A claw the size of a broadsword rushed right toward Samara’s face, as the bear it was attached to—far larger and more powerful that any of its forest-dwelling cousins—roared in preemptive triumph. And Samara only grinned, swimming in adrenaline’s seductive grasp. Spinning the haft of her greataxe, she thrust upward with the sturdy shaft of wood. The bear’s paw was knocked off course, and Samara let the momentum of the blow force her back, out of range of the beast’s next swipe.

It was a hot, dry day, the brilliant blue vault of the heavens covering the Kalec grasslands from horizon to horizon. Sweat poured from Samara’s brow, under her rough-cut, inky black hair. Bringing one fur-lined leather bracer up, she quickly wiped her brow dry and focused on the great beast already lumbering back toward her.

She could see the rage in its eyes, and knew that it was reserved for her alone. It had been her axe that carved the several small gashes along its flanks and back—little things to such a massive creature, but Samara knew how to make them sting like all the hells combined. Despite the vengeful fury, its rage being so focused was a useful thing—it made the beast dumb, and blind to her comrades.

Comrades like her Bonded, Sharvor. He was already darting out from behind an upturned mound of dirt, his bare chest the pleasing color of river moss and shiny with sweat. Gripped tight in his hand was a long spear, capped with sturdy, sharpened bone. He planted his feet and squared his shoulders, and with a mighty lunge, he thrust his spear into the bear’s belly as it passed.

The beast bellowed in pain, the volume reverberating in Samara’s chest. Her Bonded jumped to the side, leaving the spear lodged in their quarry and trailing rivulets of thick red blood. Heavy, clumsy swipes tore through the air where Sharvor had stood only moments before. Aware that Sharvor had risked earning even more of the bear’s ire than she, Samara threw herself forward, battleaxe raised high in both hands. “You face me, beast!” She roared, primal fury welling up in her breast and exploding the words with enough force and strength to draw the bear’s attention back to her.

Not wanting to rely solely on a taunt that she wasn’t entirely certain the beast could understand, the barbarian woman dropped into a sturdy stance and whipped her axe through the air, grazing the cartilage of the beast’s muzzle. It’s eye’s bulged with a newfound hate, focused entirely on her again.

Samara stared back in challenge, while her spirit sang with joy. To Samara Cragsdotter, there was no greater calling than glorious combat against a worthy foe with her companions at her side. She deftly rolled underneath a swipe of the beast’s massive paws, noting that it was beginning to slow and tire. It was a fearsome, mighty beast, but it was alone—no match for the strength her tribe lent her.

Hacking down across the bear’s outstretched forelimb, Samara willed her primal Fury into her legs. It burned like embers between her muscles, demanding to be released. And she complied with that demand, leaping high into the air, preternatural strength propelling her higher and farther than her own muscles would allow. She landed with a grunt, catching her breath again in one great gasp. The power trembling in her legs got her a few dozen more yards before it burnt away, but left Samara close enough to share a few quick words with the Caller of her tribe, Moragrin Clarioncry.

He was a beastkin, the wondrous race that combined the minds and forms of elves and men with the best traits of lesser beasts. An intimidating lion’s mane of sandy blonde hair erupted from his otherwise human-shaped head, neck, and chest. Eyes as bright and yellow as the sun and slitted like a cat’s widened at her approach. A welcome breeze picked up, ruffling the earth-hued tones of his open-chested robes, while his sturdy, tufted tail swished in excitement. “You fight well, Samara,” he growled happily, looking past her at the stumbling beast.

“And I intend to honor Lord Daray with the beast’s passing, Caller,” Samara breathed out, eagerly. “Beseech our Lord to bear me skyward?”

She saw the calculating look in the old lion’s eyes, which then melted into a deep bellow of a laugh. “Brave indeed! Let us give the Warrior a show!” Clapping his massive hands together, he squared his shoulders and shut his eyes. “Daray! Lord of Warriors and God of Battle. Hear me! Bear your daughter skyward, let her be as a bolt of your lighting on the steppe. Lancement vers le ciel!” Red light swirled around him as he cried his prayer, coalescing around his hands.

In one vibrant instant, his prayer was accepted and the red light surged into Samara. With a heavy lurch, the barbarian woman found the ground falling away from her as her Lord’s power dragged her skyward. A cry of sheer elation burst free from her lips. With her axe held firmly, she trusted her Lord to guide her. And he did.

