"Compromise Between Enemies"- Rek'yr, skekMal
Rek’yr attempts to empty his mind in meditation, but every sound cuts into his consciousness like the knife that made it flaying open the creature’s flesh, thankfully silencing its excruciating whimpers quickly. The scent of the bowl of incense burning beside his knee is a familiar comfort, but it cannot overpower the thick smell of blood.
He was brash and foolish, he realizes now, and he understands better the strange look his maudra had given him when he had accepted the request so readily.
They had spoken little as they stalked the beast, separated from its pack and chased into the sands. The Hunter is an enigma to most gelfling- a mythical bogeyman whispered about in hushed tones in the dark- but such tales are often exaggerated, and the creature ripping into the great carcass mere feet from him feels little more than animal itself. SkekMal must be unaccustomed to company in his pursuits, but even he knows better than to try to traverse the shifting dunes alone. The silence suits Rek’yr just fine.
As if to spite that thought, his fragile peace is broken by the wet slap of a hunk of meat landing on the stone in front of him. He is glad he has seen enough of the less savory parts of the natural cycle in his short time as a sandmaster to keep his calm. Five trine ago he might have retched.
“Eat,” skekMal growls. It does not sound as threatening as he might have expected, but it also does not sound like a request.
Still, he shakes his head. “Thank you, but no. It is not the custom of my people to eat the flesh of a creature slaughtered before its natural end.”
SkekMal rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t have to be raw.” The sheen of blood and juices on his claws makes his own preference clear. “‘S your fair share.”
Rek’yr suspects he is meant to see this as an honor- a share in the prize, for his hard work. His prize will be never having to see something like this again.
He chooses his words carefully. “I have kept your feet above the sand. I hope that is enough.”
For a moment, the Hunter’s eyes glint the same way they had when he had spotted his prey across the sands, and Rek’yr fears he has made a fatal mistake. But it passes quickly, and the carrion-bird shrugs a shoulder. “Suit yourself.” After one more moment of charged silence, they turn their separate ways- the Hunter to his bloody meal, and Rek’yr to his restless attempt at meditation.
Home cannot come soon enough. He will not make this mistake again.