Sarye and Imtithal 2

[leticia]

Imtithal is not commonly an early riser, but neither is she a lag-abed. Dawn finds her uneasy and restless with the enormity of her undertaking, and she leaves early for the meeting. Especially in the dawning gloom, she will not set out alone, and she again borrows a guard - this time merely a manservant of the household - to accompany her east, to the Street of Five Lions.

She is wearing a hunter's riding leathers to reinforce the sandy tan robes she wears (the restrictive leather draws closer to her form than the robes would of their own, and is more suggestive than she would prefer), and has a bow hanging from her saddle, quiver on her back, looking for all the world like a noblewoman heading off for a pleasure-hunt -- only missing the rest of the merry company that should accompany her. Small saddlebags carry what gear is not visible - clearly not much - and her expression is composed and serene as she rides along, into the rays of the rising sun. Near the city gate, she stops, easy on the horse's back. The guards at the city's gate look curiously at her, but do not yet seek to interfere.

Sarye is waiting there, his robes set for the deserts and his sword resting easily in its sheath. There is a strange smell rising from one of his saddlebags, just under his cloth-wrapped target shield; dried meat is there, emergency rations for his simhata if it cannot find desert creatures to satisfy its hunger. The beast is omnivorous, but it must have a certain amount of protein every day. Sarye would never dream of mistreating it. If the city gate guards were curious, they may swiftly find reason to be incurious, for the perfectly behaving simhata, and the few decorations other than gold thread on his veil mark Sarye's clan for all to see, and he maneuvers his beast skillfully-- if perhaps, slightly proprietorially-- up beside Imtithal. He bows in the saddle, as does his simhata below him. "Corona and I greet you, lady of the Radeen. Shall we begin our journey?"

"Go home," Imtithal orders her manservant. "The honorable F'meeq has sworn an oath to act as my kin for the time. He will escort me for now." She waves the man off, who gives Sayre a somewhat dubious look, shrugs, and turns to walk home - unlike his mistress, he is afoot.

The lady's horse sidles sideways as the Simhata approaches, its eyes rolling back; she knees it lightly - not a well-practiced rider, but skilled enough to bring the well trained mount to calm despite the presence of the great predator beside him. "Greetings," she says, risking a slight bow despite her restive mount. "Let us go while the morning is early. It will be miserable for riding soon enough."

Imtithal eyes him curiously, waiting to see if there is a reaction to her weapon or armor, but seeing no criticism of her gear, lets her horse take a few steps forward, moving towards the gate.

Sarye expects the good lady to hunt at least-- which is important, considering his own lack there-- and truth be told, he's just as glad not to be the only one doing the fighting in the long term. "Light is a blessing, no matter the intensity, but not all can appreciate such blessings." He companionably pats Corona's thick, maned neck. "I only know the dream, my lady, you know the way. Lead on."

"My father's holdings," she says, for in her mind, they are still her father's -- despite the fact there is no one else to be custodian to the wealth her dead father owned, she is too well practiced at the role of the Delzahn female to think of it as hers, rather than her male kin's, "where the ruins are located, are two days ride east, at least for me. I suspect your elegant friend could travel the distance rather faster, but I have not ridden but occasionally since I was young." She smiles somewhat ruefully. She is, after all, city-born and female. "My father's horse, though; he is a fine beast."

The robes swing around her legs - no sidesaddle for a woman of the Delzahn; they may not get out much, but when they ride, they /ride/ - as she urges the horse up to a steady, sustainable trot. It is a mild morning so far; the heat of the desert has not yet bit into the landscape, and there are birds and insects singing that will be silent well before noon, seeking their shady spots. The dew of the evening, however sparse, marks the sandy, hard-packed road as they leave the city; if the guards remain curious, they have little desire to challenge the intentions of the F'meeq traveling with the lady, and risk his blade - or his mount. As nobles, they have the right to enter and leave the city at will, of course -- though without a male companion, Imtithal might well have difficulty convincing the guards of that.