The arc of her fall would plant her right on the massive bear’s head. Fury swelled in her, filling her arms with fortification and strength for the glorious instant when her axe would cleave into the beast’s skull.

It was a bone jarring impact. Samara felt it wrench her arms and back, even with the extra protection her Fury—now spent—added. But the spray of gore—the sheer weight and power of her blow—lifted her spirits far above the petty concerns of future pain or soreness. In that instant, she was Samara Cragsdotter, beastslayer!

Hot, coppery blood sprayed over her bare stomach and stained the leather of her skirt, and she wore it like the manifestation of honor and glory it was. “Impressive,” a welcome voice grunted from her side. Sharvor approached her, nodding at the twitching mountain of flesh. “You fought well,” he said evenly, before wrapping his arm around her bare waist and pulling her in for a passionate kiss.

Adrenaline’s slow burn washed back over her, mixed with passion and need. She kissed back with equal fervor, tongue dueling her lover’s in a playful contest. One of his hands slipped under her loose leather top, gripping a full breast. He had just begun to kiss down her neck when Moragrin interrupted with a victorious roar.

“Ah, to be young and in love,” the lion fondly said, clapping each of them on the back. “But our task is not yet finished,” he nodded at the carcass of the bear. “We need to get this to the meeting site soon,” He caught the look of longing shared between Samara and Sharvor, then gave a knowing smile. “And besides, a night of good food and good drink is best ended by a good fuck, not started by one.”

Between the three of them, the giant bear’s corpse was maneuvered onto two long, crude sleds. Rope woven from horsehair looped around the creature and sleds, leading into three loops right at the very end. Sharvor, Samara and Moragrin looked at the rough handholds, each with their own version of dismay.

“It won’t be a long pull,” Moragrin was the first to break the silent stare-down. “Just past the glen and to the top of that hill.” He gestured to a slope of green. It indeed wasn’t far. Samara could have run the entire distance and not even feel winded. But this would be pulling the enormous creature behind her. She groaned in anticipation, but dutifully took off her axe and strapped it to the sled. Sharvor followed suit, and all three took up the rough rope into their hands.

With a mighty heave, the three warriors took the first arduous step. The second followed, and by the third the strain was evident on all three faces. Samara looked to each side, seeing the glimmer of the same idea sparkling in her comrade’s eyes. Taking a deep breath in , she belted out “Daray, Daray, mighty and bold, War god of old, with stories untold!” Her chanting quick and firm.

“Through battles fierce, we march with pride! In Daray’s name, no fear shall reside,” Sharvor took up the chant, his deeper voice resonating pleasantly in Samara’s chest.

“We march on strong, with steady pace. In Daray’s name, we’ll win this race!” Moragrin all but yelled, the three of them already finding the strength and rhythm in the words to make the march easier.

“Through heat and rain, we’ll persevere, For Daray’s might, we hold so dear.” All three finished the verse, feeling the strength of the war god filling their limbs as they continued toward the hill.

Over the next hour, they continued. It was a warrior’s chant, and had as many verses as could be remembered. The Lord of Battle had a long, illustrious tenure, and his exploits were varied. They could have marched from the one end of Remerealon to the other before they risked exhausting the song.

Finally, they hauled their burden to the top of the hill. The grasslands stretched away towards the distant mountains on one side, and the dark forest on the other. Ahead of them, dropped like a glittering blue ribbon, was the river Talvered. It wound in long lazy curves from those distant mountains, providing fertile farmland all along its banks. Directly in their path was a place where the river curved, surrounding a large piece of land on three sides. Riverward, they called it—one of the only permanent settlements in the Kalec grasslands, and a frequent client of Samara and her clan’s services as hunters and warriors.

Samara let the rough rope drop from her hands, gingerly rubbing the irritated skin. Sharvor’s own hand wrapped around hers. With a gentleness that most would think a nearly full-blooded orc like him incapable of, he rubbed little circles over her palm. “No blood, good,” he said with a nod. “You humans are so fragile, I expected to find the rope had slashed your palm.”

The taunt was delivered in the warm soft tones Sharvor reserved for her alone. She grinned wide, scooting closer to her Bonded. “Let me show you how much I appreciate your concern.” Balling her free hand into a fist, she punched Sharvor’s shoulder. It was hardly a full-powered one—she doubted it would even bruise. “Am I still too fragile for you, orc?” She added, tenderly.

