Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs
“A half-moon, like a shard from a shattered pot, has swung to the top of the rain-scoured sky. Malora wriggles free from the second set of knots. Three pussemboos sleep in a pile near the tree, the ones who, she supposes, are meant to guard her. She skirts them and heads toward the scullery tent, making her way past the blue-and-white-striped tents where the centaurs slumber. She stops at the entrance to one tent.
A lantern hangs from a hook on the tent pole, burning dimly. Malora peers further ...into the tent, curious to see how the centaurs sleep, and sees that this one, at least, sleeps on a low, wide bed, stretched out on his side, much the way she has seen horses sometimes sleep in the safety of their stalls. The centaur clutches a light woven coverlet to his bearded chin. A table near his bed holds the copper bangles he wore at dinner. She eyes with envy the assortment of silver-backed brushes of different shapes and sizes. Wouldn’t they be useful, she thinks, to curry the hides of horses, especially after the winter when their hair comes off in tufts big enough to line the nests of a hundred buffalo weaver birds.MoreLess
A lantern hangs from a hook on the tent pole, burning dimly. Malora peers further ...into the tent, curious to see how the centaurs sleep, and sees that this one, at least, sleeps on a low, wide bed, stretched out on his side, much the way she has seen horses sometimes sleep in the safety of their stalls. The centaur clutches a light woven coverlet to his bearded chin. A table near his bed holds the copper bangles he wore at dinner. She eyes with envy the assortment of silver-backed brushes of different shapes and sizes. Wouldn’t they be useful, she thinks, to curry the hides of horses, especially after the winter when their hair comes off in tufts big enough to line the nests of a hundred buffalo weaver birds.MoreLess
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