Zahir

What makes a man a man?

Cast out from the life of opulence and indulgence that had been his world, Zahir's arrival in the Clan of the Red String was like that of a mysterious spectre of which appeared without warning; startling, yet incredibly beautiful. The easy grace that he possessed seemed to put one an ease instantly, earning him a place in the clan with hardly any effort.

An Arabian prince with an unfortunate inclination for mischief, that slight glint in his eye and the knowing grin (more like a smirk) is enough to put anyone on guard and check all personal possessions for traps and tricks. Or check to see if they were even there. (It wasn't fair though, many clan members would complain, that he just looked so darned suave and attractive when he smiled like that, setting hearts aflutter with a single glance.)

Oh he knew he had that charm going on, a smooth, sleek, lazy self-indulgent manner that gave him the 'bad boy' aura so alluring to everyone who saw him. And he used it to the fullest too, slipping out of trouble like a slippery snake every time. It was so annoying, but no one could ever find it in themselves to properly hate him, likeable as he was.

Little did anyone know that he could truly become a phantom of the night, creeping soundlessly through the material treasures of sleeping, unaware targets. Oh what a job for a prince! But it was one he truly loved, a love of his life, so to speak. He adored the thrill of the hunt, the glitter and gleam of things lifted oh so gently from their resting places, his victims none the wiser. Sometimes he feels like it's the only time that he can be truly free.

To be one with the stars and the night sky, flowing freely in it's inky depths...

Bio by Reili

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Zahir stepped into the street, a cool breeze cutting right through him. He suppressed a shiver and swiftly glanced left and right, subtly adjusting the smallish painting tucked inside his robes. He may have been a thief, but he wasn't a bad person, and he only took things every now and then. The painting was a famous one. However, Zahir doubted the family he has stolen it from would barely notice - they were extremely rich. Many wealthy people lived in the large town he currently inhabited - he should know, he was a prince with many sources. At least, he used to be a prince. Before he was banished from his kingdom.

After turning a few more corners, Zahir came to the heart of the town. People bustled back and forth, shouting out trades and such. In the corner, slightly hidden from the crowds, lay the black market. It was here that Zahir turned his feet. Just before he reached it, a disturbance flew past him in the form of a dark-haired, dark-eyed... girl? She appeared barely older than 20, and she did seem to have a girlish look about her. By the looks of it, she was headed for the black market too, so there was no reason for her to judge him. But the girl stepped back and narrowed her eyes, scanning his rather royal looking robes carefully. "You're not that good at hiding things, are you?"
Zahir was taken aback. He didn't want to ruin his reputation, so he kept the thieving side of him secret. He did consider himself rather good at hiding it. This girl must have eyes like a hawk. Admiration briefly shot through Zahir, but he pushed it away. Opening his mouth to speak, he was cut off by the stranger smiling cheerfully, waving, and skipping off. With the painting, worth millions of dollars.

Furious, Zahir stormed off. He soon reached the edge of the town and stopped. He stood there fuming for a minute, then turned around and smoothly changed into dragon form - something he didn't do very often. Large, shimmering wings launched him into the sky, and only when he was above the clouds did he roar his fury to the emptiness. Just as he thought he was alone, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He snapped his head around, teeth bared, to see a slightly smaller she-dragon hovering a few feet away. There was no mistaking her - it was the girl who had snatched the painting. "What do you want?" Zahir snarled. The other dragon didn't even flinch. "Nothing," she answered, smiling sweetly. Zahir struggled to stay angry. Refusing to be charmed by the thief, he snorted and soared off in the other direction. Once again, he felt a flash of admiration, but he ignored it. Nobody was allowed to get the better of him like that.

Zahir didn’t see the girl at all for the next few days, but she haunted his thoughts. Then finally, almost a week later, she appeared in front of him while he was walking through the streets. He sighed. “You again?” He asked. Yet some part of him was pleased. Why did he seem so reluctant to simply force her to leave him alone? The girl clearly sensed his hesitation, and said: “Thanks for the painting,” she grinned. Outraged, Zahir snapped at her. “Thanks? You stole it!”
“So did you!” She retorted. Unable to argue with that statement, Zahir said nothing. “I’m Trysta, by the way,” the girl added. “Hmm…” Zahir replied, trying to sound uninterested. Trysta grabbed him by the arm, but he snatched it away instantly. “Come with me,” she hissed. “I want to show you something.” Reluctantly Zahir followed her – she led him to the thick forest, outside the town, that Zahir had never been to. Once they were under the trees Trysta broke into a run, as if she was a wolf that could smell something tasty. A few minutes later they arrived at an abandoned fox den, and inside was a pile of what seemed like junk at first glance. However, when Zahir looked closer, he realized it was not junk at all. There were valuables of all kinds, and even the painting which Trysta had snatched off him. “Hey…“ Zahir began to speak, but he broke off at the sound of a twig snapping. Trysta froze with her dark eyes wide. “Run!” She said through gritted teeth. The urgency in her voice caused Zahir to change into dragon form and take off, beating his wings frantically. He had only been flying for a few moments when a scream pierced the air. Spinning around midflight, he searched for the source. Something was terribly wrong.

Nervously Zahir rushed back down to where he had come from, only to be greeted by a horrifying sight. Trysta, also in dragon form, was struggling underneath a net. She seemed to melt with fear as she slowly transformed back into a human, her face streaked with tears. Zahir started towards her, but her face turned from pain to horror as he advanced. Trysta tried to gesture for him to stop, but it was too late. He roared in agony as some sort of snare wrapped around his leg and squeezed so tight it drew blood. Already almost faint with pain, he sorely turned his head. Behind him three unkind looking men were walking slowly towards them, eyes narrowed. “More thieves,” one of them spat. Another searched through Trysta’s hidey-hole eagerly. “Look at all this stuff!”
“Thieves yourselves!” Trysta snapped, though the effort drained her and she collapsed on the ground. Zahir lashed out at the third, his claws leaving a gash down the man’s leg. The man cried out and stumbled backwards, but his curses were drowned out by another sound, far more terrifying - the crackle and roar of a furious forest fire. Just when Zahir thought things couldn’t get any worse, it the flames swiftly advancing on them. Their prisoners forgotten, the men were gone in a flash. “Murderers!” Trysta called weakly, but she faltered and lay on the ground. Her hostile attitude was replaced by pure fear, and she stared pleadingly at the ground, as if it could help her. Desperate now, Zahir whipped his head around and tore at the snare with his teeth, tearing it off his leg. He then grabbed Trysta, net and all, and just made it into the air as the fire licked at his scales. Once he was well out of range of the searing heat, he half-fell, half-landed on the ground. Chest heaving, he collapsed onto his side. He thought he heard Trysta croak out a ‘thank you’, but he couldn’t be sure before he lost consciousness.

A familiar crackling sound woke Zahir, but this was no deadly forest fire. He raised his head and saw Trysta cooking something on a spit over a homely-looking campfire. He was stiff and sore, but his wounds had somehow been treated. Trysta looked over and noticed he was awake. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” She called playfully. “How long was I out?” Zahir asked groggily. “A day or two,” Trysta replied. Then her face broke out into a grin. “Hey, we should do that again sometime!” For a moment Zahir thought she was serious, and he stared at her. But then he laughed. Trysta stood up and gestured to the spit. “Breakfast for you,” she stated simply, then added, “I’m going to see if any of my stuff survived the fire.” By the time Zahir had turned to glance at her, she had disappeared into the trees, leaving only the smell of cherry blossoms.


Short Story by MidnightBlossom