Closed Lesson The First (Isalie)

[Colt]

12th of fall, 513 a.v
morning

The morning had reached its height, though full noon was still an hour or so away when they entered the camp. The stallion, so long handicapped by the scarring on his back now walked with heavy footsteps, tail held high and crest arched in pride. He snorted and threw his head from side to side, thundering over the ground to let all know that he was once again strong, and that this camp was his. The man on his back let him prance, a fond smile on his face, before leaning back and bidding the creature to stop. Akaidras whinnied, tucking one foreleg and striking the ground with the other. He snapped his tail, snorted, picked up his feet, did everything he could to remain in motion even as he stood still to allow his rider a safe dismount. Shahar ran his fingers through the Strider’s mane, scratching the great almost-black neck before turning to the yvas. His fingers were sure as they loosened the riding pad, and less than a minute had passed before the yvas was free and the massive stallion was sprinting away, head held high to catch the wind. After so long trapped by his injuries, Akaidras was eager to exert himself. Yes, things were as they should be once again.

He set the yvas by the largest tent of the camp, then quickly turned to shoo away Tuka when she scampered over to investigate. The kitten circled, and when she realized that she would simply not be allowed to chew it then she immediately switched goals and began to claw at the hem of Shahar’s pants, begging to be picked up. Unsure of how else to quiet her, the hunter reluctantly plucked the kit from the ground. She chirped once, but then settled comfortably into the crook of his arm and ceased her noise.

It was with the young hunting cat in hand that Shahar approached the two-person tent that he had once called his own. With five good meals and two full nights of rest, Shahar was certain that the newest member of his hearth was feeling better. At least, he hoped so. He’d left her alone for most of the day before, except at meals when he tried to encourage her to eat more. He also made sure that there was always a full waterskin hung on her tent, and had once wrapped some smoked meat around its neck in case she might still be hungry. She had to be feeling better by now, at least enough for Shahar to begin teaching her.

He let out a loud, wordless whisper to announce his presence to the young woman, gesturing for her to come. Though he’d yet to say her name out loud, Shahar had been making attempts to accompany grassland sign with common words, if he knew them, but still hoped that with time they would no longer be necessary.

“Come,” he said, repeating the sign. Come.

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

There were no whips, no chains, no implements. Merely hands, but it was astounding just how much damage hands could do, if used effectively against someone who just curled up and took it, without any hint of a fight. And the female did not fight against the male above her. The punishment, she knew, was deserved. She was also painfully aware that an y attempt to avoid said punishment, beyond what she was currently doing, would be met with something far more unbearable...

Isalie stirs awake, the sound of her new owner calling her bringing her back to the present. For more than a few chimes, the young woman doesn't move, and she simply stares at a blemish on the side of the tent in which she was resting. In the two days since Shahar ha brought her here, she hadn't left it, save to relieve herself, and even then, sometimes it had seemed so much simpler to not move and just let what happens happen. Only a few times had she seen her owner, or guardian, as he though of himself. He brought her food, most of which lay uneaten, the stench making her more and more nauseas until someone would come to take it away again and leave her in peace, before more food was brought.

It wasn't that Isalie was deliberately not eating; she didn't currently have it in her to display such wilful disobedience. No, her actions were much more passive; the thought of food was not something that she could stomach right now, much less literally stomach the food. She ate some, under the watchful eye of Shahar, and she was drinking enough water for whoever was replacing it to be kept on the go. But for the most part, she slept.

One of the biggest problems Isalie had had in the wild was sleep; rest and you were not likely to wake up again. Now that she was in relative safety, she had little trouble in falling a deep sleep. This ease for sleeping was aided by her nigh on catatonic state... the was absolutely no desire for her to stay awake and think of the present, even if falling asleep meant dreaming of the past.

But her new owner's tolerance for her lack of energy seemed to have ended now. He bought me for a reason. Isalie reminds herself, she would have to be useful eventually. With slow movements, she forces herself to sit, and then stand up. She glances down at herself, and her new attire. Despite Shahar's obvious displeasure at her size, Isalie knows that, in the past forty days since she was captured, she had put on weight. She was hardly the stick she had been in Syliras.

Glancing up, Isalie is surprised by the presence of a small feline in the man's arms. She silently watches it for a moment before turning her attention back to the man holding it. Registering the sign before he utters the word - it was one which he seemed to use a lot around her, with her lethargic pace - sheinclines her head ever so slightly and walks towards him.

[Colt]

She emerged from her tent slowly, face blank. She was still far thinner than Shahar would have liked, but if he squinted then it might have looked like she had but on just a little weight. And even if she hadn’t she definitely hadn’t lost any, which would have been far worse.