Sarye keeps Corona matching the warhorse's speed; Corona has the sturdy endurance of all his kin, and even the heat of the oncoming morning does not bother him, despite the luxurious pelt of the beast. Sarye will communicate politely along the way but it is fairly abstract stuff; he will answer concerning politics in generalities and his clan in only the least of detail, but he will extol on the virtues of warfare and simhata in general at great length. He is never rude, never dismissive, but he does not know Imtithal well, and there are clearly things of which he Does Not Speak.

Imtithal asks many questions about the Simhata, illustrating a finely honed curiosity, and being glad to have a topic on which the F'meeq - all of them, so far as she can tell - are clearly so willing to speak at length. She seems to have little interest in /politics/, and far more in histories and facts and traditions and lore. Still, she doesn't ask twice on any subject he avoids; she has no desire to alienate her protector.

The day does, unfortunately heat up, and dust clouds the air occasionally; Imtithal falls silent and slows her horse so as not to let him strain himself in the hot, dry air. She pulls up the hood of her robe to keep the sun off her face, and riding with an arm over her nose and mouth so that the dust is filtered by her sleeve. This close to Chiaroscuro, there is little chance of great danger; the Tri-khan's troops patrol these roads regularly. They do, in fact, pass a patrol sometime after noon, though the men of the patrol simply nod politely to the riders and again, ask no questions of the F'meeq's intentions towards the woman he rides with.

Sarye is willing to speak concerning the histories and lore of the Delzahni in general-- though not specific traditions to the F'meeqi that do not involve the simhata; he seems well versed in the khakhan's cult, and even immaculate philosophy, though it's clear he views the latter with some distaste. He is honestly curious about the mechanics and technicalities of essence manipulation and rites for non-prayer supernatural effects. He seems to view it as an art form he does not possess, but can appreciate. His relationship with the spirits he speaks little of, but is apparently of a fairly personal nature.

It's easy to get Imtithal rambling about what she has studied of Essence science; she has little practical experience, but it seems a solid grounding in the fundamentals of thaumaturgical procedure and essence manipulation - and again, she's glad for a safe topic. If he does not call for a halt, she will nibble on snacks out of her saddlebags - jerky and dried fruit from An Teng for the most part, and offer him some as she rides. She may be out of practice riding for hours, but none the less, she has decent stamina - and a driven reason to continue; the time is not urgent, but nonetheless, she has no desire to delay.

Sarye is respectful of both the limitations of their mounts and their pride as well, treating them as lesser cousins. When he feels that the horse needs a rest, he gently knees Corona over into the nearest possible shade. He does not skip a single well or oasis; unless driven by utmost haste, he will not deplete any of the water supply for all four of them, and fresh water is always better than that in the flask. In general, he lets Imtithal lead most of the time, though he chooses the method of travel. He seems to have an excellent eye for horseflesh as well as simhata, and praises her beast as well as constantly whispering soothing compliments at his well-behaved lion-horse.

Imtithal handles her own mount well, when they stop, though in the later part of the day, she's showing saddle-weariness unfamiliar to a clan whom, like the F'meeq, spend as much of their lives in the saddle as out of it. Still, when the stop, she waters the horse, checks his hooves, and checks the tack before she takes care of any of her own needs. She starts talking again only several hours after noon, when the heat of the air doesn't scorch the back of her throat, and the dust is less searing, and she's much less gregarious then. When evening falls, she looks over at him, and suggests they ride further - despite the fact she's clearly wearing thin from the ride, she has no desire to make another long daytime ride. She's stroking her horse's mane, reassuringly, as she does, though whether it's the sturdy warhorse, or herself that she's reassuring is dubious.

Sarye's veil twitches and his eyes twinkle behind it; after a day's worth of conversation, it's fairly easy to identify this as his smile. He nods agreeably to her suggestion, saying, "I think we have proved our bravery before the Lord of Light; he will forgive, I suspect, if we bow to the drives of the desert, deep or not, and travel at night the longer." His eyes look sympathetically at her, but he does not insult her with any further words. As long as she will push herself and does not harm her horse, which she seems hardly likely to do, he will be there beside her, driving deeper on their quest. Instead, he distracts her with the tales of heroes who lived or died under the various signs above them in the heavens, how they lived, and how they died.

