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Calling of Colour and Kingdom-Royal Red
The emptiness within Samakhra was much contrast with the battle outside her body. An emotionless soul, silenced spirit seared its way though the uproar of warriors and deafening way of war; shouts of the fallen prolong after death, the brute rage rings after the clash of metal - all this angry noise compressed within the small field of a battleground. A sea of gold charges into an ocean of black, churning in a violent whirlpool where the ugly expressions of monsters have taken upon every face and every soul. Everything was screaming and disgusting.
All except the glowing cat, Samakhra, ahead of all the rest of the Golden Army, was deep within shadows of the enemy. Her alert cat eyes captured every move; decapitating anyone who dared to make her own red blood fall upon her golden fur. In cheetah form Samakhra relentlessly sunk her claws into the daemon army, digging a way though the murky waters of black metal and weapons, the golden feline was closing in on the commander of the damned. Suddenly an unordinary pounce sprang from her legs as she glided smoothly over the corrupt beings below, they surged forward starving for bloodshed, booming out their hunger for death. Swiftly landing on her forelegs, dense muscles rippling from impact, her hind legs were not yet on the ground as she reached her claws into a neck of a black armoured lieutenant, and then jumped onto the elaborated ridiculous chariot enclosing the commander with no safety from her attacks, she wiped out the guards and pushed the pathetic goblin, so-called warlord into the floor of his disgusting ride. His face was covered in black painting and his eyes with fear. Petrified to the spot. Samakhra took no time in deceasing him; and yet she showed no emotion- no halt of pity or mercy flickered in her amber eyes nor a triumphant snarl bared her teeth; Simply tore out his throat with her mouth and ripped it out, spraying blood on her elegant fur. Blood dripped though her gums and she chucked the goblins windpipe like a ragdoll to the side of the dark and deeply decorated wall. Once out of the ‘war vehicle’ she slaughtered two horses and riders before ripping common devil soldiers to pieces as the army retreated to their home city, the death of their commander was the fall of the army.
The army of golden warriors stood behind Samakhra, each stood up and roared; a victory call headed to the backs of the cowardly dumb creatures that ran away from them. Eventually in packs, the victors took the injured and left to the camps that awaited them behind. Samakhra looked up to the blazing sun – midday – she looked to the bloody ground and right there in the middle of the death strewn and crimson encrusted field she demanifested. And became to a girl form. From all fours she rose, human body cracking into the correct places and then she strode the rest of the battlefield to the campsite that was hidden behind the green summer trees. Blood painted her unclothed feet deep red which crawled up to her ankle: She was naked for she had no clothes to change into but she did not care for the men she went into battle with had seen her body before riddled with open wounds and deep black bruises. Her cascade of beautiful flaming hair fell like a waterfall down her back in tangles of golden orange to deep red. And this teenage girl, also cheetah, killer and commander walked respectfully back to the camp of her army through what once was green living grass. They bestowed her with food, her battle robes and silence, For Samakhra was a cold girl and did not speak unless it was necessary and did not bask in applaud and grace because she had won them the fight. The young commander’s body swiftly disappeared under the red silk robe and she tossed the grapes to the back of her throat and swallowed. No need to chew. It was a long winding dirt path that led back to her tent: through little gaps in the dense woods she saw the flickering of red and gold.
People milling about preparing the grand tent for the commander-to the kings specifications and not hers of course. The slow breeze whistled through the thickets of trees and Samakhras keen eyes spotted birds and hishkins flutter about, in and out of their roostings, catching insects with such magnificent grace as the huge butterflies tried to dart through the air with their predator’s ferocity. No luck in being a big flouncy butterfly.
Suddenly Samakhras eyes locked onto another movement in the forest, two gungee cubs play fighting in the clearings, up above she spotted squirrels climbing trees-squaring up to the huge barn owls flock on the lower branch-she inspected other wildlife moving in the forest, her military eyes seeing everything while she strode on in just a red silk robe that played around her feet, getting in the way.
Behind a huge oak tree which was as wide as a house, she found her tent.
Huge vibrant array of red fabrics and gold lines that creates this grand tent was up, overbearing in its mass. Ripples of where the wind caresses its fine quality touch; it looms over the commander and her comrades as they mill about getting every detail perfect for her. As if she cared. She walked in, noticing every other person walk away a respectful distance but not seeming to-where a stranger would of seen arrogance in Samakhra her army knew it as modesty and strength. Ducking away under the red curtains, she disappeared into the tent, never to come out until it was time to leave.
