When he straightened and turned around, he found a sandy-haired woman smirking at him, her morning’s prize resting on her shoulders. She cocked her head to one side.
“We have a problem,” she informed him, her smile brightening.
She stood about half a head below the man, her features soft and rounded and her cheeks dotted with freckles. Here eyes were all faded-green iris around two vertical black-slits, and she looked out from under a slender brow with a self-assurance that, combined with her casual posture, projected an air of passive arrogance. She wore a leather jerkin over a plain white cotton shirt whose sleeves ended halfway down her forearm, comfortable pants, and well-traveled, dusty leather shoes. Her slim hands grasped her slain gazelle by the ankles. Traces of blood were smudged by the corner of her lips, left over from the kill.
The man eyed her, then darted a look around the plain.
“We do?”
“Mm-hmm!” The woman shifted her weight to her left leg, but declined to elaborate. Instead she waited while the man salvaged his remaining arrow and hauled the gazelle’s carcass back. Dropping the beast by the other, he looked up to her expectantly, then to her catch and back to her. He made a motion at his face.
“You’ve got something....”
The woman frowned and rubbed at the side of her mouth with a knuckle. Discovering the smudge, she wet the back of her hand with her tongue and wiped the blood away, washing her hand and finger clean. Her eyes sparkled mischievously, but she revealed nothing further.
The man surveyed their catch. Two elderly but still appetizing males (one rested on the woman’s shoulders), and a female in her prime. A very good catch, he decided. Not exceptional, but certainly good. Perhaps, he thought, if Naeir had been well enough to come with them....
He sighed. “What problem do we have?” he asked, relenting. “And why are you so pleased about it if it is one?”
The woman let out a satisfied giggle. “We have three kills today,” she said happily.
“Yes.”
The woman waited a moment for her companion to continue, or at least indicate he understood. When he did not, her brow furrowed and she tilted her head.
“There are only two of us, Drannet.” Her tone was reproving; she had expected him to be as pleased with their ‘predicament’ as she. She should have known better. Her companion rarely showed any sort of excitement. She knew he felt it occasionally; she had seen his eyes glitter with pleasure on feasting days—or with anger, as they had when his second son had been caught harassing one of the Wolf cubs. But she was always hard-pressed to pull such feelings out into the open. Even for a Red-Tail he was reserved.
“Sticks,” he was saying. His eyes were already scanning the trees for suitable branches. “We’ve carried our prey on them before. There’s no reason we can’t today.”
The woman huffed. “You and Naeir are about the same height, though. Won’t this make the burden uneven?”
Drannet looked her over out of the corner of his eye. “Are you saying you can’t handle a little extra weight?” he inquired, arching an eyebrow.
“I am a Cat,” she sniffed haughtily. “I could out-lift you any day. But,” she continued when he turned away, “we still only have two sets of shoulders.”
The Red-Tail sighed. “We will tie one between the staves. Then we can also remember which beast is yours.” He turned an impatient stare full on her. “Will that appease you, cantankerous woman?”
“Of course it will,” she snickered. “Clever, clever Drannet. Always thinking of me.” In a single easy motion she swung her gazelle over her head and thumped it onto the ground. “Now go and make your sticks. I’m hungry.”
Drannet caught her arm as she stooped to change.
“Restrain yourself—at least until we return,” he added hastily. “We hunt for many, not just ourselves.”
“It’s my kill!” she exclaimed, affecting a hurt expression. It lasted a fleeting moment, though, chased away by her devilish grin. “Besides, I only want a haunch.” She shoved him playfully. “Go. I don’t want to be on the plains in the heat.”
------------