Many of the tales, the young woman is familiar with, but she doesn't interrupt; his storytelling is the best she's ever heard, but it's quite good, and she's pushing herself and just as glad for something else to focus on; unlike this morning, she lets him do the majority of the talking, simply sitting her horse the best she can as her body wearies and letting the beast head forward. As yet, she uses no maps; she squints at the stars occasionally to ensure the direction of the road is true, and continues. She does not make it to true dawn, but the first rays of false dawn do, in fact, stain the sky, as they pause at another oasis, and she slides shakily off her horse.

"I think we should rest here," she says, covering her mouth from a yawn - and possibly a wince at the stiffness of her legs. "I am afraid I have not ridden beyond the city save for hunting since I was a girl." She waves a hand at her simhata-riding escort, comparing herself to his sturdy bearing. Despite her exhaustion, she waits for his answer before beginning to strip her horse of his tack.

"Fair enough to me. Corona disagrees, but he could carry the both of us into the deep desert and cease not for weeks," he says affectionately, petting the lion horse. "Rest," he tells the beast gently-- as he vaults single-handedly forward and off the simhata, robes flowing around his agile body as he lands with only a light jingle of metal. Corona snorts at his master's showiness, and begins to hunt around the oasis for small desert creatures. Most of his calories are made from vegetable matter, but he -must- have meat to burn for efficiency. Simhata are near perfect riding beasts, thanks to their manufactured metabolisms, but long-term stability demanded some concessions to mundanity. "We need not set watches out here, I think; Corona will doze only lightly, and he will be most unhappy if someone who is not you or me comes near. Sadly, he is an inhospitable young man."

Imtithal has learned enough about the Simhata of the F'meeq not to ask if he will bother the horse, nor to question his judgement of the lion-horse's watch; she only nods, tired almost past conversation of any kind. Silently, she sets about stripping the tack from her horse, her tan robes sandy from the road more than their dyes now. "I should pray," she says, finally, "that the ride is the worst part of this trip." She manages a weary smile as she checks, once again, the gelding's hooves. "He's doing better than me," she comments. "I will have to thank the groom, for I certainly have not been exercising him like this."

After the horse and lion-horse alike are stripped and have drunk, she splashes her own face from the oasis, rinsing off the caked dust of the road - unlike the man riding with her, she has no veil to protect her skin or mouth, nose, and lungs, and begins wearily moving to set up her small tent.

When the campsite is finally set up to decent standards, if a bit rushed, she all but collapses into the tent, leaving her horse lightly tethered to one of the pegs.

By the time both Imtithal and Sayre are satisfied as to the state of their camp and their horses, false dawn has brightened the night sky and faded again. Imtithal bows to her escort and vanishes into her tent, taking his statement that his mount will watch them both on faith; she has little choice but to trust him anyhow. Her horse, she leaves loosely tethered to one of her tent pegs, not within reach of the oasis, to ensure the beast won't foul it, but with a shallow leather pail full of water within reach.

Corona isn't tethered at all; the bonding makes it virtually impossible-- unless a dragon-blooded came up to steal, in which case... Sarye would just shrug and deal with it by the most honorable means possible-- for the beast to wander off or be stolen. Sarye ordered him to rest, so he will wait in a light doze, but wake up and roar if anything gets close enough for him to scent or hear; they're -touchy- beasts.

Sarye sleeps in shade behind or under brush if he can, with his sword near to hand and his shield probably providing some of the support. Since his lamellar is mob pen 0 and fatigue 0, he'll be sleeping in it.

The oasis is only a little off the road, but few others are traveling by day, either; the simhata does not early disturb Sayre's rest. The day is, if anything, hotter than the one before; the mercy of Sol Invictus held the worst of the desert heat off on your day journey. Today is the full heat of the desert. Imtithal doesn't stir from her tent until several hours after noon, and the worst of the heat begins to fade. When she finally does, moving gracefully and quietly, she checks first on her horse, refills his water and gives him a fresh ration of grain.

Sarye wakes around noon, before Imtithal shows from her tent. Greeting the day - or the afternoon - he'll sing about light, itself, and the many variations thereof, and its beauty.

When she finally leaves her tent, Imtithal invites Sarye to sit and share food with her traveling companion.

Sarye accepts, offering some carefully gathered root vegetables growing near the oasis, enough left to regrow for other hungry mouths.

