R'ghtlic. Blessed one. Teacher. I have honored my promise. I have spoken of you to no man. In truth, I did cast your people from my thoughts when I left the desert, lest I too greatly long to return. But now I walk again upon the sands, and much sooner than I had hoped. And so as the dune-dove returns to the nest, my thoughts return to the fire in your cave, to the feasts of the new moon, to those who lie upon the rocks of Wadi Asad'huk.
I walk the hot places even now, R'ghthlic, the western sun bright in my eyes. Two women walk before me, yet I am not ashamed. Two great warriors follow me, yet I am not proud. Behind them walks the never-seen one, the hinling who calls me "Mister Lion", for the people of this land accept the name you gave to me.
Teacher, this journey has been long. It began outside a hidden village of dwarves. The dwarves of this place are not all like the odious peddlers who sell their leaky pots and rusty knives from their gopher holes. Though perhaps one is. The rest are stout and hardy, clad in mighty metals, with full beards and massive frames.
R'ghthilc, great cats walk their village! They guard the dwarves who mine metals and create shining armors.
I call on their metal now, teacher, to dispatch jackals from the hills. The elf-woman lays traps for them, then lures them to our waiting blades. Like a sand snake, she hurries across the dunes, but the jackals are faster. They are nearly upon her, but she does not fail. Soon, our steel is around them.
The dragon-slayers in my company descend, their fury like the whirlwinds on the high places. The jackals whimper and die.
The elf-woman is my friend and has often been my protector. I know this must sound strange to you, but I am not ashamed to say it.
I wandered from her, outside the dwarf home, and was ambushed by spiders the size of men! She would have finished them quickly. For me, it was a battle for my life. Only the Great Lion God, may his mane never tangle, may his tail ever twitch, saved me from certain death.
The elf-woman found me and helped me to a nearby village. This is the village where Sheheradazee lives. Sheheradazee, my intended new horse, promised to me by a famous hinling who once owned a circus! You should see his prances and his follies! He brings the mighty to their knees in a way no aziir or sling ever could.
Sheheradazee will be my new horse, for Farouk is lost to me. He died in battle against the Asabi of the East. This, to my great shame. On that day, we also lost an elf. Pray that his bones find rest.
We did not linger long there. Only long enough for her to buy a black horse, make her mark on it, and name it Pink, for she likes the color pink. I rested at the house for warriors in that village, for I am one of the warriors of that land. R'ghthlic, you know what this means to me. They have proven worthy of whatever small aid I may provide.
We walk, still. The heat is unbearable for me and moreso for them. Without the wrappings tight about our heads, the sand in the wind would grind the skin from our skulls.
The greater of the dragon-slayers is a nature-priest. Perhaps that is why he seems not to believe the unnatural size of the scorpion that charges us. With mine own eyes, this very day, I have seen this man take the shape of a bear, in order to face a creature with skin as hard as stone. He can form many other shapes. But not a lion.
My axe dispatches the scorpion, and we march across the desert like the caravan of a king. Soon, the little outpost is before us.
It was only a day ago that I stood before the great stone walls of the city. It smells too much of burning firewood, and it never knows sunrise or sunset. But this city is great to me, for it houses my Shiekh. My leader. A woman, R'ghthlic! Her name is Mestin. She spoke to me of many things. My failure when I lost Farouk. My loyalty. My service. And then she made me a Corporal. An officer! A leader.
I joined my company of travellers and we made our way westward. Now, they were in service to the Militia. And I, the dying creature with no name that you found on the desert floor, a leader of men. The sin of pride would have been upon me, were it not for the humility Nobanion had earlier brought in the form of two spiders.
I enter the outpost and militiamen there are shocked to see a Bedine staring at them through his mask. I remove my coverings and show my militia insignia. On Mestin's word, they quickly obey. I will stay at this place, for the fate of Hadreth's Glen depends on us finding a man named Hassan, who could be anywhere. And one other will stay with me, to aid in the search.
Hadreth's Glen. A lovely village with a marketplace arranged in a circle, like the khriema of my people.
