The warlord's voice had changed now, piquing Mischa's interests. The ocean child's stern face softened as Viktor chided him, a father correcting an insolent child, and for the first time Mischa felt an ounce of shame for his difficult behavior. If Viktor were looking only to punish, surely he would have enforced his dominance then, no? All his wondering and musings were for naught, as if Viktor had read his mind like the pages of an old, dusty book. Mischa's fears were assuaged by his master's calm, knowing assurances. The way he spoke of fire reminded him greatly of the way his village's elders spoke of the ocean storms. The water's wrath was uncontrollable; any man who set off in a boat expecting to make the ocean his servant was doomed for a watery grave.<i>We do not tempt Nascha'ara into battle, for he is unforgiving in his rage. The ocean father will test you, and if you submit to his will, he will bless you 'til the end of days. </i>And where was Nascha'ara now? Searching for his children, scattered among the Aiemlan empire? Would the god come to his aid to protect him from the flames?<br/><br/>Hands cradled the hard curve of Mischa's shoulders, gentle, inviting. Viktor did as he asked, guiding him to the fire dancer with warm palms. Their approach and presence didn't seem to bother the dancer. She continued on with her movements, wooing the flames into some kind of erotic trance. It was easy for Mischa to fall for her, this bronze desert goddess, so unconcerned with anything other than her dance. He briefly wondered her name was before his attention was snatched away by his master's sudden absence. His eyes looked to him, searching, watching as the firelight flickered across the warlord's tight muscular body. He gathered up some items and returned, inviting Mischa's curiosity when an item he had never seen before was shoved into his palm.<br/><br/>"What are these?" he asked softly, gasping ever so lightly as Viktor began massaging oil into his skin. Viktor's fingers were strong and sure, not shy in exploring Mischa's body. Even when buried in his own grave of stubborn impudence, Mischa couldn't seem to stop the gentle moan as it escaped from his lips. His tense muscles were malleable beneath Viktor's touch, susceptible to such careful movements. His master's decency seemed to stop at Mischa's trim waist, instructing him to finish the job of oiling his body up himself. Mischa was almost disappointed.<br/><br/>The oil was just as cool and soothing on his legs as it had been everywhere else, and when finished he set the bottle off to the side in the sand. "I would prefer to not get burned, so... thank you." The words seemed strange in his mouth, as if they should have been intended for someone else. But his parents had always taught him to offer gratitude to those who showed him kindness, though he still remained skeptical about whether Viktor held some ulterior motive for bringing him out here.<br/><br/>The strange little whips Viktor had given him seemed to have been previously prepared, the ends wet and reeking of fuel. He didn't recognize the material, but surely it was something immune to the destructive consumption of the flames.<i>Sienne</i>, the fire dancer's name. Mischa looked to her again, stepping forward, his heart racing like wild horses across the open plains, each beat inside his chest as loud as a dozen hooves upon the ground. Beneath the oil, he couldn't tell if he was sweating from the heat of the flames or just fear. Perhaps it was better he didn't know.<br/><br/><i>Just pretend it is water, </i>he thought as he dipped the damp poi into a wide crucible filled with flames.<i>Water only coats the body, it seeks no harm. The flames will be repelled from me like droplets of the sea upon my skin. </i>The ends of the poi caught the flames, erupting into small balls of quivering fire.<i>Pretend you are but a water priestess, dancing at the edge of the ocean. Pretend the flames are nothing more than ribbons of water caught in the sunlight, sparkling like gemstones as they fly through the air. <br/>
</i><br/>He stepped to Sienne, only getting as close as he dared. He wondered if he could see a smile on her lips or if it was only a trick of the swirling light. Mischa closed his eyes, inhaling the smell of the oil, fire, and sweat. He recalled the way the priestesses moved, their feet fighting against the water, arms high. He lifted his arms and gazed skyward. The stars here looked just like the ones back in Ilimos.<br/><br/>He twirled, slowly at first, finding his balance atop this makeshift stage with her. But speed was the only way to mimic her trail of fire. There was no room for trepidation here. Breathing again, the ocean child began to twirl his arms into wide overlapping shapes, eyes growing large as he drew lingering lines into the night air. The more brave he became, the larger and more intricate the shapes became, until he was spinning, twisting, and twirling in a brief moment of carefree abandon. If Viktor was going to make him dance, might as well make a show of it. While not quite as graceful as Sienne, Mischa was ready to show he wasn't just a whiny, useless boy.