As Sayre sits to join Imtithal, she smiles politely at him - still beautiful despite the sun-beating her skin took the day before - and waves a hand. "Would you be interested in seeing the maps and notes my father left me before we get there?" she asks, quietly. Given his Khan's response, she's doubtful - which makes its way into her voice - but feels like she ought to offer him directly as well -- and they're not riding anywhere until the day cools some more.

Sarye settles down and offers some of the vegetables he gathered in response. "If you wish, Diamond of the Sands," he says politely. "I have some experience in cartography, but I trust your judgement on these things." He grins impudently. "After all, even if I do not gain half the wealth in the earth, I have still gained the treasure of time with an honorable woman."

"It is not the map, so much...," Imtithal says, "I should be able to find the place just from my father's descriptions; there will be a large mesa, and we wander around it until we find the cleft he wrote of... as the notes. He copied marks on the walls; they are meaningless to me, but if they have any meaning to someone more used to the desert, perhaps..." She shrugs and rummages through the pockets of her robes, pulling out a scroll case at last.

Sarye waits for Imtithal to pull out the notes, and once the scroll is unrolled, he looks over the marking, one of his eyebrows rising visibly as he looks at the script-- reading the words out loud.

Imtithal waits curiously as he looks over the scroll. There is a sketch, with a passable style, of the cleft, noting some landmarks in the distance. Along the sides, someone has crudely redrawn Old Realm runes, containing a poem - or a prayer. "Sun's rays at the back of those who depart, Sun's light on the path of those who climb, Following the circle path of the sky, Sun guide the seeker up from the earth." The poem is probably incomplete. Other markings on the paper are simple, iconic representations of Sol Invictus. It seems unlikely that this will be a shogunate era ruin.

Sarye says the poem reverently and quietly, and, while he does not reveal too many secrets, his voice, perhaps, says more than his words. He traces the markings and calls them representations of the Unconquered Sun; he does _not_ label them as the Lord of Light. Survival, after all, is the order given to his clan.

Imtithal listens and her eyebrows arch up. "That sounds promising," she says. "It also doesn't sound too hostile. That's good."

<<OOC>> Letiwolf: Well, then. Given legendary successes. It's not that the poem indicates what kind of ruin it might be, but one of the images of Sol Invictus in particular is an unusual representation; Sol Invictus riding a lion; it's connected to a now obscure lore cycle which belonged to the ancestors of the Delzahni, long before the Kha Khan, even. According to the lore connected to the stories, there was a temple built to commemorate the deeds somewhere south of the area that later became Chiaroscuro. You're east, not south - but between cataclysm, usurpation, and fae, who's to say how things once connected?

<<OOC>> Letiwolf: As a first age temple, however minor, it's highly unlikely to have served as a tomb as well.

"This was a temple, before the rise of the scions of the Elemental Dragons," Sarye says thoughtfully. "A place of memory, but also a place of power. It will not, I think, hold many hungry ghosts, or the power of a tomb, but it has been an unkept place of power for millenia." He gives a wry smile. "That does not leave the world unchanged."

"A temple to Sol Invictus," Imtithal observes, watching him curiously. "Do you think that makes it more dangerous? I have heard the teaching of Immaculate monks." She doesn't say what she thinks about it in the larger picture, but turns her attention more to the food she laid out, patiently chewing on the dried meat.

The veil twitches again, but he covers it by eating some of the rations she shared with him. "Not too much, I would say. This is not the kind that had sacrificial knives out, I am sure." He is well aware that -some- did, but he's fairly certain that this wasn't built by the Anklok.

Imtithal nods thoughtfully. "Except, of course, we intend to loot it," she says, her voice a little dry; she sips at the sweet water drawn from the oasis to wet her throat. "I will remain just as glad that it is not a tomb, however. Especially a Solar tomb." She does not, at least, use the immaculate terms there.

Sarye chuckles. "I would not want to brave what ... the boldest of the Dragons feared to do," he says wryly. "My sword is my honor, but even steel quails at some deeds. Perhaps the Khakhan, blessed be his name, when he returns." He nods, though, and finishes off the vegetables quietly before adding, "I suspect that it would not entirely be unkind to take something that once belonged to the sun and bring it out into the light."

