Upon receiving an invitation for the Spring Festival in Delumine, Fever first felt inclined to reject the merriment and fanfare – she didn’t believe in immersing the courts, forcing the common people to mingle with one another, as if jovial banter and exchanging goods could remedy the tensions the hierarchies had created. If up to her – and perhaps it’s a good thing she doesn’t really have a say – she’d follow in Denocte’s footsteps and isolate Solterra from the rest of the world; her people were barbarians, they were savage and cutthroat and she would have them no other way.  Yet here, they had been asked to gather and play nice, so she obliged, not out of the non-existent kindness of her heart, but the belief that Solterrians had to show the rest of Novus that they were exceptionally more brilliant, much fiercer, and wildly more glorious than any other court children.

Fever was no exception.

And so, as she agreed to participate, she also volunteered to provide entertainment. She demanded plenty of space around her tent for small pit fires, glittering gold silks to drape in-between banisters, incense pots to sit with cloves and dragons blood perfuming the air she performed in. The atmosphere this viper cultivated was foreign and feral compared to the flower-filled ceremony held across the tents. A sitar from her kingdom had been assigned to one of the child-bards that usually followed Fever around, and he was paid for his time with promise of coins and, unfortunately more important, food and drink. 

Bantering during the day, dancing during the night.

Tonight was no different: the strumming of the oriental strings quiet, haunting yet inviting, a few stragglers lay on the outskirts of the firelight, a handful of dark-faced strangers danced while Fever sat in front of her tent, uninclined to join in just yet, content to marvel at the sight. The night air was crisp, a notable sign that while Spring promised sunshine, the cold of winter lingered after the sun descended behind the horizon.  The mare’s breath billowed from her nostrils like puffs of tobacco smoke, her black and gilded eyes serpentine as they traveled from one unknown face to another. 

She wondered if they were children of Solis like she, or heathens feeling uncomfortable to dance at the clearing of the meadow with the others. Fever naturally attracted outcasts, the strange and beautiful, for while she decorated herself and her space with golds and otherworldly riches, she too was just another street rat. She knew the hungry gnaw of starvation in the pit of an empty stomach, she knew how the caged bird feels wishing to fly free in the light. 

Two children had been investigating the length of the tangles in her tail – Fever pretended not to notice. She briefly shot them a glance, not out of hostility, but curiosity; did they know why she kept her hairs so long? Had they been pierced with the bullring or branded like cattle, like she was?

No, they had no markings that would give away their social status.

They weren’t slaves. 

With this resolution, the exotic female would turn her head and continue to observe a pale and earth-colored woman just out of reach of the firelight. Fever scrutinized her dancing, an unintelligible expression on her own face underneath a sheer black mask. She would blink slowly, her spider-like lashes kissing each other briefly, unable to decipher whether she was growing bored or bemused. A invisible brow would arch – Why was she dancing by herself?

Perhaps she was afraid of the attention she would bring herself – being beautiful can be a curse. But wallflowers had always irritated Fever. Why not revel in your own power? 

Fever had become so enamored with herself, so used to captivating strangers as a means of surviving, that bewitchment had become second nature. And so, as nature would allow, she would rise gracefully, a soft pull of her long tail to gently shoo away the children. With a swift glance to her sitar player, they had rapidly exchanged intentions in a language all their own, and the tune would change – a song that was had dark swelling and breathing, suggestive, seductive.

The garter hugging the mare’s thigh acted as her personal tambourine, keeping time, a chiming cadence to grab the attention of any passerby. Her hips would sinuously dip and sway with the music, able to turn and effortless walk into a work of art as she parted the onlookers, like a sea of uninteresting individuals, she had her sights set. She’d saunter beyond the reach of the fires, their flames reflecting off the metallic sheen of her tri-colored skin, and approach the woman – unafraid and wild like the women before her, coming to show this desert flower to not be afraid of the light; her molten eyes a beckoning invitation, the spice in her voice tantalizing as it drips from her black lips as if raw honey.

“Come dance with me.”




@Swahili 

inspirational piece for the music played at Fever's tent