꧁✬◦°⋆⋆°◦.dariantravels°⋆⋆°◦✬꧂    

                       SHEYLA

THE STORY OF THE PANTHER

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Within the walls of Laurus, where stone towers towered over bustling markets and the air was thick with the scents of spices, sweat, and hot metal, the city was ruled by Lady Kiara Blackblood—a tall, commanding woman with black hair braided into two strict braids and eyes the color of a stormy sky. She walked the streets with her head held high, barking orders to guards and merchants. Her free-spirited companion, Will Blackblood, always walked beside her—the broad-shouldered proprietor of the city's finest tavern, the Three Tarsks, where they served strong paga and, on the sly, sul-paga, and where all the gossip of Laurus and neighboring Hüsvík was gathered. Will wore a doublet, a dagger at his belt, and a smile that could disarm anyone, but his eyes always watched Kiara with Gorean devotion.  In the mornings, the baker Lady Obi was a vibrant presence in the square—a rosy-cheeked woman with copper-colored hair pulled back into a braid and hands perpetually coated in flour. Her teahouse steamed with fresh bread and sweet buns, attracting crowds.

Beside her, her free companion, Sir Max, a blacksmith, worked—a huge, muscular man with perpetually burnt hands. He forged horseshoes and swords in his forge nearby, but always found time to help Obi knead dough or ward off pushy customers with a strong hand.

The city's slave trade was run by the perpetually pregnant Lady Kiara Silva—a cold, calculating beauty with silver hair and a gaze that brought slaves to their knees. She managed the city's slaves with her free companion, Dark Silva, a dark-haired warrior with scars on his face, who personally oversaw auctions and punishments.  Their house stood near the main square, and from there came the sounds of whips and the groans of those who dared disobey.

Minka stood out among the slaves—a cunning, lazy woman with chestnut hair, large eyes, and a body she skillfully concealed under a thin tunic. Minka worked in Lady Silva's market: carrying bundles, scrubbing floors in Will's tavern, and helping in Obi's bakery. But she always looked for a way to get out of it—feigning illness, hiding in an alley, or "accidentally" spilling water to avoid carrying heavy buckets. She wasn't always successful: Dark Silva often grabbed her by the ear and forced her to work under the whip, and Lady Kiara, passing by,

would add a stern word or order that would make Minka blush and rush to obey.  Among the free citizens, Lady Hella, the town's healer, stood out, a slender woman with eyes the color of forest honey. Her hands always smelled of herbs and ointments; in the infirmary by the city wall, she treated warriors' wounds, delivered babies, and brewed concoctions capable of restoring even the dying. A leather pouch containing needles, scalpels, and dried roots hung from her belt, and her dark green linen dress accentuated her lithe figure. It was said that Hella knew the secrets of Gorean herbs better than many forest shamans, and even Lady Kiara Silva came to her for advice during her pregnancy.  In the warriors' quarters that bordered the very walls lived the hunter Sartan—a tall, broad-shouldered man with bronze-tanned skin and long black hair braided into a warrior's braid. Sartan supplied Laurium with fresh meat and hides; his longbow and spear never missed a target. He often ventured into the forest at dawn and returned at sunset with his spoils slung over his shoulder, while in the tavern of his friend Will Blackblood he drank paga and told stories that made the slave girls blush and the warriors nod respectfully.

The city lived its own life: slaves scraped the streets on their knees, free companions guarded their ladies, merchants shouted prices, and in Will's tavern in the evenings wine flowed and Gorean songs sang.

As the moon rose over the gorge, silvering the half-naked bodies of the savages, Sheila and Kaira returned silently to the tribe's camp. Their steps were soft, like the paws of a hunting panther, their muscles tense from what they had seen in Laurium, and their eyes glowed with the green and dark fire of anticipation.

The tribe was already waiting. The sisters sat by the fire, crackling with a low flame: Lyra, on her skins, her wound beneath the bandage barely bothering her anymore, her amber eyes blazing at the sight of their leader; Tala, a newborn panther with a bloody mark on her cheek, sat nearby, her body still trembling from the ritual of adoption.

Naira sat in the shadows, fingering bone beads; the other savages stood in a semicircle, their breasts and hips glistening in the moonlight.

Sheila stepped into the center, her powerful body casting a long shadow. She didn't speak immediately, merely slowly running her hand over her full chest, then her flat stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps. The scent of the city still clung to her skin—the scent of males, metal, and weakness.

Kaira crouched down next to him, her dark eyes sweeping over her sisters.

*The city is full,* she purred low, gutturally. *The males are strong...there's plenty of prey.*

Lyra growled softly, raising herself up on her elbow. Her bronze skin shimmered in the fire, the crescent scar on her chest seeming alive. *We will take them all,* she exhaled.

Tala leaned forward, the fresh blood on her back already crusty.

*I am ready, my leader,* she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "I will prove my claws on the city walls."