Imtithal's finger's fingers flick towards the sky in a traditional gesture of respect at the mention of the Kha Khan, though she moves on in the conversation. "It is good that you can read this," she says. "It's nonsense to me, and I am glad we will not be going in blind." She shrugs, and, if Sarye has returned the scroll, rolls it back up to tuck back into its protective case.

Sarye has indeed returned the scroll and he stretches out, having finished food and drink alike. "I would be most pleased to add the skill of my eye to the edge of my blade in aiding you on this quest," he declares as he stands, beginning stretches to unlimber from the long rest.

Imtithal smiles brilliantly at him - any of her expressions are brilliant, of course - which expression breaks into shock and alarm as the simhata wandering the edges of the oasis howls his warning cry to his master. "What in Creation?" she asks, turning her head this way and that to locate the source of the noise.

Sarye's blade flashes out of his sheath and he runs directly towards Corona as fast as he can. "To arms, bright-glinting one!" he cries. "Cover Corona and me with your arrows, if you please!" he adds as he makes a one-handed vault onto his agitated simhata's back.

Imtithal yelps as she Sarye reacts militantly, running with little dignity to her saddlebags, left right inside her tent the night before, to catch up her bow and quiver.

Corona is running back towards his master as well, his nostrils flaring and his mane tossing. His fangs are exposed with his lips pulled back as he continues screaming his warning; as Sarye rises onto the back of his mount, he can see charging from the desert a double handful of mounted warriors. There are seven of them, wearing black veils under sandstorm camouflage robes; raiders from some Delzahn-related tribe or sept. A couple of them hold long lances, but more of them are waving scimitars. Two in the back have small bows, though they're currently charging forward too fast to reliably aim.

<<OOC>> Editor note - None of the rolls were made in the same client as the poses.

Sarye screams, "STEEL AND FANG!" at the top of his lungs; the battle cry of the F'meeqi warriors. He urges Corona to charge directly at the foe, holding his shield angled towards them and his sword in a high guard. (Sarye's Guarding until Corona brings him close enough to fight; Corona, if he's in my control, is going lunge over the shifting sands and land claws-first onto the horse of one of the scimitar-wielders; Sarye will direct him with his knees towards two of the lancers-- but that's in tick 3.)

Corona lunges over the shifting sands and lands claws-first onto the horse of one of the scimitar-wielders, raking it heavily with both large claws. Regardless of whether or not the horse is struck, slain, or missed, Sarye directs him onward and past the first kill, his sword whipping from its high guard in a glittering ray that follows the sunlight. He leans forward on Corona as he slashes first across one of the lancers in passing, then brings the tip and part of the sharp edge of his curving blade to aim straight for the heart of the second, all in one swift moment.

<<OOC>> jhyanmar: (Corona and Sarye are both splitting for 2 here; corona two on one attack, Sarye two on two different targets)

Imtithal squeaks a little more, her hands shaky as she pulls the bow up and gets an arrow to the string. She steadies as she takes a deep breath, sunlight glinting off the head of the broadhead hunting arrow she's nocked. Shaky as she might be, she lets loose her arrow, aiming at the archer on the left as the raider in question pauses atop a dune to take his own aim at her protector.

Perhaps the bandits thought Sarye would be an easy target, alone. They should have paid as much regard to the reputation of the simhata riders as Imtithal did; they would have known better - but they are learning now. Already, one lance rider is brutally injured, another slain; one of the sword wielding men is on the ground, his horse torn open by the fierce simhata's claws. And Imtithal's arrow soars easily through the air; her shaky hands do affect its landing, and it barely strikes, but strike it does, piercing the robes and leather the archer wears. Resolutely, she's positioning herself nearer the trees of the oasis for cover as she prepares to fire again.

The surviving lancer, though wounded, attempts to ride Sarye down, his lance set low; two of the swordsmen likewise turn on him, including the one now on the ground. One of the archers pauses away from him, taking aim and firing. The other one, injured, shoots a poisonous glare off towards the young woman and aims his bow her way, letting off an answering arrow. And the final swordsman, seeing the Imtithal apparently undefended across the sand, breaks away from Sarye and rides towards the woman.