She looked at Tuka for a moment, then at him for another as she absorbed his sign and speech, but then obediently approached. Shahar turned and led her away from her tent, across the open circle of the camp to the large gap between his tent and Slither’s, to where three horses grazed peacefully.

Akaidras raised his head with a curious whicker, pulling into a trot to investigate his rider and the woman he had brought along. Shahar placed himself in between Isalie and the horse, gesturing wait, and after a few moments Akaidras lost interest and returned to his companions.

“Dainellas.”

The dun mare raised her head. Shahar shifted his arms, rousing Tuka, and then put the kitten on his shoulders so his hands would be free. Come, please. The Strider snorted and did so, dipping her head for Shahar to touch in greeting. He stroked her forehead, ran his fingers through her mane, doing everything he could to put her at ease before turning to Isalie.

“Dainellas,” he said, gesturing to the mare. “You say. Dainellas.”

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

It shouldn't have been such a surprise to the captive that she would eventually see horses again; they were, after all, Drykas people, the horse lords of Mizahar. In order to be a horse lord, they must have horses. Another thing that Isalie was not expecting was the pang of pain that stabs through her chest at the sight of them, one of which reminds her of the mount she stole two years ago, the weak creature that carried her to Syliras, and was stolen from her half a season ago.

The woman who spoke to her back when she was being held in the Captive's Pavilion had known only a broken version of the Common tongue, and so Isalie had never learnt the truth behind what happened to Shadow. Gone was all she had to to on, and Isalie didn't know much about horses, but she doubted that her loyal mount would have survived the journey to Endrykas.

Closing her eyes, she dips her head for a moment and tries to quell the sensation of loss. After counting to ten, she looks up once again, as the man calls the other horse over to him. Unsure as to what was expected of her, she shuffles up to stand behind the man's right shoulder, eyes following the horse's movements. The man speaks again, and his addition of their mutual language in his speech alerts her to the fact that he was talking to her. Tearing her gaze away from the beast, she looks over to the man, her brow furrowing slightly. Was that its name? Was it an oral command any horse responded to?

Another, barely noticeable, smile graces her lips as her eyes catch the movements of the feline resting on her guardian's shoulder and, taking the chance, she repeats the man's words. The sound comes out as little more than a croaky whisper, having not spoken a great deal. But the word was distinguishable.

[Colt]

She glanced at his shoulder, the ghost of a smile touching her lips before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Shahar took note, but after nearly a full year of participating in the strange dance of master and slave that Slither was so good at the Drykas was careful to show no sign that he had noticed. He didn’t know Isalie, not nearly as well as he knew Slither, but he didn’t want to risk her being threatened by his attention and retreating deeper into herself. Still, it was a good sign that Tuka could have an effect on her, however small. It was certainly something to contemplate later.

Dainellas looked at Isalie curiously as her name was said. At this, the hunter reached into his pocket and carefully drew out a piece of dried fruit, holding it in his hand so that the mare would not see. He gently took up one of Isalie’s hands and placed the morsel into it, then splayed his own in demonstration. Palms flat, fingers together, thumb stretching downwards so it wouldn’t get in the way. Dainellas immediately recognized the position as the one that so often gave her treats, and began to run her muzzle over Shahar’s hands in search of what it promised. But there was nothing there anymore, and she huffed in dismay as the Drykas let his hand drop rudely without giving her anything.

The affronted mare instead turned to Isalie, snuffing at her hands to see if she would observe the rules of propriety and give the horse the snack she had been teased with. Shahar again splayed his hands, this time towards Isalie, pay attention in his posture followed by you repeat.

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

Despite having owned a horse for the best part of two years, Isalie had never fed one. Not by hand, at least. The runaway slave had had enough trouble scavenging for scraps, foraging for berries and, eventually, hunting for small rodents. With her own difficulties feeding herself, her horse was mostly left to his own devices. She grew up around them, as many children in Mizahar did, but she had never really had any contact. She had assumed that her horse would be able to find his own food, and he did, to an extent. Only when she realised Shadow was too weak to even ride did it occur to her that they needed active care, which was a concept that was being driven home to her, now that she was living with the Drykas.

The food is placed into her hand and her owner demonstrates how to hold out her hand in offering to the beast. Not for the first time, a surge of fear wells up in her stomach and a subconscious whine escapes her lips. It seemed to be the only emotion consistently breaking through her current apathy, however fleeting. Pale blue eyes dart over to the man beside her with a look akin to pleading. His hands turn once again to signing; something they did often which Isalie once again couldn't decipher. Assuming it was an order to do as told, she steels herself and juts her hand out in front of her body towards the expectant horse. Long, thin fingers are flat and straightened, locked into position with her thumb tucked away lest the horse think it also fodder. Isalie's stance is relaxed and her features return back to expressionless, but her outstretched hand was trembling.