We stopped there, along our way. For there was grim business involving Teia. Teia, who would amaze you, for she is half human and half elf.
Her father was a mighty and brave warrior, who died in a great battle for Hadreth's Glen, his body never found. And her mother a powerful priestess of nature, who protected the woods and looked after those who lived in respect of them. And Teia, who herself is like a foalhorse taking her first steps toward greatness, not yet knowing the grace or the strength or the goodness that she possesses. What man will ever equal her father in her eyes?
It was her father who stopped us in Hadreth's Glen. Or his memory. For Moonshade of the Dragonslayers--with whiskers upon his jaws like thistles around a rock, devoted to his god, and to those that he loves, he whose single arrow can pierce a demon's eye--had found one of the fallen heroes of the battle for Hadreth's Glen. Could this be the body of Teia's father? The fallen man's armor would tell the tale.
I return my coverings to my face and venture out again into the heat, where the others wait. I offer my hospitality, but they wish to return to their forests. You should see their land. The rains fall many times in a tenday, and the river bears fish in its arms like tribute for a mighty Shiekh.
Teia examined the armor and said that it was not her father's. Relief in our hearts, we set out westward, toward the Anauroch.
Mestin's order was that only one was to stay with me. Teia's name was mentioned, for she is a scout and a tracker. And I know her to be a trusted friend and ally.
R'ghtlic, it is forbidden, I know, for a man and a woman to be together in a place like this, unmarried. But it cannot be helped. These are my orders. And we make pretend that she is my wife, so we do not anger the Bedine in the area.
It is a silly farce, of course, for who will believe it?
With her blonde hair, in her tan and white robes, she is a waterlilly impossibly sprouted in the scorched earth. She wields two swords, as the swift-footed rangers of the Dale have taught her. In her runs the blood of mighty warriors and the memories of fierce battles. And I am a nameless one, an outcast from my tribe, a dark-eyed and oafish foreigner with rigid customs and strange ways. I have no family. I have no riches. I have no home.
But perhaps it is not such a vast difference. I am, after all, a Corporal.
Return to the Sands
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psycho_leo
- Rust Monster
- Posts: 1162
- Joined: Tue Jan 17, 2006 2:10 am
- Location: Brazil
Excellent, Smithers!
Zyrus Meynolt: [Party] For the record, if this somehow blows up in our faces and I die, I want a raiseSwift wrote: Permadeath is only permadeath when the PCs wallet is empty.
<Castano>: danielnm - can you blame them?
<danielmn>: Yes,
<danielmn>: Easily.
"And in this twilight....our choices seal our fate"
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Brimsar the Wanderer
- Frost Giant
- Posts: 757
- Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2005 10:56 pm
- Location: GMT -5
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ewayneself
- Dire Badger
- Posts: 183
- Joined: Tue Aug 02, 2005 6:41 am
Pt 2
R'ghtlic, I sit upon a high hill and look toward the west. Like a child pretending he can see the edge of the world, I imagine I see the Wadi Asak'huk, where you keep vigil while your young ones play.
The little outpost is below me. A wooden structure, its sharp corners defiant against the curves of the wavering sands. Its edges are the only straight lines my eyes can see. It is only one long room, but it is sturdy enough. Teia and I are not alone there, to my relief. There is a Sergeant of the Militia, and her soldier, Rivo.
To the North, I see the smoke from the Tiyahi fires, near the oasis. It was their ruler, Sheikh Wuhaydi, longbearded and robed in crimson, that placed our task before us. To save the water in Hadreth's Glen, we require Balsam Oil, a rare prize that only he can provide. But, plagued by raiders from a rival tribe, he bid us to find their leader, Hassan--whom the berrani call Hamma--and recite to him a diplomatic message.
Perhaps the berrani thought it to be an easy task. Find a man. Deliver a message. But these are nomads. They are not so easily found.
There are many among the outlanders who can follow footsteps in the muddy grass and divine a man's location. But tracks in the desert fade like a dream upon waking, and the sandstorms like a gravedigger pull a shroud over the eyes. So our days here have multiplied.