Despite their best efforts, none of the raiders' attacks meet flesh, of warrior-priest, lady-archer, or mount.

"Yah, Corona! Kill!" orders Sarye as his blade whirls abruptly, even more speed than the lightning-quick strokes before. He shifts on Corona's back to arc up and forward with the speed of the moving simhata, lashing the razor edge of his sword across the neck of an uninjured swordsman and across the face of his fellow. The swiftness of Sarye's strike seems to make a steel arc in the bright late afternoon sunlight, glittering brilliantly as it comes down at a horrible slashing angle aimed at the center of the crown of the dismounted man's head.

Needless to say, none of them are a match for the powerful blade of the young priest. All of his targets fall, though his pristine white robes do get a trifle bloodstained.

As the bandit charges her, Imtithal pales a little, and holds her ground, waiting until he gets closer to try to leap away, so that she's not committed until she knows how he will attack. As he slashes down at her head, using the back side of the blade, rather than the edge, she tumbles agilely forward and sideways, hoping to get under the blade and past the horse's legs - and closer to the simhata rider who is defending her.

Corona snarls as the horse, spurred on by a less... flashy... rider gets ahead of him. The massive simhata puts on a burst of speed as the nice-smelling female his rider has told him to guard gets nearing. Pawing at the earth, he leaps once more, passing over Imtithal's head to try to land on yet another prey -- more meat for the journey!-- and snap the neck of the attacking man with his powerful jaws.

Though the rider scarcely evades the teeth of the great cat, the horse goes down, its belly torn open by the claws.

Sand sprays from under Imtithal's sandals as she agilely comes out of her roll upright, feet planted firm on the desert sand. Despite the tumble - carefully controlled - her bow is in her hands, and the very same motion that balances her also draws back the bow. She's switched to a target arrow, the slim metal cap offering power to puncture the armor under the robes of the desert raiders. And, with absolute confidence in her protector, she doesn't even look back as the lionhorse roars; instead she fires rapidly at the archers, trying to protect him as he is protecting her, one arrow, then another, aimed with precise skill, if not, perhaps, much power, the first the unwounded archer, and the second at the one she has already agitated.

Imtithal may not have a lot of power to her arrows, but she seems clearly capable of needling the men to death without getting touched; they're both bleeding; one's arrow goes far astray and the other, she easily sidesteps, her eyes bright now that the blood of her ancestors is pounding in her chest and she is no longer trembling.

The heart of a F'meeqi in combat is bold to the point that even their Delzahni cousins think them mad. As Corona comes to earth, the swift and wild Sarye pulls one foot from its stirrup to nudge against Corona's flank; the other moves up to press against a shoulderblade. The long-suffering beast seems almost used to this as Sarye takes flight and off from Corona, kicking his legs out to clear the red-and-gold fur. His curved sword comes down in an slashing strike that follows the momentum of his body and is aimed straight at the chest of the fallen swordsman, cutting as hard and true as the will of the wielder. As dust swirls about the acrobatic son of the sand and sun, he wastes not even a split second in pushing back off the ground, reaching out with his shielded hand to gain a slight leverage advantage to vault back into Corona's saddle.

Corona, in the meanwhile, waits patiently for his somewhat crazy rider to get the heck back on, and peels off at full speed towards the wounded archers-- and the pair of meat-things they're riding.

Imtithal notes the direction that her guardian is heading, and doesn't waste another arrow on the doomed man. As Sarye charges the one, she fires - one last time, she hopes - a single slim target arrow at her original target, releasing her arrow just as Sarye charges past, so that she aims before his dustcloud, and the arrow soars through it. She is no great hunter - but these bandits are pathetic excuses for Delzahni.

Poor Corona. He's got two meals already, but his rider places a palm on the upper neck, right below the jaw, indicating he is simply to be motion. Corona pays his rider back by adding an incredible burst of speed, testing Sarye's agility as Corona loops around the side and then back of the outclassed horse, spooking it-- and giving Sarye an opportunity to aim well and brace his sword, curving in a a steel crescent that nearly perfectly matches the arc of the blade-- off just enough for Sarye to cut a devastating three-quarters loop of the man's neck. Aimed well, it should permit the fierce F'meeqi Delzahni to spiral-cut the man's neck like a well-cut pork.