He chuckled at the attack, releasing her palm. “Wicked devil,” he quietly said, pulling a waterskin from their supplies. After undoing the tie and drawing a long drink, he passed it to Samara who drained the rest of the lukewarm water in one long pull.

Placing it with the rest of their dwindling supplies, she pulled out a wide hunting horn. With an approving nod from Moragrin, she placed it to her lips and announced their presence to Riverward with a long, loud, bellowing note.

It didn’t take long for the settlement to respond. The heavy gates at the front opened wide and three riders on horseback approached the top of the hill. Samara and Sharvor sank to the soft meadow grass, leaning into the shadow cast by the corpse of their conquest. Moragrin would handle the villagers, as he had the knack for that sort of thing. Samara’s words were too loud, too brash, for the collection of people that valued walls and farms over blood and glory. Or, that was what Sharvor had told her, at least.

Moving closer to him, she let her head rest on his shoulder. While Samara was tall for a human woman at nearly six feet, at six-and-a-half, he was taller still. His mixed ancestry had been generous—moreso than it was for most. His orcish heritage had gifted him the pleasant green skin, coarse hair, strength, and height of an orc, but his eyes showed the gifts his human side gave—a calm and collected mind, and a loving heart.

The villagers made the ride up, and very soon, their cries of thanks washed over her. She smiled at them, nodding appreciation and acceptance. After a bit of negotiation, Samara and Sharvor were forced from their slightly cooler spot while the villagers hitched the ropes to their horses. “I’m told they’ve got ale cooling in the river for us,” Moragrin said with a self-satisfied smile. “Let’s go celebrate.”

A blazing bonfire illuminated the hard-packed dirt clearing that formed the center of Riverward. Darkened huts formed from river clay and thatched with reeds ringed the space—the homes and shops of the residents of the settlement. The brilliant dark sky shimmered with stars, and the scent of grilling bear meat was everywhere.

Samara sat by the fire with a skewer of it in her hand. It had been charred to perfection, then dusted with seasonings that enhanced the strong flavor to a mouthwatering degree. To a woman that subsisted on simple fare, this was a rare treat that deserved to be fully savored. The ale provided was much weaker than she preferred—the bite of alcohol was hardly noticeable under the watery bitterness. But it kept her throat from getting dry.

The villagers, on the other hand, seemed to already be feeling the effects. She saw boisterous grins and drink-fueled dances, even a few giggling teenagers sneaking off to the quiet shadows beyond the circle of firelight.

The sight made Samara glance at her Bonded, currently wolfing down a skewer of meat of his own. Her blood had calmed and cooled since the fight, but just the sight of her Bonded alone was enough to stir embers of passion. She wanted him, and he wanted her. “You are a brute, making your Bonded wait like this,” she teased, quiet enough for only Sharvor to hear.

“They supposedly have a storyteller here tonight,” the orcish man replied, before taking a gulp from his own tankard of ale. “Indulge me, and I promise I will indulge you in turn,” he said, a look in his brown eyes that made Samara’s heart hammer with anticipation.

For a long while, they sat there, waiting for this storyteller to appear until hush fell over the crowd. Samara looked around to see what had changed, only to spot a wizened old human man dressed in well-spun linen robes emerging from one of the huts. He was well into the winter of his years, bearing the lines and wrinkles of a thousand experiences on his weathered face. When he spoke, though, it was with the strength and vigor of a man in the prime of his life. “Friends!” He began, warmly, looking around the gathered villagers. “And honored guests from the Fivegrags Clan,” he added with a deep nod to Samara, Sharvor, and Moragrin. “Thank you for joining together tonight, to celebrate the good fortune the gods have bestowed on us.”

There were cheers and appreciative yells at that, with more than a few shouts of thankfulness aimed at Samara and her group. She nodded her thanks, silently exulting in the praise.

“Tonight is a night for stories,” he proclaimed, gesturing to himself. “And I have heard many in my time.” He gestured expansively to the crowd. “Shall it be the war of the giants!?” The crowd gave a gasp. “Or the wild hunt of the faerie!” Another, louder gasp. “Even”—he paused for dramatic effect, which Samara had to admit had her on the edge of her seat as well—“the golden city of wizards!” That got the loudest cheer of all, the clear winner.

