The warleader slept.Perfect.The dagger’s sharp tip pierced the canvas with a rasping whisper. With patience, I cut down, working through the thick cloth. My knife whisked. I paused after each sawing stroke, listening to the snoring. It stayed the same. Inch-by-inch, my blade sliced downward, making my entrance into the tent.Finished, the cloth swayed, loose.I crept through the hole and crouched just inside. Movement froze me. In the corner, a form uncurled, painted in the light from a small lantern hanging from the tent’s frame at its apex. A pale-skinned female body sat up, bushy hair spilling about narrow shoulders. A pair of triangular ears, tawny like her hair, thrust up at the top of her head and twitched like a cat’s. A face stared at me, golden eyes slitted. A lamia. Her slitted eyes fixed on me, keen vision noticing me.Then they flicked to the sleeping, snoring man.The warleader slept naked atop his blankets, his body a dusky brown and so muscled his veins stood out against. Greg", he smiled as he shook her by the hand. A welcome that she always smiled at, a gesture that was definitely male but she knew it was always awkward for a man when introduced to a woman, do you shake her hand, kiss her or what. He showed her the office and she saw immediately what his description of the factory was like, she noticed the array of pin-up and it was that display that began to trigger a deep seated desire to be treated as a real woman and not the other half of a religious pastor. He then took her on a tour of the factory and as she appeared all activity ceased, each man taking notice of her for she wasn't unattractive and always thought she had a very noticeable figure, not that her husband took much notice, for he was always lost in his reference books as he sought confirmation for his next sermon. The men smiled and she smiled back, she even heard, but didn't respond to a whispered comment. "Fuck she would win in a wet-Tee-shirt competition, her tits are.
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