: ::his shoulders, red skin peeling away to make way for his darkened pigment, are pulled back; chest inflated, with pride and a sense of duty, tightens the soft leather of his kes, pulling the sunfaded hem above his knee. The slave strides from the pens to the cool waters of the spring, delighted by the service he is permitted to provide, grateful to Master for requesting his assistance::
: ::he drops the bucket, breaking the surface tension in the pond with a wet '-..PLOP..-'". The wooden pail floats there a moment "no more than an ihn or so" bobbing in the ripples it created, then tilts to one side and begins to flood::
: ::as the bucket sinks below the surface, isbu drags the rope attached to it's handle, winding it's length around his fist. His bicep swells, a blue ridge bisecting its equator then forking into the fur of his pit, as the lip of the bucket emarges from the depths::
: ::isbu reaches his other hand down and snatches ahold the thick wire handle, wrapped at it's center in bosk leather. Leaning to his side to counterbalance the water weight, isbu hobbles back from the cools waters to the dusty pens of the kaiila::
: ::the slave, sweating from the exertion, sprints the last few feet, his back buckling foreward to place th bucket as close to the water trough as he can land it for a rest; the bucket incidentally splashing too much of it's contents on the ground::
: ::drip of sweat, gathering at the tip of his nose, is disturbed by a swing of his black hair and dives to it's demise into the crinkled surface of his tunic; He is looking up from his place now, obvserving the quiet at the firepit::
: ::he pushes the rogue tendril behind his ears. rocking foreward onto his feet, he reaches for the now three qurters full bucket. The slaves small though weatherd hands, telling stories in each abrassive imperfection of toil and service, clasps firmly the leather-bound handle of his pail. He tightens his back and heaves the water-bucket over the edge of the trough, pouring. The contents swirl, riding the slope of the waxed feeding trough to the bottem::
: ::isbu's eye's narrow into the darkness, seeking out the red kaiila, lovingly awaiting a glimps of the magnificent beast, both deadly and beautiful::
"Alone and slave, beaten and degraded, I found myself desperately in need of something, be it almost nothing, to indicate that I was a man, a human being, something that might, to some extent or degree, be worthy of respect or understanding."
(Raiders of Gor) [found in MTC Kajirus Corner]