It was an old story—Samara’s own clan had their own version of it—but the villager story teller told it well. It was a tale of arrogance, telling of mortals who schemed against the gods, and the gods’ righteous retribution.

The tale teller set the stage, weaving the landscape with his words. The brilliant golden city built with wizardry, the mortal counterpart to divine magic. In the beginning, the wizards were just and kind, using their spells for the benefit of all. Their powers made fountains run with endless, fresh, clean water, food fit for any king or warlord was served to any and all. Even illness and tragedy could be averted by the wizards of old.

But, they grew prideful and arrogant. They dismissed the world they lived on, secluding themselves in their city of pure gold. Those without magic were enslaved, their souls and minds chained as they were made to love their cruel masters. The gods looked on in horror, arguing among themselves for a solution while the Callers of that age did what they could to aid the masses.

Finally, the wizards trespassed the final taboo. They sought to birth and enslave a goddess of their very own, so that they could have all the powers of divinity itself at their beck and call. This, the gods had decreed as one, could not stand. So they erased the golden city—not just from the land it stood on, but from the records and the very minds of all that knew of it. To prevent mortals from ever repeating this tragedy, they left behind a single monument of black stone with the very legend Samara had just heard inscribed upon it.

The storyteller took a bow while the villagers erupted in cheers. Samara joined them, his words having painted the story expertly in her mind.

“Thank you, all,” the old man said with a bow. “Please, enjoy the rest of the evening! And please, another round of cheers for the brave warriors of the Fivecrags clan!”

Amid the rush of cheers, Samara nodded at Sharvor, and they both stood. Grinning at her Bonded, she led him beyond the circle of firelight, into the welcoming shadows and out into the starlight grasslands. A few drunken leers and cheers followed them, but the pair was so enthralled by each other that they all fell on deaf ears.

Outside, the wind blowing off the river was cool and slightly wet. So far from the fire of the village, the stars glimmered all the brighter for the lack of smoke obscuring them, while the moon bathed the grasslands in pale radiance.

“You are as beautiful as the day we were Bonded together,” Sharvor growled into Samara’s ear. She was laying against him, a solid wall of warm firm muscle that held her gently while they both looked over the grasslands.

She felt his excitement pressing into her—felt it twitching in time with his heartbeat. He could be a patient man and was always a generous lover, and Samara loved that about him. Turning around, the barbarian woman smiled at her Bonded. “And you are just as handsome,” she returned the compliment, reaching for the hem of her top and pulling it over her head.

She was proud of her breasts, as she was the rest of her body. Privately, she felt the Lord of War had consulted with the Lady of Love and Lust, Ishara, when she was created. Her tanned skin bore the scars and marks of battle like decoration, her toned body didn’t detract from her womanly curves, and Samara reveled in the attention it earned her from her beloved.

It was clear that Sharvor shared her opinion. His eyes roamed over her naked chest while a hunger grew in his expression. Cradling her in his lap, he leaned forward and planted a trail of hot, urgent kisses from her neck to her collarbone. The heat of the moment grew between them, fanning each other’s desire. The kisses each felt like little sparks, tiny embers that only hinted at the raw desire her Bonded was holding back.

Interrupting his journey down her body, Samara pressed her own urgent kiss to Sharvor’s lips. Even so consumed by it as she was, the barbarian woman felt her Bonded’s hands slide around her body. They slipped under the hem of her leather skirt, brushing the linen under-garment that protected Samara’s most intimate place.

A pleased growl escaped Sharvor’s lips. Breaking the kiss, he leaned in to whisper “I want to tear these fucking things off you.”

Samara smirked, kissing the orcish man once on the forehead as she moved to his opposite ear. “Fine, so long as you are okay with all of Riverward seeing my body,” she teased.

Another growl spilled from Sharvor’s lips, and in the moonlight Samara could see him grin. “Hmmm, getting to show off that the most beautiful woman in all of Remerealon is my Bonded?” He mused. With a shake of her head, he pressed a much softer kiss to Samara’s lips, which she accepted with a soft purr of delight. “Tempting, but I’m a greedy man. I might have to kill anyone else that got to see you naked.”

Her Bonded resumed his interrupted journey, shifting so his kisses brought him to her breast. She sighed in delight while her Bonded’s fingers teased one nipple, his lips and tongue on the other. It brought the first true surge of desire—a light, delicate thing that nevertheless made her grin. Sensation danced on her nerves and dew gathered between her netherlips.

