Today’s snippet, titled “Reflections – Sasha #1”, is a piece I wrote about the Pathfinder campaign I’m running – “The Serpent’s Skull”.
      Be forewarned, there may be mature themes and naughty language below.
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      “Don’t give me that look, babycakes. I’m probably still better than that half-elf twat is with a bow.”
      She had missed twice in a row and the chittering newly hatched reptile tucked into her vest seemed to be laughing at her. Sasha threw the make-shift bow down and stomped on it. Some assassins liked sniping from rooftops and the like, but her mother had installed in her young that the best kills are the ones when you see their eyes as the blade slips in.
      Not that she was an assassin. Sasha was not cut out for the rigid guild with all its protocols and rules and bureaucratic nonsense. She was impulsive, and yes, at times reckless, but she was skilled with her blades and even her wretched cunt of a mother had to admit that. Though she bore their mark on her back – a gift for her thirteenth birthday, back before her mother realized that her heir was not suited for ‘the life’ – Sasha hated the grim, bleak outlook so many of the Mantises cloaked themselves in. She liked the sun, and laughter, and a good rollicking fight.
      “Oh, you sweet widdle bitty baby,” Sasha cooed, stroking her index finger under his chin. “We’re gonna find you a big juicy jungle rat if I have to hang that stupid gnome by his toes as bait! Would oo wike that my widdle biddle buddy? Yummy jungle rat?”
      It hummed low in its throat, sounding almost like a cat, and its tail wriggled happily.
      “Oooh, my baby boy likes the sound of that, does he?”
      Sasha tucked him back into her vest, keeping him nice and warm between her breasts. “Let’s see what we can find, Babsy-wabsy. Hold on!”
      She took off at a run, leaping over underbrush and twisting in mid-air to dodge low-hanging vines or branches. The humidity might suck the life out of the others, but Sasha was born and raised in the tropics and she thrived on air so thick with moisture you could practically slice it with a knife. Sweat poured from every inch of flesh but as she launched herself into the air, vaulting off a boulder to swing up and over a sturdy limb before going-hand-over-hand across an obviously trapped game trail, Sasha Nevah had never felt so alive.
      Babs grew increasingly excited as they caromed through the jungle, working their way as far inland as she dared to go alone. He chittered and scrabbled at her, leaving a few scratches on her cleavage.
      “What is it, boy? What do you smell?”
      She crouched in the shade of a mushroom-covered tree, scanning the clearing ahead of them. Babs Jr. was trying to get out of her vest, feverishly snapping his little jaws.
      “I don’t see anyth-” she stopped short and clamped her hand over his mouth. “Shhhh…”
      A dozen or so feet away, Sasha spotted her pet’s quarry. A small flock of big, fat tropical ptarmigan roosted in a hollow stump. Cautiously, she released Babs’s jaws but it was as if the little reptile knew exactly what she wanted for he went still and silent in her vest, watching with big, hungry eyes.
      Graceful as a cat, she crawled to the left, circling the stump stealthily. She drew her rapier and kukri, the whisper of metal against scabbard hardly audible as she moved. Closer, closer now… just a little closer.
      “HAH!” She pounced, sweeping her weapons in a downward arc. The jungle chickens panicked, squawked, and died in a flurry of feathers and blood. Several escaped, but Sasha paid them no mind. She had torn the fat heads off of two, and two others were thrashing in the hollow. A quick twist of her wrist put those two out of their misery quick as spit.
      “Well Babsy-wabsy,” she said, setting him down in the hollow and giving him one of the heads to snack on, “Guess we’re eating like kings tonight. Wild chicken. Yum!”
      She tied the four birds together by the feet and then found a good-sized stick while Babs Jr enjoyed his meal of bird brains and feathers. He looked so adorable, with little pink feathers sticking out of his mouth and thick globs of red blood on his head, Sasha just squealed with affection and swung him into the air.
      “Oh I just love you, Babs! We’re gonna be the best hunting team when you’re bigger!”
      Babs squeaked at her and Sasha decided that that was the sound for ‘I love you too’ in baby dinosaur-speak. She let him finish eating the other head before scooping him up and placing him safely between her breasts again for the trek back to the base camp. With four fat birds tied to the end of her stick, and the stick itself propped over her shoulder, Sasha hummed a jaunty tune all the way back to the beach.
      Today was a good day.
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Note: Images are “Nessie” by (dsidwell), Ruins at Chicen Itza by (BenEarwicker), and Goat Skull by (humusak2) from SXC.hu; edited by me