During a small interlude when I had become separated from both Marius and Asia, I was suddenly face to face with an unusual lady I had not seen in more than two years. She is not like many of the other women of Jad, nor like any of the women from the nearby Peasant villages. Her eyes are fiery and her features often sharp. She is a dancer, yet not in the sort of traditional slave dances that many other women are well acquainted with. But of the sort that felt to me, intimidating. Enough that I had dreamt of her off and on over the next two years.
Anya is her name, and she is Sven's woman.
Anya is her name, and she is Sven's woman.
Today at the Wine Festival she threw a woman right at me the very moment I had smiled and called out her name. A kajira woman.
"Keep her, Damos. She is yours. A gift," she said without a smile. And my own faltered for a moment, unable to take my eyes from her long enough to see exactly whom she had bestowed upon me.
"From Sven."
"Thank you.. Anya. Thank you."
And just like that she had turned to go, leaving me with a gift and a burgeoning fondness in my heart for the Artist once again when I at last looked down upon the red-haired woman Karihisma, kneeling at my feet.