She let him bathe her in sensation, savoring the care and attention her Bonded was paying to her body. After a few moments, she felt his hand leave her breast, slowly following the trail of her abs down to the front hem of her skirt. Looking up as his lips gilded smoothly off one shiny nipple, he silently glanced down and back up.

Samara responded by smoothly getting to her feet. Smiling adoringly at the man she loved, the dark haired woman slipped her skirt and underwear off in one smooth motion. With only her leather boots hiding all of her from the sky’s vision, she knelt back down in front of Sharvor. Sweat and musk filled the air, along with desire and the remnants of dried blood. It was earthy and primal, and it stirred the Fury in Samara’s body.

The energy that waited in her breast, poised and waiting for her to call it, her Fury. It shared so much with lust and passion, and rode along the same trails in her soul. She had to let it out, even if just a little. So she let just a trickle of it flow free, sharpening her senses and casting a soft red glow from her eyes.

The effect was mild, but it still let her pick up hints of the smoking bear fat back in the village, and the drift of distant wildflowers on the breeze. Then she turned her head back to her Bonded, and all she could smell was him. His closeness, his skin, his sweat… it all powerfully called to her.

Looking up into his grinning face, he nodded, and she lunged forward to grip the hem of his breeches. After only a moment’s work to shove them down to his ankles, she was rewarded with the sight of his cock. The other men in her tribe could strut about as much as they liked about their length or girth, Samara knew without a doubt that her Bonded’s member was the pinnacle of perfection.

Heeding the soft, insistent call of her Fury and her passion, Samara straddled her Bonded’s waist, hovering her dark thatch of hair over his straining shaft. Sharvor gripped it, aiming and with an eminently satisfied groan from them both, he slid inside her.

For a moment she was entirely fixated on the sensations coursing through her, the heat of his body and the welcome penetration from the man she loved coming together to form one singular sense of intimate closeness, as Ishara intended. Pleasure rebounded in her mind, hitting her Fury and coming back stronger for it. His hips flexed under her, adding another jolt of delight that refocused Samara in the moment.

She matched him, rolling her hips in synchronicity with him. Their moans and sighs melded together, while they looked deeply into each other’s eyes. She saw love, lust, and appreciation writ large, while she smiled back with satisfaction and love of her own. Their hands found each other, clenching tight while their tempo increased.

“Gods, Samara,” he grunted, his thrusts off their tempo and wild. “You’re... arrrgh!” He growled, gripping her hand tight enough to hurt. It was only for a moment, and Samara thrilled at the reaction. Seeing her normally calm and reserved Bonded brought past his own self control, growling her name to stars, it made her pussy drip and her nerves flare.

“And you,” she said, the last word stretched into near-nonsense by the moan that spilled from her lips. “My Amazing... oh, my fucking...” Their rhythm fell further and further apart as their release welled up. Samara gripped just as tight as her Bonded did, savoring the sudden tenseness that magnified every jolt of pleasure a hundred times over.

With all the suddenness of a thunderstorm on the plains, orgasm crashed into the barbarian woman. It spread outward from her core, enveloping her whole body in a warm, satisfied glow. A lazy smile claimed her lips while her pussy clenched and gripped Sharvor’s length.

With a primal roar, Sharvor bucked up wildly and released himself in her. It coated her, feeling molten even given the roaring heat already swirling inside her. The feeling quickly tumbled and grew together, grabbing the lingering threads of her desire and bringing her quickly back to another orgasm.

It wasn’t as powerful as the first—more gentle and soothing, but Samara welcomed it all the same as she slipped free from Sharvor’s waist and lay across his chest. One of his strong arms wrapped itself around her shoulders, and she allowed herself to snuggle close to her Bonded.

“I bet we made Ishara herself jealous,” Sharvor observed, turning to give Samara a wink. “Think she took notes for her next tryst with our Lord?”

Giving a wordless kiss as her response, Samara let herself relax. Sharvor’s heartbeat was reassuring and strong, thumping beneath his chest. Strong fingers ran through her ink-dark hair, and a sense of perfect contentment welled up in her. It was all too easy to imagine relaxing into sleep, nearly naked and one with the natural world.