The horse leans forward but, despite herself, Isalie doesn't retract her hand. She feels its mouth brush against her palm as it collects up the dried fruit. A slight amount of slobber drops into her palm in return; an odd sensation, but one that was not entirely unwelcome. As the horse munches, not really thinking about what she was doing, the young woman steps forward towards the beast, her hand coming up to stroke the neck and mane. At first she was pleasantly surprised at the silky quality of the short hair on the neck. But then it occurs to her that this horse was well cared for, whilst her own had spent two years with limited nutrients. What damaged hair he had was also caked in mud half the time.

As she continues to rub her hand along the creature's neck, following the line of the hair, her mind drifts further into her own past, to her lost friend and how badly the had fared since she stole him. The knowledge that she should be upset by her thoughts does nothing to her mood; she knows that she should be upset, and even once she might have been, but there was nothing now. And that realisation doesn't even frighten her.

[Colt]

She looked at Shahar, face becoming a fleeting mixture of nervous and imploring, but Shahar stood firm and nodded again at the horse. She did as he had done, hand out, palm flat, fingers out of the way. Dainellas warily looked at the offered hand, but once she determined that there actually was a treat in this one she quickly forgot her previous annoyance.

Isalie looked at the horse in contemplation, seeming to lose herself to her own thoughts. Still, the Drykas was extremely pleased when she stepped forward of her own volition to stroke the Strider’s neck. First a smile for Tuka, then care for Dainellas; perhaps animals were the key to the fire in her eyes.

Shahar tiptoed to the nearby travois as Isalie busied herself with the horse. The bag of horse things was quiet in his arms, the clanking that should have been obvious to the ear muffled by soft leather and careful handling. Isalie was still staring a thousand miles through the horse when he returned, and he moved to the side to enter her peripherals.

“Here,” he said, reaching into the pack and pulling out a hardened leather currycomb. “Currycomb.” He pulled out the stiff boar-hair brush. “Stiff brush.”

Tuka chirped in protest at the movements of his shoulders, and despite her loud demands that he not put her down he took a moment to remove her and place her gently on the ground.

The mare’s ears pricked at the sight of the brushes, and she adjusted her stance to make room for Shahar as he took up a place beside Isalie. The Drykas’ posture was once again one of pay attention as he put the currycomb to the horse’s hide, moving it in rhythmic circles over one shoulder. “Curry.” Dust and hair came free almost immediately, coating the once-smooth hide. Shahar stopped and turned to Isalie, gesturing at the tool.

“Currycomb,” he said, pointing, trying to make it clear that currycomb was the name of the thing. He turned back to the shoulder, movements slow and wide to indicate more meaning.

“Curry.” He paused and turned back to Isalie.

“I,” he pointed at himself, “curry,” he made circular motions in the air, miming currying, “Dainellas.” He pointed at the mare.

With that, the hunter gave the currycomb to Isalie and stepped away from the horse. Now “You,” he pointed at her, “curry,” he pantomimed the action, “Dainellas.” He pointed at the horse.

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

The runaway slave flinches as she senses the man step up beside her. Once again with a horse, an animal who could not speak to her, rebuke her or even willingly hurt her, Isalie was lost in her own little world and almost forgot about the existence of the man who now owned her.Peer momentary panic, however, was short lived, and pale blue, dead eyes avert their gaze from the creature's silky fur to meet the man's own.

Next they follow the wild cat, whose vocalisations made it clear that she wasn't impressed with being placed on the ground once more. The small kitten was amusing, to say the least. She had seen young animals and their antics before; she had smiled and laughed as they played and this kitten was no different to the countless others. But Isalie's face remains impassive.

Finally, her eyes then follow the movement of the man's hands, in which he has some bizarre object with thin, needle-like objects pointing out of it. Remembering back to when Matthew had combed though her hair when they first met, Isalie recognises the purpose of the device and, from his hand gestures, she realises what he wanted to do. Taking the currycomb, as he called it, out of his hand, the young woman mimics the movements just previously shown to her.

It was easy, she found, how the comb brushed through such short, fine hair, nothing compared to the pain that her scalp felt at Matthew's hands. It was easy, and mind numbing, to brush the horse's fur. The runaway slave had been going from extreme to extreme over the past few days, since being made captive. Sometimes she had been so caught up in her own thoughts, yet other times it was a fog of nothingness. The girl couldn't work out which was more lonely. With the horse, however, and the kitten, and Shahar watching her by her side, she couldn't feel lonely.

