Title-- The Demon-God of Jubagh (part four)
Rating and Warnings-- G; no real warnings, except for mild cursing.
Species and Characters-- Rai Gerring, traitor and black magician (human male); Brandon "Exile" Styhan, exiled paladin-warrior (human male); Lhafa Softstep, native not-a-holy-man (baghan woman).
Previously-- Part One, Part Two, Part Three.
Note-- This is itty-bitty and kind of an awkward bridge between part three and part five. It's pretty much just part three-point-five, but in the interest of numbering without decimals, it's part four. GO WITH THE FLOW, PEOPLE.



"...so... you... aren't from the tribe that's letting us use this outpost?" For once, the holy man seemed hesitant to believe her, rather than quick to shout. She nodded calmly.

"Lhafa?" The robed man was also quiet and still, though the ink on his face and hands glowed faintly. "How good are your senses, compared to ours? Can you smell nearby people, or hear their heartbeats?" He knotted his fingers.

She blinked. "To hear their heartbeats, I would be deafened by my own, if they stood farther from me than you." Smoothly, she let her gaze roam their leafy surroundings, inhaling deeply. "I smell better than your people, or so I was told. But the wind is calm, and the flower-scents thick." Her use of the common tongue was improving as the conversation went on; she was remembering things she'd forgotten about the language. It was easier for her to be understood now. Or, perhaps, the outlanders were beginning to think more keenly.

"How do we know someone hasn't been listening in on this entire conversation?" the robed man muttered, looking about uneasily.

She almost smiled at his nervousness. Outlanders knew very little. "If they had, they would have attacked us already. I do not resemble their clansmen. It is easy to tell the tribes apart." She touched a fingertip to her forearm, ruffling the pale, dappled fur. "My people are mist and snow. This tribe here is iron and rock."

"White and silver... grey and grey-brown." The robed man nodded his understanding, glow fading from his tattoos. "I didn't even think of... wait, don't tribes ever intermarry? Don't the colors become mixed, then?"

"The child has the mother's colors. When mates are needed or in surplus, the men move around and find a new tribe. The women stay." She paused, tilting her head. "You know so little about us."

"Yeah, well, they didn't exactly give us a book on How Baghans Live," the holy man growled, glowering at her. His eyes were brown again, not golden, and she wondered why the color so often changed. He glanced at the hanging ladder at the edge of the platform. "Well. At least we don't have to travel far to get our hexer to tell us a story." He grinned wolfishly.

The robed man whirled on him, a slim hand reaching out to clamp down on the other man's bare shoulder. "We are not going to make enemies out of the only tribe in the area who was willing to host us!" The holy man's eyes flashed golden, and the glow returned to the robed man's markings. She smelled lightning, and it intrigued her. "We will find another tribe," he snapped, glancing back at her. "Is there a tribe that is enemy to both this tribe and yours?"

She wanted to ask them why they clashed so often, but she simply answered the question. "Yes. But it is a day's walk away, and we are in the evening now. I do not know that you can see in the shadows as well as I. It would be dangerous to walk at night."

The men exchanged glances, and the robed one removed his hand from the other's shoulder. The holy man flashed white teeth in a grin that split his dark face. "Softstep, we'll do just fine in the dark. Let's get moving."