For a long moment, she hoped that her Bonded was of the same mind. They stayed, embraced in the night air while Samara’s Fury cooled and her senses returned to normal. Eventually, she felt him shift. Shaking her head, she slithered over his body. Laying her entire weight on him, she locked eyes with him and shook her head. “Lets sleep out here. Civilization”—she waved a hand vaguely in Riverward’s direction—“will be waiting for us tomorrow. If we go back now, they’ll offer us beds,” she finished with a playful look of disgust.

“The horror,” Sharvor agreed, grinning back at her. She felt his eyes again roam all over her nearly naked body, just as her own ran over his. He shifted under her, and a curious glance from her made him pause. “You can’t expect to be the only one that gets to sleep naked.”

Rolling over and off her Bonded, Samara eagerly kicked off her leather boots. Sharvor’s boots landed next to hers, followed swiftly by his pants. Gathering all of their clothes together, Samara made a little bundle and laid down invitingly beside it.

Her Bonded embraced her, holding her body close to his. She felt him kiss the back of her neck and gave him a pleased growl in return. Words had no place here, not when they had returned so much to the wondrous sea of life all around them. Samara was lulled to sleep by the distant rush of the river and the lovely contrast of Sharvor’s warmth and the air’s chill. She quickly surrendered to it, slipping into a contented slumber.

Pungent smoke coiled around the pleasant nonsense filling Samara’s dreams. It smelled of spice, and felt so much more real than the phantoms and shadows that were already dancing away from her mind. Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, the barbarian looked around in confusion when the scent of smoke remained.

“Good morning,” Moragrin said behind her. The lion-maned beastskin was sitting with his back turned to them, facing the brightening horizon that promised the dawn was mere moments away. A flare of shame rose, but it sputtered and died in under a second. This wasn’t the first time the old lion had discovered her and her Bonded naked. She never saw lust in the beastkin’s eyes either, and she suspected that that was why even her Bonded never minded if he saw them, his promise the night before notwithstanding.

“Good morning,” she said back, quietly. Extracting herself from Sharvor’s embrace, Samara took her boots from the pile of clothes and began dressing for the day.

“You might want to wake him yourself. Dawn is nearly here,” Moragrin said, extinguishing his pipe and turning toward the onrushing dawn. Samara had just roused her Bonded from sleep when the golden light of sunrise burst across them.

A roar boomed from Moragrin, proud and confident. It carried past the nearby village, the wooden walls returning their own weak echoes. It filled Samara with a fierce determination. She didn’t have the same connection to the Lord of Battle as the Caller, but the rush of dawn still warmed and replenished something vital inside her. Her Fury resonated with Moragrin’s call, and before she could think to stop herself she was standing beside the old lion, calling her own welcome to the new day.

It wasn’t the first time she felt the urge to greet the sun this way. It satisfied her Fury like nothing else—made her feel strong and vital. Moragrin had occasionally mentioned how similar it was to his ritual roaring, and Samara had simply taken it as further proof of her fierce devotion to Daray.

Sharvor, now fully dressed as well, waited patiently for them to finish. “My fierce wilding,” he greeted her warmly, pressing his forehead to hers in a loving embrace. “Are you sure you don’t want to walk the Caller’s life?”

Samara shook her head. It was an old suggestion of his, given more out of familiarity now. Having Fury wasn’t something everyone in her clan had, Sharvor certainly didn’t. He was a magnificent warrior, and at times could be very cunning, but he couldn’t tap that well of power like she could. But it wasn’t true magic, either—she had sworn no oaths to Daray, and followed the Lord of War out of nothing more than an honest desire to. She shook her head, stepping away from her Bonded. “I could never submit like that,” she gave her usual answer. “Not to anyone, even our Lord.”

Something about the morning had her in an introspective mood as the three of them made their way back to Riverward. Fury certainly wasn’t magic. She didn’t need to speak the language of Callers, or the devil speak of wizards. Her Fury was just there. A power in her breast that came when she needed it, let her push herself beyond human limits for a time.

It could—if she gave into it fully—drive her in a truly wild state. Surrendering completely to it let her strike harder, move faster, ignore pain and injury. And, if any of her comrades were unlucky enough to be around her in such a state, she would just as easily forget the bonds of such kinship. In the throes of Fury, there was only the bloodlust, the strength and depths of which would make even a full-blooded orc pause.

