She was born auspiciously as the sun set on the Northeast face, strong in the blood of Bul-Kathos and destined for great things, said the midwife. Two decades later she was a foreigner awash on a sea of refugees, every one of which she stood head and shoulders above. The bloody sun never seemed to set in Caldeum, and she was in a piss-poor mood.
She'd gone to the inn to meet a merchant and research the city's history. A day into it and she understood why there was so much work to be had; only the creatures of hell could thrive in this infernal climate. The only upside was the smell; dead flesh was desiccated before it could grow putrid.
The day was sickly hot, and the cheap bastard was haggling. She tried not to imagine the sound of his neck breaking quite so fondly as she chivvied him to a price that was fifty gold pieces lower than she'd meant to pay, just to spite him. Now to more important business, her stomach urged.
He must have been there when she arrived, but her sun-dazzled eyes hadn't picked him out of the shadowed corner until that moment. By the ancients, he was a big one. Especially for these parts. She made it clear she'd like to see more of him with a provocatively arched eyebrow. He met her eyes and acknowledged her with a nod but showed no sign of rising. Feeling a bit giddy, she realized that she should eat while she had the chance. It had been a long, thirsty day and from the look of him she wouldn't be thinking about her stomach again for quite some time.
A loaf of bread, a roasted chicken and two tankards of cool ale made her supper, eaten standing at the bar because the stools tended to buckle. As she drained the second ale a massive hand settled on her hip, hot and heavy.
"You can call me Rogar," His voice resonated far below baritone and sent the most delicious thrills from the nape of her neck to her fingertips. She was surprised by his formality, dressed like an easterner as he was.
"Rainath," she answered, cursing the hitch in her voice and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. His second hand fell on her shoulder and he steered her firmly toward the back of the aleroom.
She hadn't had many partners before leaving their homeland, and all of them boys- though even the girlchildren of Mount Areat were more man than what she'd had to choose from among the burliest blacksmiths and most robust knights in the lowlands. She was losing the ways of her people, the sudden shove to her lower back was enough to make her trip and stumble over the threshold. She'd let her guard down too easily. Her face burned.
There was a clatter and heavy thud as he dropped his belt and weapons on the table. She reached to loosen her belt but had the defiant whim to test him, setting her hand on the hilt of the long dagger at her waist. Not her deadliest weapon, she usually used it on rabbits. Turning, she searched his face for reaction.
"As long as you're not intent on killing or castrating me," he chuckled, shrugging. "I don't mind a bit o' blood." She looked at his belongings on the table, wondering if he'd want it fair. He wasn't outfitted for war, but in these times everyone went armed. That made him laugh aloud.
"Everything you think shows on your face, do you know that?" He held out his hands. "I won't rearm, but I thank the lady for offering," he inclined his head in respect. She didn't care for the vulnerability of being disarmed, but she tried not to show it as she dropped her belt beside his. She liked the intimacy of them there together, a haphazard jumble of utility and death. Hers was a hand wide, salvaged from livestock harness and dwarfed anything that an eastern man would wear, but his was heavy and thick enough to make it look feminine, a feeling she was unaccustomed to.
She stepped out of her boots, pulled off her gloves and unbuckled her bracers. He wasn't wearing armor and so had the time to stand motionless, shoulders squared, openly watching her. When the bracers were on the table she pulled off the leather cap she wore in town, loosing her hair.
"You're young," he blurted, surprised by the bright auburn tangle that fell down her back.
"I'm as old as I am," she rebutted defensively.
"Peace" he growled, with an edge of warning. "You're lovely. We're a long way from home, most that make it this far are older. And more scarred," he added, gingerly testing the room's only chair. It creaked and wobbled as though in fright, and he kicked it under the table in disgust. The chest was sturdy enough to hold his foot while he unbuckled one boot, then the other.
No one had ever complimented her before, certainly not called her 'lovely'. It shocked more than the rough treatment at the door, that she should have expected.
"Are we going to do this, or what?" She demanded rudely, awkwardly holding a fistful of her own tunic.
His face showed resignation, briefly, before it darkened. He took two sharp strides; the first cleared the space between them, the second carried her backward against the wall, hard enough to quake the building. A bawdy roar came from the common room; hard to miss two people of their size slinking out the back.
"We're definitely going to do this," he said it like a threat and she felt her heart work harder, the way it did in battle. "But I'm going to take my time about it. A taste from home doesn't come often." His face lingered near her hair and shoulder to demonstrate.
"I'm not afraid," she taunted, but he was having none of it.
"Yes you are, and it's a healthy instinct," he told her, drawing back to meet her eyes. "Bloodstained as you are, you'd have a lot to learn if you raised a weapon to me," he warned, voice and eyes equally toneless. He held her gaze until she wanted to squirm, and goosebumps crawled down her arms.
"You can trust me," he told her softly, relaxing his grasp by a fraction. "I like a woman with fight, but I've no taste for rape." She struggled weakly, testing his grip, and nearly broke free.
"How you can say you're not a rapist is beyond me," she spat. "You're a barbarian. One and the same."
"It's clear that you think that," he snapped nastily, patience thinning. His grip on her upper arms tightened once more and he pressed her more firmly to the wall, his right foot casually widening her stance to weaken her balance. The contact between their bare feet was the first touch of skin since they'd met. His eyes flashed.
"Would you believe I don't use that filthy word for myself, either?" The words were perfectly civilized, but the tone, violent. She panicked slightly and gave a real, full-strength struggle. The iron hold loosened, became flexible, moved with her... but never broke. She realized his earlier weakness had been feigned.
He caught her entirely off-guard for the third time in as many minutes by covering her mouth with his, in a kiss so thorough it redefined the concept for her. He drew away just as abruptly, searching her face.
"Have you ever been with your own kind before?" She reddened in shame.
"Yes." Her mouth hardened, daring him to ask more. "He was young," she dismissed, her gaze becoming briefly angry and unfocused. "They all were," When she came back, his grim eyes suggested he had a good idea of what her first experiences had been like. Traditions being what they are. He grimaced.
"And eastern men?"
"Can hardly bruise me, whatever they try," she shrugged, defiant. He kissed her again, solid but short, and released her, stepping back. He wasn't sure what would be worse, these people had some queer notions about their kind.
"I'm sorry for the poor treatment you've had," he said frankly. "That's not our way, no matter what they'd have you believe about us," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the crowd beyond the door. He dropped his leather trousers and kicked them away, but the hem of his shirt hung low enough to keep him modest.
"If it's what you want, I'd like to be something different to you," he offered her his sword hand, palm up. Speechless, she shrugged.
"That isn't good enough, Rainath," he warned, voice hardening, making her eyes widen. He stepped closer. "Tell me, if this is what you want. Is it?" His gaze was insistent, his tone demanding. She nodded.
