Carts shook from the outside of the clay hut, and the sounds of life were heard beyond the walls.
The sleeping one shifted in his brown cloak as the sun's heat beat down upon him, rousing him from his slumber. He lay his gauntlet worn hand on his bed of rough cloth, and lifted himself from it, his other arm bent on its elbow and holding till he was upright. He winced and turned around, looking at the clean, tanned exterior of the hut. Though the light blazed through the opening above the bed, the rest was in darkness, and the rickety, aged wood door was barely visible.
He sat up from the bed and his battlements stirred underneath his cloak. He turned, easing his hand underneath the dirt ridden pillow and slipping out a small dagger. He went down till his thighs reached his legs, toes bent; he outstretched his arm and grasped in the dark under the bed, pulling a long sword from underneath. He moved his hands underneath his cloak and clipped it to his belt, and slid the dagger into a sheathe on his arm. Finally, He opened the door walked out, coming to a stop outside.
The sun burnt and blazed. Jadir, a town within the desert capital of Quoran, was bustling and hectic. The man's face was alit, and his unhuman, animal nature was too apparent. From the sides of his hood, golden and brown streaks of color went down the fur on his cheeks, a stained, gray toned white in between, with mixes of brown on the muzzle and around his eyes in subtle downward strands.
His eyes moved up.
The dust sky eased by his gaze, reflections of it's dark clouds, and the pouring light of the sun from it's deep hole through and through it's darkened, sun streaked sky. It's bright heat beat down onto him and sweat ran down his flesh, he lowered his head and his slit, dark emerald eyes took in the crowd. Vendors were in droves, and the burlap sacks aside their carts, wagons, and tables seemed to empty quickly with the hoards of people, shifting by one another and trading coin for countless goods. The feline man clutched and held, finger's creasing into his cloak. He walked forward, into the crowd and through the collective, finding what little empty places remained in the market to travel. An armored man on a horse went through and a tide of people made path. The rider passed him by, in clonking of hooves and spitting of sand.
Emerald eyes followed the horseman.
“Do I see fear?”
A throaty voice said, the feline man turned, an old man with pale skin and horns was sitting on the ground, leaned up against his one-wheeled cart and looking up at him,
“Are you one of them?”
He asked, his mouth scrunching into a frown.
The feline man shook his head, the pale man laughed and grinned,
“Good! I'd have your pelt.” He said grunting and standing, picking up a fractured wheel and throwing it in the cart.
The feline man looked him over and flashed a subtle smile,
“Aren't I lucky.”
The pale man turned and nodded, “That you are. Your kind has made a name for themselves in these parts.”
The feline grimaced at the comment and walked up next to him, picking up a split axel with both hands and setting it down in the wagon bed. The old man stopped at the sound and looked over at the strange individual he had just met, who seemed be caught up with examining the cart, “You're keen to help.” The old man growled. The animal man picked up another broken piece and shot a glance over, “It's not part of my obligation, but I'm not opposed to it.” He said with a calm smile, turning his attention to the cart and looking inquiringly at a cracked block before putting it inside.
The old man stared at him,
“Tell me your name young one.” He said.
The young, feline man peeked over and spoke,
“Ryga, and yours?”
The old man vaguely smiled, “It's Saykr, and you aren't safe here.”
Ryga nodded and placed another piece into the cart,
“You think if I was safe I'd be here?” He said gently yet confidently.
Saykr was about to speak when a shout ran through the market. A man, bleeding from his leg stumbled into the crowd before a crossbow arrow flew forward and lodged into his spine. With a scream he fell onto the sand and the crowd moved from him, flocking away in panic. A vagrant looking feline man dressed in brown leather straps strode forward, crossbow in hand.
“Does anyone else feel brave!” He screeched, loading another arrow in his crossbow.
Everyone had gone, except for the two men by the broken cart.
“You, give me your food, clothing and water!” He said hissing and spitting.
