Dralan [On Hold]

Five

Leyla

Leyla had been in the tub for hours. Her fingers and toes were pruning and her skin was beginning to wrinkle. But she couldn't stop herself.

Every time she slid the wet cloth over her skin and squeezed it to release the water, she imagined the Dralan's voice praising her, telling her how good she was. Every gentle tickle from the fleeing water droplets, reminded her of the touch of his fingers, running along her skin, finding small spots that lit a fire inside her body.

She had chosen rose water. The gentle flower didn't overpower her own fragrance, the one the Dralan liked, and at the same time it accentuated her scent and complimented the taste of her blood, like a nice red wine to a delicious meal.

After hours of simply stewing in the warm rose water with the flower petals, she finally arose from the tub and writhed her hair from excess water. She grabbed a soft towel when the cool air begun nibbling at her skin, rising goosebumps onto it. She dried down and now went to the Dralan's giant mirror where on a lush armchair, a Kischmir had dropped off a dress. The same Kischmir had helped temper her water and prepare the bath for her, without uttering a single word or even looking at her. Leyla had the feeling she had been ordered to do so on the threat of execution, if her shaky hands were anything to go by. She had left as soon as she was done and let Leyla bathe alone.

Now, Leyla held up the beautiful silk dress that looked as pure and smooth as a white cotton cloud on a warm summer day. The fabric was the finest she had ever seen, and the dress itself was simple, yet magnificent; It had thin straps that led down to the smooth curve of the cleavage, and the back was backless and stopped just above her hips. The gown was loose, thin and flow-y, and the dress hugged her body as if it had been custom made for her. Perhaps it had.

Shaking the ludicrous thought from her thoughts, Leyla twirled in front of the mirror and watched as the fabric swirled around her in a shiny haze, reflecting softly in the candlelight. She had never worn anything so expensive, nor beautiful. Hopefully it would please the Dralan as much as it pleased her.

What was she going to do with her hair? She thought, combing her fingers through her wavy blonde locks. As a Kischmir she had been forced to keep it up and covered by the bonnet, but she was a Mihr now, a Mihrisa. She doubted the Dralan wanted her to hide her hair from him, but then again, he probably wouldn't want to deal with brushing it away from her neck whenever he needed to feed. So as a compromise, she decided to do a loose side-braid that went from the right part of her head to the left part of her shoulder. That way, it was tamed, but still loose for his touch, if he so pleased. The idea made her shiver.

She then sat down at the large dining table, in one of the cushioned seats, and looked around. What was she going to do now? She felt like she should thank the Dralan for what he had offered her; It struck her that she hadn't, and she immediately felt awful. She would have to make up for that, then. And she knew just how to do it.

Dohmenic

He was exhausted by the time he begun the march back to his chamber. It was just around nightfall, dinner time, and he was starving. Feeding on blood could only get you so far, but you needed real food as well to survive. Especially when you spent most of your days in a training facility, beating useless Lathras into shape. He could've gotten a commandant to do it, but what Dralan didn't personally make sure his army fought well and with great skills? His father had trained him, and now he was training his Lathras. It was hard work, but at the end of the day, he wouldn't trade it for anything. The battlefield was where he belonged.