<em>Slip the lead fight, fight my bark<br/>is softer than my bite…</em><br/><br/>Sorcha did not like the sand, neither did she like the bonds. Still she remembered her vows to the totems before her capture, and even here had learned to tread softly even on soil that felt so strange. To watch the way her captures moved was disgusting they had no respect for that which they walked upon. How could they disturb the ones beneath…and they called her a barbarian. She would have spat but had been ‘muzzled’ since the incident with a random man of metal, and that difficulty with the pretty and compliant slave girl.<br/><br/>So her mind came back to her own predicament and not those of the others, the prideful, the weeping and the oh so perfect. Thus her mind returned to her feet and this foreign soil, and to the ropes that hobbled her… slave indeed, she didn’t think so… at least not for long because there would be many ways to escape, even if she left in the world of the dead, at least there she would be reunited with her mate and her son.<br/><br/>When a horse passed Sorcha snorted and shook her head as much as she was able, her nostrils flared and the woman took in their scent, for she had run with the feral ponies in her time and held their manes. She missed that; the whinny that was released was stifled. The dogs on the journey had a growl and a grunt of greeting, they were not as the wolves she respected but they were at least closer than anything she had seen for a time. The woman would have howled but again the pathetic muzzle that covered her mouth stopped this.<br/><br/>Perhaps whoever decided on her might allow her to work with the animals, at least she had more respect for them than anything here. Whether capture or captive.<br/><br/>When she was free of her bonds someone was going to loose an appendage.<br/>