Saykr looked at Ryga, “Don't do it, you won't last a minute against them.” He said to Ryga, who continued to fix his eyes on the screeching bandit.
“Are you slow in the head, give them to me!”
He screeched again, this time sharper and more hostile. Ryga began walking in his direction, his clad hand clung to the handle of his blade. “Filth! Stay away!” The cat man aimed his crossbow frantically as the cloaked one verged closer, and closer to him. Ryga gripped tightly onto his wrist and pulled it outwardly; a single, tearing yank and the crossbow fell from the bandit's hand. Before the bandit could screech, a blade drove through his chest and silenced him. Saykr stared at the body being pushed off by a singular, gauntlet worn hand, then at Ryga.
Ryga shot a glance at him, then turned his attention to the blood on his sword; wiping it off with a small cloth. He looked up slightly, ears perked, “Sounds like the town guard is taking care of the rest of them.” He said, before stuffing the cloth in his pocket and sheathing away his blade underneath his cloak. Saykr listened, and heard near faint sounds of a battle, but the clashes and crashes of steel and iron was the most he could make out. Ryga glanced over to Saykr.
“It was a pleasure to meet you Saykr.”
Ryga pulls his hood over his ears and adjusts it.
“In fact...you're quite famous in my homeland.”
Saykr's face creases in a grin as the cloaked feline turns away and forwards his step,
“The Cat Prince is always allowed in Jadir.” Saykr said admiringly.
Ryga perked in a smile from his hood,
“Spread the word for me.”
He turned away once more and stepped out of the market, on by a stall full with a torn sack that spilled cobblestone pears. Fainter and fainter was the rustling of armor until fading into the calm breeze.
Armored men walked in the streets and rode tall on horses, through the arch way of town. Gold embellished Generals, and the lower ranks with their steel and chains, formed the battalion; a parade of blue, gold, silver and gray. Ryga looked casually at them, blinking every once in a while. On the side of the parade, a member of the guard rode an elegantly bred, auburn horse. He stopped in front of Ryga,
“Sozal Azei.”
Ryga looked up at him,
“Yes Captain?”
The horse reared back and clomped on the sand, The Captain adjusted but wasn't stirred and continued to talk,
“Congratulations on directing my men to the Skeef hide out, it was a feat with the short time we had.”
Ryga nodded and gave a half grateful, half forced smile to him,
“Glad I could be helpful captain.”
The Captain gave back an acknowledging and respectful nod, then gently tightened the grip on the reigns and gave them a tug. The horse trotted past, “I'll be sure to get you a commendation.” He said before riding out of earshot. Ryga looked to the soldiers. A cat man with white fur walked with them, bareheaded in the sunlight and adorned in aqua colored robes with gold hemming. He winced in the heat and looked around till he saw Ryga, who looked back at him from his secluded spot against one of the huts. The white furred man broke from the crowd and walked over. In his black, gold hemmed glove he held a parchment, and handed it to Ryga,
“Father sends his regards from Kekli.”
Ryga flashed a almost noticeable smile and took it, the man's decorated glove slipping back and fiddling with the catalyst rod on his belt, “You did excellent today, and you saved all of from quite a tussle.” He looked off to the soldiers for a moment and sighed, “The 'godly balances' are keen on punishing 'the death of eared kind'.” He said, his face barely hiding his distaste. Ryga smirked, “I quiver in fear. How many times do they blurt out that false reprimand?”
The robed cat man stared off to the side,
“...Too many.”
Ryga moved his gaze away to the crowds.
“How is Father...Eiric?”
Eiric looked down,
“He's doing well, but so far he's only lost twice to Beyrand in chess.”
Ryga laughed, “Oh he must be fiery.”
Eiric laughed and looked contently at Ryga,
“Very...”
Eiric placed a hand on his brother's shoulder,
“Shilim Es'chai.”
Ryga nodded and formed a subtle smile,
“Shilim Es'chai.”
He said as his brother walked back to the parade.
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