Samara shook her head, and let the beauty of the grasslands in the early morning take her attention. It was shaping up to be a truly beautiful day. Clouds had blown during the night, drifting in the sky like enormous bundles of wool. The slight breeze carried enough of a hint of warm winds to promise another hot afternoon, but Samara enjoyed the prospect all the same. Once payment was secured from the village, they would be heading back toward the Fivecrags—back home.

Leaving Moragrin to handle the fine details, Samara led her Bonded to the now empty sled. The bear carcass had been butchered, the resulting strips of meat already on the racks being dried. Likewise, the pelt had been rolled, removed and now awaited the attention of the tanners to be turned into leather.

The baskets of vegetables, grain, and stacks of leather and linen they were promised as payment were missing, though. The mystery only escalated when they heard Moragrin’s voice yelling from the village square. Both warrior and barbarian grabbed their weapons from the sled, rushing over to find Moragin looming over an older human man.

The human had a tablet of some sort clutched in his hands, holding it towards Moragrin like a shield. “It’s all right here, Moragin.”

The beast kin snatched the tablet away, looking at it intently. Cautiously sheathing her axe, Samara stepped closer. The tablet bore all manner of symbols and notation, all meaningless to the barbarian. Sharvor had been insisting for a while now she learn to read, but she had resisted firmly. Civilization could be tolerated, but she refused to allow something as unnatural as written words into her mind.

Whatever meaning the symbols conveyed, it brought a similar frown to Sharvor’s expression. “When did you find out?” He asked the older human, handing the tablet back.

“This morning, just as we were getting your payment ready,” he said, gripping his tablet tight.

“What’s going on?” Samara asked, looking between the villager and her comrades.

“Rats,” Moragrin grunted. “They got into their granary, fouled seven sacks of grain,”

Samara looked from the Caller to the villager. “And this involves us?” She asked, not quite seeing the issue.

“Yes,” Sharvor sighed. “It means that they can pay us, or they can make sure they have enough grain for their other trades. Not both.”

Narrowing her eyes at the villager, with his spun linen clothes and his slender arms, she felt a hot, indignant anger rise. “So they will tighten their belts, and pay us what we are due,” she stated, glaring at the villager.

“We’re all prepared to go a little hungry,” the villager began, falling to meet Samara’s gaze. “But, we need the rest of the grain to trade with the elves... the lumber is already—”

“You risk much, little man, trying to cheat us!” Samara roared, hand reaching back for her axe.

“Samara!” Moragin turned and snapped at her. “Is this man a great warrior?” He asked, pointedly.

He most assuredly was not. He was nearly shaking in his boots. He had the worn, tired look of a farmer that had managed to live past the age where farming was feasible. Not as elderly as the storyteller had been last night, but well past the spring of his years. “No, Caller,” she said, moving her hand away from her weapon.

“Neither is he a great beast, so you will keep that weapon stowed,” he commanded, and Samara felt her bruised pride bristle. “And,” he said warningly “you will apologize to Goodman Daniels.”

The indignation piled up, clenching Samara’s fist tight. She could storm off, sure in the knowledge Moragrin would chastise her harshly later. Sharvor, too, would add in his own wisdom. Two awful choices, but she was never one to delay the inevitable. “I apologize, Goodman,” she stiffly said. The moment he returned her apology with a slight nod, she stormed back to the sled.

Frustration welled up in her. She knew it was stupid to threaten like that. Riverward was a valued client of theirs—a vital part of their way of life. She wanted to blame the Fury, wanted to claim it had risen in her unbidden. But she knew that for the lie it was. Her temper had risen and, in the moment, she had gleefully allowed it full reign. She wanted to flex her power, to resolve the issue quickly. But with the heat of the moment gone, she had to concede that letting Moragrin and Sharvor negotiate was the right call.

Waiting for them to do so quickly turned unbearable for Samara. She went through her morning stretches, worked herself into a light sweat with some basic exercises, then went though the basic axe forms. Finishing the last stance, she cautiously peaked back toward the square. Sharvor, Moragrin, and now three elders of the village had several tablets arranged around themselves, arguing and gesturing between them.

Seeing that a quick resolution was unlikely, the heavy weight of boredom threatened to coil around the barbarian’s spirit. She wanted to be underway, taking the spoils of victory back home. Instead she was stuck here, behind walls and held hostage by diplomacy and civility. Laying back on the slats of the sled, she heaved another great sigh, watching the clouds drift past and ready to sink into the tedium.