Every so often, the young girl glances over at her owner, a flighty look to check his expression, lest she was not doing her task well enough, or properly. And slowly, she begins to work around the whole of the creature's main body; though it didn't take long, as she had been clearly well-maintained and looked after previously. So, driven on by a mindset that Isalie had cultivated before she had even hit puberty, she performs the task that Shahar had set. Not with enthusiasm, only with a simple desire to please and satisfy, well aware that, if she doesn't do as asked, and to a high enough standard, she might not be eating later today when they return to the tents.

[Colt]

She tensed when he neared, though didn’t shy away. Fear flashed through her eyes, though it was gone just as suddenly as it had appeared, and then there was only dull blankness. She watched his motions, looked at the tool in his hand, and after a moment took it from him. She put it on her own hand and turned to the unbrushed parts of the hide, making the same motions Shahar had. It was clumsily done, but it not terrible, and so he decided to simply observe without interfering. He was aware of Tuka tugging insistently at the hem of his pants, but after a few moments of being disregarded the kitten huffed and departed, quite miffed.

Isalie worked her way around the hide, missing places here and there but covering most of the essentials. Shahar walked with her progress, keeping a few feet from her shoulder as she circled around the horse, currying out the dust and loose hair. She would look up now and again, searching for what Shahar assumed to be encouragement, and so he gave her encouragement and you are doing well, continue.

Dainellas, of course, was more than pleased with the attention, and moved with the young woman. She tilted her body this way and that, moving just so to indicate that she wanted this part scratched or that part curried. Whenever Isalie paused she would turn and give her a look, remaining stubbornly patient for the woman to begin again.

Isalie didn’t seem enthusiastic, per se, but she did seem to marginally enjoy it. He could see her lose herself in the task, sinking into her thoughts with the repetition of her motions. Good, he thought. Fire in the spirit came from fire in the mind, and if she had her own thoughts than it meant that she was thinking, and that she was not beyond hope.

When she was done, Shahar stepped alongside her once more and hefted the stiff brush for her to see.

“Brush,” he said, turning it to the mare’s hide to brush away what the currycomb had unearthed, leaving the coat beneath clean and glossy. He stepped back after a few strokes, but continued to pantomime in the air. “Brush,” he said, using the action sign to indicate that it was a verb. He then stopped pantomiming and simply held the brush still, then pointed to it. “Brush.” This word was also different, meaning the thing instead of the action. He pointed to himself. “I,” he pantomimed brushing, “brush,” he pointed to Dainellas, “Dainellas.”

He then took from Isalie the currycomb and replaced it with the brush. He pointed at her. “You,” he mimed brushing, “brush,” he pointed at the horse, “Dainellas.”

[Hope Dawnwhisper]

The girl had done this before, had been around slavers and masters and people who, through almost any means necessary, would seek to control her. She had been through enough to know now when someone was pleased with the end result. Almost as an instinct, Isalie knows that she hadn't completed the task to the man's expectations, but he wasn't necessarily angry at that. Her eyes narrow in confusion and distrust and, once again, her schema for what a Master should be is being challenged by her new Master.

But she doesn't dwell on this thought for long; as he was now showing her a second brush, on which was, to Isalie, at least, no different to the first. There were a few concrete differences, obviously, but Isalie saw only its purpose, which was no different. The man repeats the same actions and commands as before; he wanted her to brush the horse again. Why? Isalie knows that he didn't want it redone because of her sloppy job, that even if she had done it perfectly the first time, he would be asking her to use the second brush to brush him again. Why?

Despite her reservations, she reaches forward and accepts the second brush from him, handing back the currycomb in the process. The new brush drops to her side with her arm, however, and the slave's eyes follow the movements of the small kitten, who was wandering away. A high pitched sound, barely audible, escapes Isalie, and for a fraction of a moment, she debates going after the smaller creature. But she is aware of her owner's eyes on her and tears her gaze away from the kit, back to the horse.

Methodically, she begins the new technique of brushing the creature's fur, eyes glazing over, so that she wasn't noticing any visual change between the hair she had brushed over and the hair she hadn't.

After a few chimes, though, she finally speaks. "Dainellas is the name or a horse?" As expected, from perpetual silence, unboken since the Auction, her voice is little more than a hoarse whisper, and she coughs after speaking, the discomfort in her throat now making itself known to her. But the young woman had been wondering her question for a while, the language barrier was still something severe and, if she was to be spending much time around horses, or this one in particular, she needed to know what the word specifically means.

She reaches the other side of the horse and a quick glances down shows Isalie what the beast's gender was. Smiling faintly, she now looks over her silky back at Shahar, waiting patiently for an answer as she continues to brush the horse down.