Meadow

Bruised and battered, she had never felt more alive.

Scars, like her sweet little speckles, littered her skin, hiding amongst her flecks and looking as though they were a part of her skin by design. It was the thrill of the fight that edged her on, and after the tumultuous events in the lagoon, whispers on the wind of death and of a woman conquering them, she had struck out.

Small and quick, she darts from the humid edges of the cove like a snake, weaving through the undergrowth and relishing the speediness of her legs. Yazheen is small, and seemingly beautiful. Dished face, long legs that are not too long, and a compact body happily bedazzled with little white spots, contrasting happily against a rich brown. Someone watching her would have thought her a little imp, darting through the trees, escaping something and breathing heavily.

Yet Yazheen runs from nothing, especially not a mere mortal.

The Gods had tempted her into the whiteness of the fields, the great meadow at the cusp of the lagoon. Just out of reach of watchers. Far enough that the stink of man runs from her lungs, but close enough that no one would think she was a flight risk.

She had barely enough time in the lagoon to get to know the name of her captor, let alone the others that had flocked to her presence. Were women so uncommon there that they were all vying for her attention, under the guise of preventing her from spoiling the mind of a child and bearing their teeth in hopes to frighten her. Had she been a less graceful desert beast, with a great hump and cloven hooves, she would have chewed her cud and spit in their faces.

Alas, she was not as blessed to be so vile.

Once in the fields, there is the softest hint of blood in the air. It greets her like a reminder, and she finds the lean, painted woman quickly. She too stinks of the lagoon, but it is accompanied by a myriad of many other smells, some sweet and some salty, and Yazheen can deduce that the stranger is a traveller. They are of similar heritage- lean and not quite yet grown hairy in the cold of the winter. Yazheen watches as she grazes, fitfully grabbing mouthfuls of grass made soggy by the snow. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” She calls, limping softly towards her, savoring a shoulder made tender by a previous scuffle with the painted stallion that had all but dragged her into the lagoon.

Standing close to the stranger now, she can see the mud, but it does nothing to hide the acidic smell of blood. “Oooh, what have you done?” She jests playfully, but the joy does not reach her voice. Joyousness does not run in her blood, for she is a bitter, angry creature. Yet she can admire in another woman a prowess and a sort of great mystery.