side.
Her strange, ice-flow eyes gazed like cold fire over the lands. She'd been separated from her master in the last sand storm. Sand storms could go to the Underworld.
She was black, with a brown "mask and blaze", and underbelly. A small, golden hoop earring adorned her left ear, but no other jewelry was to be seen.
The night was peaceful: no other sound but the sound of her camel shifting on the sands. The full moon cast a luminescence over the landscape.
A sigh raked through Haarim's throat. She, too, was an Arcadian. Though more… Furry. There were Anthros too equal numbers of humans: just more enigmatic. She, of course, was one of them.
On any average night, she would be star gazing. But now, these darkened hours would be devoted to planning.
There was a price on her throat, of course, but that wasn't what the canid was worried about. She had known the Man all her life, and that knowledge was not going to end here.
Camel (because she could think of no other name for the beast) gurgled from outside the tent. His rider poked her head out. "Camel! Quiet!" She talked in complete sentences most times. Now wasn't one of those times.
Now, her thoughts would not be devoted to the forming of words. Rather, the forming of ideas.
Her master often hailed her as a dare devil, and equally often had to throw a lasso of sorts around her neck to prevent her from barging in, face first into battle.
And also, there was the omniscient idea of showing her the ropes of their cave-castle. Haarim had more than once slipped into a sand-pit, caught her ankle caught, throat grabbed, or flesh scored by the many booby- traps till countless slashes, bruises, and a broken rib later, shed learned how to traverse the fortress with ease.
A smile traced over her maw. 'Live free; die well'. If by life or death she would make sure those words held out for her master.
A black paw reached down to a belt, pulling out a short knife. It's keeper gazed over the silent desert from the "safety" of a tent. The Anthromorphic canine returned to the task at hand: carving nutmeg into warm milk.
Haarim leaned back, leather covering her torso, shoulders, and legs creaking. Her bow, quiver filled with arrows, and trusty sword were by her side.
Her strange, ice-flow eyes gazed like cold fire over the lands. She'd been separated from her master in the last sand storm. Sand storms could go to the Underworld.
She was black, with a brown "mask and blaze", and underbelly. A small, golden hoop earring adorned her left ear, but no other jewelry was to be seen.
The night was peaceful: no other sound but the sound of her camel shifting on the sands. The full moon cast a luminescence over the landscape.
A sigh raked through Haarim's throat. She, too, was an Arcadian. Though more… Furry. There were Anthros too equal numbers of humans: just more enigmatic. She, of course, was one of them.
On any average night, she would be star gazing. But now, these darkened hours would be devoted to planning.
There was a price on her throat, of course, but that wasn't what the canid was worried about. She had known the Man all her life, and that knowledge was not going to end here.
Camel (because she could think of no other name for the beast) gurgled from outside the tent. His rider poked her head out. "Camel! Quiet!" She talked in complete sentences most times. Now wasn't one of those times.
Now, her thoughts would not be devoted to the forming of words. Rather, the forming of ideas.
Her master often hailed her as a dare devil, and equally often had to throw a lasso of sorts around her neck to prevent her from barging in, face first into battle.
And also, there was the omniscient idea of showing her the ropes of their cave-castle. Haarim had more than once slipped into a sand-pit, caught her ankle caught, throat grabbed, or flesh scored by the many booby- traps till countless slashes, bruises, and a broken rib later, shed learned how to traverse the fortress with ease.
A smile traced over her maw. 'Live free; die well'. If by life or death she would make sure those words held out for her master.