The Fickle Winds of Autumn

The balmy depths of the stilled, dark night embraced the slumbering camp deep in the gentle folds of its arms. The tranquil, glowing fires flickered amongst the tents. The drowsy guards paced softly on their patrol.

Not even the tender, whispering mid-night breeze, which kissed the weary sands to sleep, noticed the deep shadow gliding noiselessly between the desert awnings.

A keen, incisive dagger was unsheathed; it caressed an opening into the back of the taut cloth; its owner slipped inside, as a promise enters a lover’s willing ear.

The shadow crept towards a small mound of embroidered cushions where Gimel slept.

The soft, sinuous steps were muffled by the gently yielding sand.

The silent, glowing blade was raised, poised to strike - a skilled and deadly thief who could steal a life before the owner even noticed it was missing.

The heavy blankets were yanked back to expose its helpless victim.

But Gimel had already gone.