It is a hard time, R'ghtlic, but not an unhappy one. The outlanders have many distractions. They walk their roads and visit their Inns and shops. Perhaps they are bored when they come to the open sands and huddle overnight against the evils that abide here. Perhaps they do not know the rhythm of daily life, as we do in the desert. The joy of following a simple pattern, day to day, alongside your own peoples.
Teia takes to it well. Each morning, I face westward and make my devotion to Nobanion, as you taught me. Then I milk the camel, which I have named Qawi-Rih or Strong Winds. If Teia had tracked and killed a boar, we have meat for breakfast. If not, we have rations, or whatever provisions are available.
Then we make preparations for our task, carefully wrapping our heads for modesty and protection. Counting out the precious sprigs of Dwale and the bandages that are our only source of healing. Donning our light armors and readying our weapons.
We keep distance from one another, as we walk, and Teia walks slightly behind, so that any watching Bedine might see her humility and give us respect.
The work is tedious. A sign of a campfire here. A discarded bat bone there. Shifting signposts on barren land. Hyena and jackal stalk us. Scorpion and snake surround us.
We cannot work when the sun is at its peak, for leather does not breathe. Our bellies cannot hold enough water to replace what we lose in sweat. So we take shelter in the scant shade and watch for rising dust in the distance.
When the sun finally gives us mercy, we continue. Though the work seems impossible, Teia does not yield to sorrow, or utter words of futility. It is as if she likes it here.
We always return to the little wooden outpost before the sunset. The desert is beautiful at night, but there are dangerous places along the road. Shadow and shade hold dominion at night. And so we take our shelter each evening, hoping we get a visit from Laurelin.
Sweet Laurelin, who hides her generosity. Whose words pierce the heart as easily as her arrows pierce the flesh. Hers is the hardest work. Many are the footsteps she has taken in service of this cause, bringing provisions and allies from Hadreth's Glen. The Jackal fears her. The Scorpion will not approach her, for her arrow is swifter than his sting. When she is present, we fight our exhaustion and trade words. She gives us news of Hadreth's Glen. We speak of our search. And of things past and present. Secrets. Fears. Hopes. It is the companionship of friends that makes this duty bearable.
When sleep will be denied no more, we drape blankets around our beds for privacy, mine as far as possible from those of the women. And we are each left to our own dreams. Their dreams are theirs. Mine are of Fatima, my sister, for seeing the red-robed women of the Tiyahi has recalled her vividly to my mind. I long to see her.
I dream that she has grown into a woman as lovely and brave as Teia. That she is strong-willed like Amalanna. That she is crafty like Laurelin. Kind like Kess-la. Smart like Rhekka. That she laughs without shame, like Nawiel. But I know these are merely fancies, even as I dream them, for these desert men pluck and devour the fruit before it is ripe, fearing another will find it first. It is a blessing if she is even alive.
We wake before sunrise and begin again. And so it goes.
But for how long, R'ghtlic? How long before there are no more provisions? Before Laurelin is to weary for the journey? Before Teia wishes to return to the forest? Before we are simply defeated?
Already, there are days when we are too tired to leave our beds. And the news from Hadreth's Glen is no better than it was when we left.
If we do not find Hassan soon, our cause will be lost.
The little outpost is below me. A wooden structure, its sharp corners defiant against the curves of the wavering sands. Its edges are the only straight lines my eyes can see. It is only one long room, but it is sturdy enough. Teia and I are not alone there, to my relief. There is a Sergeant of the Militia, and her soldier, Rivo.
To the North, I see the smoke from the Tiyahi fires, near the oasis. It was their ruler, Sheikh Wuhaydi, longbearded and robed in crimson, that placed our task before us. To save the water in Hadreth's Glen, we require Balsam Oil, a rare prize that only he can provide. But, plagued by raiders from a rival tribe, he bid us to find their leader, Hassan--whom the berrani call Hamma--and recite to him a diplomatic message.
Perhaps the berrani thought it to be an easy task. Find a man. Deliver a message. But these are nomads. They are not so easily found.
