Lion Head Mesa That's a fine looking high horse

A serf should be a veil, a shadow, kept silent and obscure. It was truest in those turbulent days when the house began to receive visitors late into the night and any serf who dared lift an eye would be plied with lashes upon their back. They had learned to read feet upon tile like the eyes of a face, memorizing gaits and mannerisms that went unobserved by others.

It is instinct that turns her eyes to the floor now, but recognition that keeps them there. The pair of paws that stop short to cast a shadow on the ground between them are pointed and graceful in shades of black tipped with ash-colored claws.

A voice speaks: feminine, faraway. Familiar. An involuntary shudders moves her.

“Furnishing your room, my Lady. The flowers, furs, incense…” She reaches for a distraction. “Would you like some wine?” Into a shallow dish she pours the red liquid and places it in the center of the room before stepping quickly off to one side.