"Eye Opening Vices..."

When I went in, the sun, though setting slowly, was still bathing the plains with its warmth. From the grassy hill overlooking the herds one could see all that the Tuchuk hold near and dear. In one direction there were the bosk as far as the eye could see littering the plains as they grazed upon the sweet grass. In the other direction, the brightly painted wagons stood out against a bloody red and burnt orange backdrop with the tall stacks of smoke slowly rising from the various cooking fires throughout the endless maze of wagon rows.

When I awoke from my late evening nap, disoriented and vaguely unaware of not only myself and the time but my surrounding aswell, I stubbed my toe on a pair of my own boots and stumbled into an empty crate in the corner of my wagon. My shin still bears the bruise. I recall the sky being the same color as I stepped from my wagon rubbing my eyes and trying to put myself together. Dark shades of Ubar worthy purple and forboding blues stretched across the plains somewhat eerily. I could smell rain. Perhaps it will rain soon. Its only redeeming quality were the stars that dusted sky like the diamonds I had seen in the Paravaci standard once as a boy and looking up into them I suddenly felt sleepy again. Had it not been for what came next I might have retreated back into my wagon and let the still of the Ubar's fires at night lull me back to sleep but I was sudden struck by an itch that had not been scratched in many seasons.

Vices. Men and women are born with them I believe. There are some that are worse than others but a vice is a vice and eventually you are either broken by it or you learn to live with it. There are the few who are ale to rise above them, either by force or by sheer will. There are others, namely myself, who have learned to live with them. The itch I was telling you about. I share my vice with my father. It was on a raid that my father first introduced me to it, and I have been living with it since then.

She was kneeling next to the fire completely oblivious to my presence. Had there been a sleen somewhere in the shadows she would have been killed without even managing to put up a struggle. If there had been a less than honorable man in the shadows she would have surely been raped without mercy.

She was trying to soften leather and doing a piss poor job of it. It wasn't difficult to tell that someone had gone to alot of trouble to bring this slave here for she wasn't a woman of the plains. I could tell. I could see it. I could even taste in on the open air. Women of the plains, be they free or slave, are firm and bear a feminine definition. They are beautiful and thoroughly sought after from what I have heard from the lips of a Turian or two during the Love Wars. Tuchuk women are proud and brazen. Their spirits are not easily broken and their bodies do not easily bend or break when brought to the edge time and time again. Tuchuk women are built for survival and for this Tuchuk men are blessed.

This woman was different and it was this difference that brought the itch on. I followed the soft lines that her wide splayed kneel created for me. Ripe curves that had not sharp turns or sudden stops. I knew without a doubt that her body would be soft and her skin creamy smoothe. There was no doubt in my mind that she hadn't been here long, but from the bruises fading away on her flesh it was clear someone had made an attempt to break her in properly. This woman wore only the collar around the slim column of her throat and soft hair which framed the oval shape of her face.

I hate dweller women for this! I hate that I crave them so! I hate them because I know many will not survive upon the harsh plains. I hate them because many are brought here to struggle and die. I hate them because I am a Tuchuk and cannot abide by laziness. Yes, as much as I crave them...I also hate them. I hate them because many times I end up hating myself. After.

After commanding she display herself I smirked when I found that she was a trained slave. I never understood that odd little song and dance women do. I commanded she stand more like a woman. I commanded she bring her thighs closer together and stand less like a soldier. She did so...and I made my approach. Tasco has an eye for women. Very rarely am I wrong..even at first glance. I was right about this one too.

Her skin was soft as tabuk hide. Her hips and waist were curvy and full. I pressed my fingers into her tender flesh of her thighs and they sunk in deep and went deeper as I pawed out the curve of her ass that I realize now was shaped like a heart. It jiggled and bounced when I lifted it and let it drop. Surely she could absorb the shock of thorough fuck...I only question her durability.

There isn't any need to elaborate. For none of it went anywhere. Despite my vice I am a man of intergrity (some) and upon finding out who her owner was, I made a choice to respect his property as I would expect the same. I left her by the fire with what I considered to be words of encouragement and returned to my wagon. That shame was there...the anger also, but I pushed it down...way down...with several swallows of lukewarm paga. This slave was an eye opener and I hope for her sake she lasts. It would be a waste of a nice piece. Ongel, I am sure knows what do with it. If not...I am sure he'll learn. QUICK.

"He can catch the wind.."

I chased the wind tonight. I chase it across the open plains until I lay breathless in the tall grass staring up at the open sky with only the light of the moons and stars to guide me back to the open arms of the harigga.

"Slippery sunnuva'..." I said to sky as I felt a breeze blow through the grass and across the sculpted lines of my scarred cheeks.

"I almost caught you."

The wind blew again. Harder than the breeze that had blown before. I could feel it laughing at me. It wasn't the sort of laugh that would raise a man's ire, but it was the sort of laughter that offered a playful challenge, as if to say, "You will catch me if I wish to be caught and not a moment before...but thanks for playing." I had a response, but I am superstitious, and know better than to offer an open challenge to the wind. That is how wagons are blown over and dust storms are born and I would not be responsible for any bad mojo to befall the tribe with a move so close at hand.