Royal red and shimmering gold draped all around her, the tent in colours of her kingdom; she paced in the oversize space of her tipi, adrenaline from the fight radiating off her like heat. Then eventually she sighs and halts at a bowl of water stood upon a oak table in the middle, her amber gaze drooping into the reflection; an expressionless, hard faced 15 year old girl stared intently back… 100 years, 7 months, 1 week and her young face had not changed, her hair fade or strong body decay and the same similar eyes of acceptance and compliance. The soul had withered away, but the body fresh forever more. Cursed for war. She left the perfect reflection to ponder on her depressing purpose in the kingdom and dressed into riding gear. Leather saddle pants, leather riding boots which were as tights as skin and rough rein gloves, padded her palms. To please the king – her victory frock. Oh, how opulent she looked. Laced in gold that and laced in red this, sun kissed ruffles swamped her shins. A princess she looked and a princess the king wanted.
A princess for his prince.
She marched out of the tipi, instantly soldiers removed the one bowl item from inside and dismantled the grand tent. When the commander, only when the commander left in her celebratory clothes from her tent meant departure-and instant departure was the choice they had. But the men did not mind, family and friends awaited them, nothing awaited her in Sanerea Gol – the empires capital city. The relationship between Samakhra and the soldiers was mutual but understood, uncomplicated and strong. It worked well for its only purpose. War.
Swiftly, she mounted her horse, Matrix started – hooves pounding straight into the direction of Sanera Gol. She left her men behind, they were slowed by injured and the mourning; Loyal to say good bye to the dead golden warriors… the girl was loyal too it was that she had no capacity for grief but understood the conception of the feeling and left them to do so. Each man knew the way home. North-to the sun. For the shining sun always sinks into the shining city and nightfall was near, Samakhra and her army were determined to get to the city by sunrise. So 15 minutes behind her they too left and through the forest they moved forth, the leaves painted orange and yellow in the suns last breath of light then the shadows grew tall till they reached the abandoned war ground, pungent with the death of good soldiers. Gold, black and red smudged across the battle ground- and then the darkness that lingered in the south of the sky dropped onto the floor. A golden army plundered back through the pitch black to the city, where they came from and Samakhra, her dress and hair a whip of a fiery frenzy of colours at her back, pressed on too; her cold stare searching the dark, sharply, analytically, decisively and this she did though the whole night while her horse carried onwards, not too far from the shining riders behind.
The moon had moved 10 ouns across the sky and the cold was piercing Samakhras skin as Matrix galloped on, a steady thud, constant and ongoing beating on the dark terrain below.The frock let icy winds to the commanders think delicate skin, her hair prickled at the harsh talons of the cold. She threw her head back to see how the soldiers were faring in the extreme conditions- she knew the injured would feel the drop in tempreture and not benefit. However the soldiers to, were constant and at her heels. She snapped her head back to the shadows that tried to thwart them. As the two moons of Prithvi criss-crossed over the sky, meeting in the middle then parting ways to the other side. Folklore of the two moons passed Samakhra’s mind and then were gone as if she never even remembered that Farmer Pan had ever uttered them when she awoke in the Golden City. And it was then when her cat eyes caught the star tip of a golden pillar.
The golden city.
Whipping the rein, Matrix leapt into a pace unlike any other. Behind the echoes of joy rolled out to her as the soldiers too saw the star tipped pillars.
Samakhra was riding into the wind with her horse now. Like rising and falling on a crest of a wave. It was rythymatic and she could feel her own four legs move as if she had manifested into Matrix’s form. They became one. Riding through tremendous distance in the dark they entered the last patch of trees that surrounded Sanerea Gol. She still kept low and fast, beat of hooves and her heart was one – a continuous surge forward and forward until. Snap, Samakhra felt a huge tug and was nearly pulled off Matrix. The commander regained balance and with a forceful tug back the tree that had snatched her let go. But it had snagged her dress, she looked down with no sorrow and ripped the beautiful torn dress – a slit revealing her bare thighs, with one hand she wrapped dress to her hip and tied it, the ruffles enough to over her hind. It was now much more appropriate for her riding then the billowing over-the-top swamp of a skirt. She persevered with getting to Sanerea Gol. Once gain cold eyes consuming the dark with a hard pitiless stare. The golden city looming ahead, welcoming its golden warriors.