Sheila suddenly raised her hand, stopping the sisters' quiet growls. Her naked body tensed, her powerful hips and full breasts hovering in the moonlight. Her green eyes narrowed, catching something in the night wind—the distant scent of smoke, mingled with anxiety and metal.

Nyra, the ebony-skinned shaman, was already standing nearby, the bone beads around her neck clinking softly. She closed her eyes, her palm resting on the ground, and a low chant escaped her throat—the call of the forest spirits.

*No,* whispered Nayra, her voice like the rustling of leaves before a storm. *The spirits say: not today. The black panther is still hungry. It circles closer to the city than we think. Its shadow will fall on the city walls before we do. If we jump now, we'll spill blood in vain. We wait. Strength comes with patience.

Lyra growled with displeasure, her amber eyes flashing, her bronze body leaning forward, the crescent scar on her chest rising in an angry breath.

*We are ready, my leader! The city sleeps, the males are fat,*

But Sheila slowly shook her head, her long black hair swaying on her shoulders. She approached Lyra, her fingers gripping her shoulder tightly—imperiously, yet with sisterly warmth.

*Nayra is right. The spirits saved us with Thorval's sacrifice. We will not throw their gift to the wind. The attack is postponed. Until the next moon. We will watch. Learn the ways of the city. Wait for the black panther to be sated or leave.*

Kyra bared her teeth, but sank to a crouch, her dark eyes darkened with suppressed hunger. Tala, the newborn panther, huddled close to her, her body still bearing the fresh marks of testing.

*We will become shadows against the walls,* whispered Kyra. *We will watch. Learn their habits. Their weaknesses.*

Sheila nodded, her lips curling into a predatory, patient smile. She lay down on the skins by the fire, spreading her powerful legs, and gestured for her sisters to come closer. The panthers' bodies closed around her... chest to back, hip to hip, hands sliding over skin in silent promise.

*Today we draw strength from each other,* the leader purred lowly. *Tomorrow—we watch. And when the moon is full again... the city will know what a real panther leap means.*

Two young panthers—slender, swift sisters with skin the color of dark honey and eyes blazing with youthful fire—suddenly burst into the gorge clearing. Their naked bodies glistened with sweat, their chests heaving from their run, their thighs tensed in their final leap. They fell to their knees before Sheila, growling softly and excitedly.

*Tabouk pack, my leader!* one exhaled, her long hair plastered to her back. *Big. Fat. By the stream, two hours away. They're drinking, they can't smell us!*

Sheila rose from the rock, her powerful body casting a shadow over her sisters. Her green eyes flashed with hunger. She jerked her chin—a signal.  The tribe instantly came to life... Lyra jumped up, her bronze skin tensed, the crescent scar on her chest pulsating; Kaira grabbed a knife; Tala, the newborn panther, bared her teeth, her fresh test marks still red on her back; Naira growled approvingly. The panthers closed in a line... silent, deadly.

The hunt began.

They slid through the undergrowth like shadows, surrounding a herd of tabuks by a wide stream. Sheila whistled—and the panthers poured in. Arrows from short bows sank into the necks of the leader... knives found throats, strong legs and arms felled the fugitives. Blood spattered the bronze bodies, growls mingled with the death rattles of the animals. The kill was rich—five fat tabuks had fallen, their meat promising a feast for days.

 But in the chaos of the fight, an old male tabuk, with horns as sharp as blades, lunged to the side. His horn pierced Tala's thigh and belly as she leaped from above. The inexperienced panther howled—for the first time in her life—and collapsed into the grass, blood gushing from the deep wound, drenching her thighs and full chest. Tala tried to rise, but her legs gave way, and her eyes darkened with pain.

Sheila was instantly at her side, clutching Tala to her, her strong arms staunching the bleeding. *Hold on, sister,* the leader growled. Lyra and Kaira finished off the herd, and the younger sisters were already dragging away the kill.

 But Tala was weakening quickly... knowing she wouldn't reach the gorge, Sheila decided to take a step that would likely cost her her life... hugging her sister, she rushed toward the city, hoping to capture the healer she had seen there.

She came to a small clearing just before the walls, where a modest hut stood—hidden, almost merging with the forest.

The door opened, and she emerged—Leaflet, the herbalist. A young woman with delicate skin the color of spring leaves and eyes as soft as morning mist. She wore a simple tunic of fine fabric, belted with a rope containing bunches of dried herbs, and her bare feet stepped confidently on the ground. She lived alone, gathering roots and leaves, healing animals and the occasional traveler, avoiding the city.

Leaflet froze at the sight of the naked savage with her bloody burden, but she did not retreat. Her gaze fell on Tala.  "Bring her inside," she said quietly but firmly, carrying Tala into the hut, filled with the scent of herbs and smoke from the small fireplace. Sheila didn't let go of her sister's hand, her green eyes following the herbalist's every move.

to be continued

story by katisha silva

             ꧁✬◦°⋆⋆°◦. darian-editor ◦°⋆⋆°◦✬꧂

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