There are many among the outlanders who can follow footsteps in the muddy grass and divine a man's location. But tracks in the desert fade like a dream upon waking, and the sandstorms like a gravedigger pull a shroud over the eyes. So our days here have multiplied.
It is a hard time, R'ghtlic, but not an unhappy one. The outlanders have many distractions. They walk their roads and visit their Inns and shops. Perhaps they are bored when they come to the open sands and huddle overnight against the evils that abide here. Perhaps they do not know the rhythm of daily life, as we do in the desert. The joy of following a simple pattern, day to day, alongside your own peoples.
Teia takes to it well. Each morning, I face westward and make my devotion to Nobanion, as you taught me. Then I milk the camel, which I have named Qawi-Rih or Strong Winds. If Teia had tracked and killed a boar, we have meat for breakfast. If not, we have rations, or whatever provisions are available.
Then we make preparations for our task, carefully wrapping our heads for modesty and protection. Counting out the precious sprigs of Dwale and the bandages that are our only source of healing. Donning our light armors and readying our weapons.
We keep distance from one another, as we walk, and Teia walks slightly behind, so that any watching Bedine might see her humility and give us respect.
The work is tedious. A sign of a campfire here. A discarded bat bone there. Shifting signposts on barren land. Hyena and jackal stalk us. Scorpion and snake surround us.
We cannot work when the sun is at its peak, for leather does not breathe. Our bellies cannot hold enough water to replace what we lose in sweat. So we take shelter in the scant shade and watch for rising dust in the distance.
When the sun finally gives us mercy, we continue. Though the work seems impossible, Teia does not yield to sorrow, or utter words of futility. It is as if she likes it here.
We always return to the little wooden outpost before the sunset. The desert is beautiful at night, but there are dangerous places along the road. Shadow and shade hold dominion at night. And so we take our shelter each evening, hoping we get a visit from Laurelin.
Sweet Laurelin, who hides her generosity. Whose words pierce the heart as easily as her arrows pierce the flesh. Hers is the hardest work. Many are the footsteps she has taken in service of this cause, bringing provisions and allies from Hadreth's Glen. The Jackal fears her. The Scorpion will not approach her, for her arrow is swifter than his sting. When she is present, we fight our exhaustion and trade words. She gives us news of Hadreth's Glen. We speak of our search. And of things past and present. Secrets. Fears. Hopes. It is the companionship of friends that makes this duty bearable.
When sleep will be denied no more, we drape blankets around our beds for privacy, mine as far as possible from those of the women. And we are each left to our own dreams. Their dreams are theirs. Mine are of Fatima, my sister, for seeing the red-robed women of the Tiyahi has recalled her vividly to my mind. I long to see her.
I dream that she has grown into a woman as lovely and brave as Teia. That she is strong-willed like Amalanna. That she is crafty like Laurelin. Kind like Kess-la. Smart like Rhekka. That she laughs without shame, like Nawiel. But I know these are merely fancies, even as I dream them, for these desert men pluck and devour the fruit before it is ripe, fearing another will find it first. It is a blessing if she is even alive.
We wake before sunrise and begin again. And so it goes.
But for how long, R'ghtlic? How long before there are no more provisions? Before Laurelin is to weary for the journey? Before Teia wishes to return to the forest? Before we are simply defeated?
Already, there are days when we are too tired to leave our beds. And the news from Hadreth's Glen is no better than it was when we left.
If we do not find Hassan soon, our cause will be lost.
Once again, another great read. Keep up the awesome work!
Zyrus Meynolt: [Party] For the record, if this somehow blows up in our faces and I die, I want a raiseSwift wrote: Permadeath is only permadeath when the PCs wallet is empty.
<Castano>: danielnm - can you blame them?
<danielmn>: Yes,
<danielmn>: Easily.
"And in this twilight....our choices seal our fate"
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psycho_leo
- Rust Monster
- Posts: 1162
- Joined: Tue Jan 17, 2006 2:10 am
- Location: Brazil