At almost the same time, the head of Sarye's target and the suddenly still body of Imtithal's hit the ground, little clouds of sand briefly sanitizing the scenes of blood. Imtithal's perfectly shot arrow, proving the blood of her ancestors does run true in her noble veins, sinks into the ground behind her target, where it passed completely through his body. A moment later, the decapitated man slowly topples off his horse. Imtithal, battle light still in her eyes, slowly lowers her bow, looking around for any surviving enemies - but nothing but horses - and only 5 of them - have survived Sarye's rampage.

Imtithal begins to laugh.

Sarye whips the blood from his sword, splattering it onto the hot sands with a sizzle. He continues to circle and circle the terrified horse belonging to the last living bandit. In a maneuver apparently quite familiar to the impatient Corona, Sarye sheathes his sword and slings his shield over his back. When the mare is nice and dizzy from being circled by a predator, Sarye leaps off Corona's back once more and slings himself onto the mare's back, ordering Corona to 'feast'; apparently, something different than to hunt, for the simhata leaves the poor, frightened mare alone and goes to messily devour the two fallen pieces of horseflesh. No matter how much the mare leaps and canters, Sarye's strong, but no stronger than necessary, hands correct her motion until he can exhaust her within safe limits. It is Sarye's aim to get the poor thing to stop struggling and follow his commands back to the oasis.

Imtithal hangs the bow on her back, still laughing, a little out of control of the reaction as she heads over to see if her arrows are salvageable. Alas, her last shot, the body of the arrow hurtled through the corpse of the bandit, and the fletching was torn completely off, but the rest are recoverable. She eyes Sarye, and calls, "Are you going to try to round them all up?"

The poor mare is terrified, but Sarye manages to wrestle her back to the oasis. He laughs, cheerfully and free, his vibrant, liquid voice rolling out, "Not now, I suspect; Corona would be very hungry and cranky if I took him from his food." He ponders this for a moment as he leaps off the mare's back and ties her to a low-hanging branch for the moment. "Perhaps, if another band of moon-mad fools would run across us I could steal a second; this fine young lady--" something of an exaggeration; she isn't a nag, at least--"Will be a good remount for you, but if we could get another, we could carry off more treasure." He thinks on this more, and his veil positively shakes with laughter. "Indeed, if we slaughtered another each day, we should have a packtrain for the entire temple to be transported to Chiaroscuro, and have our rest in between entertainments."

Imtithal laughs again as she cleans the last of the salvageable arrows. "I am not sure I would like to be attacked repeatedly. She pauses, and, her bare cheeks a little reddened, admits, "Though it may be shameful for -me- to say, but I am not entirely sure I would not, either." She shrugs, and looks away from her protector. "I should get my horse re-packed," she says, heading back towards her tent. "It's almost late enough to travel, I think."

Sarye laughs, and actually -touches- Imtithal in a gentler version of a companionable slap on the back. "You will see, city or no city, that you are Delzahni in the blood in time. A few more arrows in a few more throats, and you will be howling far more than any precious city woman should-- the proper bride for a true son of the desert, may you find one who knows to let you ride," he says cheerfully.

It may be the touch - she's certainly not injured, but Imtithal's eyes widen, and she flinches a little. "I will still hope I have to shoot few more men," she says, momentarily grave. "I prefer hunting, I think." She hurries towards her tent, beginning to break it down in silence.

Sarye tilts his head. He doesn't miss much, but he also respects another's right to silence. His own loquacity ceases then, with the -- rightful or not-- rebuffing of his camaraderie and the end of the battle-lust, and he packs up his own possessions. Still, he is not unfriendly... just quiet.

Imtithal deliberately packed lightly - the tent is the largest object her horse must bear besides herself - and it does not take her long to finish. "If the journey goes well," she says, finally, speaking again only after her horse is mostly loaded, as she's double-checking the straps of the saddle and bags to ensure nothing is binding, twisting, or worn. "We may arrive before morning. We will probably want to rest outside before actually entering. I do not want to be weary when we do."