Beyond the canopy of my private tent, the celebrations of our overwhelming victory were in full swing. We, the Shield of Batar, had crushed one of the larger marauder threats to the shining beacon of civilization that was our beloved Batar. It was a decisive victory and the final task set upon our company before a much well-earned period of rest. The parades and pomp of our return to Batar would have to wait, as the men had earned a raunchier night of festivity. Our victory had not been without sacrifice, and in our rest would we honor them.
Yet for all our success, I chose isolation. Battle, even when victorious, was a lusterless thing in the eyes of a veteran. I listened to the faint sound of the Ka'Rash, its hollow hum followed by warbling notes - a pointed indicator of its player's style and skill level; it would be a good show, all in all. The sound was a welcomed one across the usually quiet dunes.
Fortune favored the revelers of the night, as a few commanding officers had commissioned a passing troupe of entertainers upon the news of our concluded campaign; dancing was for the young.
My body ached with the pangs of age. I possessed an athleticism and appearance that inspired envy in even our younger recruits, but time and abuse cared little for aesthetics. A meager ten years under the banner of the Shield of Batar had earned me the title of veteran. I was no 'rising saber'. Now, I was something of an old-timer. A man of his early thirties didn't belong on the front lines, even if the vanguard viewed me as a champion of sorts; the pop of my overworked joints kept me humble. I sat there, at the edge of my cot, halfway undressed from lamellar fatigues when the rough flap of my tent's entrance flipped open.
The faint *clinks* of golden coins and medallions rattling against each other caught my attention, then the satin draped form of scantly-clad flesh. It was a dancer, with all the lithe grace and beauty of their kind. He was dark, like most desert folk were, though the boy bore a sparkling tan that spoke to his frequent exposure to sunlight. It was not odd for young boys, unfit for service or trade...or perhaps already trained to the subtleties of subservience, to take on the guise of a exotic dancer in order to survive. They were both entertainer and courtesan, pleasure-slave and consort.
"I was told to enter, by the company's commander, sir." He stated nervously enough. The consort's complexion was a rich amber, soft eyes as dark as sweetest dates, or the starless sky above the dunes. "He said you might require my assistance?"
A soft groan escaped my lips, "Well then, you're already here. Take a seat and indulge an old dog of war."