The Numberaugur Upon Her Telamon.

The numberaugur perched upon her nude telamon, skin against skin, the telamon's back bursting with vascularity, rippling bodybuilder musculature. The numberaugur's eyes rolled back in their sockets as she awaits the arrival of the next message, her flesh dry, criss-crossed in ancient wrinkles, dappled in the talcum powder they sprinkle her with each morning. Her place on the human seat is surrounded by the disciples, each cross-legged, their mouths hanging slightly open as they await her next word.

Her wizened hands grip the shoulder of her telamon, his flesh twitching beneath the claws that dig into him. Sweat pours from his brow, dropping into the clay below, but he does not cry out. To do so would be unthinkable. Not before the number. The number. The number.

The number comes, rising up from pelvic undulations to the shifting sands in the sagging muscles of her stomach, protruding the spine which protrudes from the flat of her back, and then in halting, choking peristalsis up her throat, until it finally reaches her mouth like vomit, and she cries, in a brilliant, exultant, and beautiful voice like the rising of a thousand, thousand starlings on a stark and cold winter's morning:

"Four!"

The disciples cry out and press their styluses to yellow legal pads, transcribing it, four, four, four! Tears leak from the eyes of several, and one begins to tremble and shake so hard that the guards have to remove him and seek medical attention.

The numberaugur sags, releasing her grip on the telamon's shoulder, a thin trickle of blood from where her pinky nail punctured his sweating, trembling skin. There are many similar scars which dot his flesh, and several small bandaids where the wounds have not yet healed.

The disciples, the telamon, and the numberaugur wait. For the next number to come.