As a child she had learned to fear being alone. The desert took those who strayed too far from the herd - took their voice, their bones, their blood. Majda had nearly been taken once.
She meets his eyes, gilded and predatory, and she wonders what dangers wait for her. “My name is Bacardi.” he says in a voice that carries through her chest like the desert wind (sometimes soft, at other times terrifying - she cannot decide which this is). Beneath the salt she thinks she smells the cold pines and firs of his home. She shivers.
“Majda.” She returns, after considering him a moment. He seems distracted, distant, even as he smiles at her. She could use this to her advantage should she wish to escape, but something keeps her there - taming the wild hotness in her limbs and settling her fire. Perhaps it is just exhaustion. The swim here seemed endless. Or, maybe it is the fact that she has no where else to go. This is not her desert, after all.
She narrows dark, gleaming eyes at him, studying his face. “Have you lost someone?” She asks without any regard for propriety. She is taken aback by his melancholy smile. Gently, she reaches out her delicate nose to touch his as the wind reaches and takes all it desires.
m a j d a
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