Somewhere in the distance I could hear the sleens growling in the not so distance. They were released and I knew that they would have my scent before long. So I said a prayer, eased onto my feet and then sprinted across the plains back toward the harigga making it a point to run within the light moons so not to startle a outrider or hunting sleen as I tore through painstakingly close to the herds and when I was in the safety of the wagon rows I paused to put my hands on my knees and breathe as deeply as I possibly could to catch my breath. On the back of my hand I wiped the sweat from my brow and then swept the hair from my face before heading back toward the Ubar's fire where his sleeping wagon was resting.

For ahns I tossed. For several more I turned. Where was a fat bottomed camp slut when you needed one? I emerged from my wagon somewhat irritated and in need of a good nights sleep when I noted that one side of my wagon which would have usually been facing Sayjax's branding wagon was naked and without paint. Now I am a scarrer, but deep down every scarrer is an artist at heart, so please do not think it odd that I suddenly felt compelled to use this naked canvas and create something that wouldn't look so drab.

What paints I didn't already I have I stole from outside sources. Yes, if you must be so fucking nosey, all the paint I stole was returned...just a little bit lighter. What began as something to do until I was tired became a vendetta. I painted vigorously and with reckless abandoned. I painted like a man possessed and as the sun began to rise and finished up the last of it I felt spent...completely drained, and crumpled to the grass next to the rear wagon wheel.

When I awoke...the Spirit Rider was looking back at me and only he could catch the wind.

"I thought I was pretty clear..."

I left the main fires somewhat abruptly, I sincerely hope both Cana and Yamka understand. I have never been known to stay in one place for too long. Father says, "It is the nature of the nomad in you, boy" I simply believe my attention span is thinner than most.

When I left, I headed straight for the wagons of the young warrior who had recently earned his first courage scar. He was still unconscious, but I was pleased to hear that his fever had broken and even more pleased to see that the scar was well placed and the swelling around it had gone down. Now, if you were to ask me, Tasco is by no means a narcissist, (again, that's if you ask me) but I take immense pride in my craft. To know that my hands had placed the scar gave me a jolt I have only ever experienced a few times in my life. The first time, was after my first real battle, the second after my first real sexual encounter, and the last...the most important... after my own scarring. I will be a great scarrer yet.

With pep in my step, I chose to visit the only woman who has ever held a special place in my heart. When I found her, she was sitting on the steps of her wagon with a smile on her face and two bowls of cold water almost as if she had been waiting for me to show up. She is my Noni. I have known for a long time that this is not her name, but Noni is all she has ever been to me, so Noni is what I will call her.

Noni is not a slave, but she is by no means free. She isn't even a Tuchuk, she is a Kataii, a woman of dark complexion and an odd sense of awareness. My mother died giving birth to me and it was Noni who, alongside my father raised me as her own. While I have never understood the relationship she has with my father I know now that it is not my place to ask. What I know is that there were many nights when it was Noni who took an infant Tasco into her arms to soothe my tears. When I was hungry, it was from Noni's breasts that I was nourished. When I felt I could not bear the stern discipline of an upbringing under my father's thumb it was Noni who reminded me that it was done for my own good.

She is older now, but even as I leaned in to kiss her wrinkling cheek, I recalled the soft texture of her skin. I felt at ease in her presence and didn't once hesitate to bend her ear when it came to my experience at the first wagons. When I would curse, she would thump me or give me an unsatisfied expression, but she didn't once say anything about it. Noni has always let me be a man and it is because of this I often respect her presence and do my best to curb my tongue. Noni seemed increasingly interested when I spoke to her of the tension building between myself and the woman Yamka. She didn't seem be as confused as I felt and even managed to smile knowingly when I went on to explain my friendship with the woman Asria.

"Perhaps they have deeper feelings for you than you recognize, Tasco."

"You've gotta be fuc-- I mean...how? I thought I have been pretty clear."

She laughed. Her laugh always sounded like a lullaby.

"You know very well Tasco you do not have a gift for clarity when it comes to women."

She rested her palm on my shoulder and pushed her palm into the spot beneath the leather vest in which the jagged, lightning bolt like scar was. I looked up at her and shook my head more out of frustration than denial.

"That was different."

"How was it different. Weren't you clear then?"

I sighed again. Noni was right. She was always right about everything. It's comforting most of the time, but there are other times where it makes me fucking insane!

"You are well within your right to keep your options open, Tasco. Women like you. You are charming and will one day provide very well for a family. But you are also impulsive and you lack a certain self control when it comes to attractive women."

"I need to get going, Noni."

She didn't protest. She sipped the water from her bowl and cleared her throat and smiled again.

"What happened to your hand, Tasco?"

The desire to tighten my fist died when she reached out for my wrist. Again, I allowed her to take a look at the scar there in the center of it. She seemed hurt for me. Like I had been mortally wounded or severely disfigured. I didn't need to tell her about it. Noni knew, for my father was the same. We scar to remember our mistakes and to remember where we come from. For my father and I, it is not enough to wear our accomplishments, hardships, and trials overcome on our cheeks in the corded brightly colored chevrons on our face, but upon our bodies aswell.

Noni kissed it once and then reluctantly gave me my hand back. Without another word spoken between us she lifted herself up off the step and disappeared into her wagon. I waited for several minutes before I realized that she wasn't coming back out. I should have known. Noni always made it a point to leave me with something to think about and while I may not know exactly what that was right away I know that at a some point...when it all becomes clear to me...I will think about my Noni and smile. I have never told her how much she means to me, but I'd like to think she knows. My Noni always knows.