She was jolted from resignation by something warm, soft, and furry leaping into her lap. Sitting up straight, she was greeted by a small black cat laying in her lap. It was a deep, pure black, nearly the same color as Samara’s own hair. Stretching with every sign of contentment, the cat looked up with two brilliant yellow eyes.

Reasoning this to be a village cat, Samara slowly moved to stroke along the beast’s tiny body. It responded with a swish of its tail, pressing against her hand. “If only you had done your job hunting rats, we could be heading home by now,” she said, quietly.

The cat blinked once, acknowledging her complaint with a soft meow. It butted against her paused hand, obviously intent on getting more pets from the barbarian. Looking around at the little area that held the sled and seeing no one and nothing else that might hold her interest, she resumed petting the creature.

With a subtle grace, it sat back on its hindlegs. Your eyes are so beautiful, Samara thought, carefully running her hand down its back. Like wildflowers, they’re so nice to look at.

The feeling of its fur running against her hand, rhythmically gliding along its body was sublime. So incredibly easy to focus on. That and its eyes. She held contact with them. It felt so easy, so incredibly natural to just let her eyes fall into the cat’s own. The boredom that had threatened her only moments ago vanished, melted away by the growing serenity of simply attending to this beautiful creature. Its tail slowly swished across her leather skirt while a soft purr teased just at the edge of Samara’s hearing.

A smile pulled at Samara’s lips, and she saw no reason to hide it. She was feeling so content. Peaceful even. It was so calming to sit here, to adore the cat, to stroke it… no… her fur. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name, that this was a girl cat. The purr shifted in tone, and Samara’s body relaxed more and more. Aside from the unbroken, rhythmic stroking of her hand down the cat’s back, she was still as stone.

What is your name?

The question floated into Samara’s mind, dipping into her thoughts with hardly a ripple. “Samara Cragsdotter,” she said in a distant, even voice. The moment she answered, the question drifted away, vanishing from her memory.

You are a tribal savage?

The word ‘savage’ caused a faint frown to crease Samara’s brow. Tribal life could be hard, and it lacked the coddling of civilization, but she wasn’t a savage. The cat’s eyes widened and the purr grew louder in Samara’s ears.

A powerful wave of calm rose and washed over Samara’s annoyance. The word savage didn’t bother her anymore. She didn’t feel bothered by anything, not when the powerful calm sensation smothered everything under it. She was entirely, utterly, calm “Yes,” she said in a soft dreamy voice “I am a tribal savage.” Again, the question vanished from her mind the moment she answered

Where does your tribe nest?

Samara let the description of her homeland—five craggy hills ringing a large circular valley—spill from her lips. She hardly noticed them leave. The voice had asked a question and she simply answered, feeling nothing for betraying the location of her tribe.

A man dressed in robes with the markings of a spider will come to your village. You will trust him completely, you will convince the rest of your savages to trust him as well.

Not a question this time, but a powerful push into her mind. It penetrated through the thick miasma of purrs and fur that kept her feeling so utterly docile. The man with the markings of a spider was to be trusted, without reservation. It was bedrock to her, now. As certain as the knowledge of the wind and the sun. The rest of her fellow savages would see him for the entirely trustworthy person he was, as soon as he arrived. “I will trust him completely,” she agreed, dully. “I will convince the rest of my savages to trust him too.”

The conversation faded from her mind, along with the oppressive sense of calm. Slowly, the barbarian woman’s senses returned to her. The cat in her lap gave a very sweet sounding purr, the sound momentarily fogging Samara’s mind. Then she stood up and leapt lightly onto the ground, stretching before slinking between the drying racks and out of sight.

Footsteps pulled Samara’s attention toward them, revealing both Sharvor and Moragrin. They looked harried, but happy. “We hammered out a deal. We will take the two sacks of grain they can spare, and a comparable amount of the dried meat and fur from the bear we killed for them.,” Moragrin announced with a smile.

Samara nodded along, feeling her head filled with dust and fog. How long was I sitting here staring at nothing? She thought to herself. She wasn’t one to sit idle for a long… a… vertigo swarmed over her.

She had been waiting patiently, and that was what mattered. Confusion resolved, she stood and nodded at the news. “It will be harder with less grain, but we can make it,” she agreed. “Are we good to start loading everything up?”