Fantasy The Land of the Dead

[Savelius]

​

Goodnight, angel of death.

Walking through the trail that led through the verdant green valley, Sekhar picked his way through the thick foliage that intruded onto the worn, dust-strewn trail. Overhead the sun was beginning to set, and the fading sun cast its cornucopia of red, orange and purple hues over the world below. It would be night soon, and they would have to stop and camp, although Sekhar contemplated just pushing onwards. They were not far away from the shrine that his companion wished to visit. Sekhar glanced back at her for a moment. Anit, she had called herself, although she had been fairly reticent in terms of speaking about herself, or indeed, speaking about anything at all.

The young guide shrugged his shoulders almost instinctively as he reached out with his left hand, grasping at the tendrils of brush as they spilled out onto the path, holding it to one side so his erstwhile companion could pass through unscathed and unscratched. Truthfully, Sekhar had guided many different types of people throughout the years he had been doing this, and the manner of their temperament and being mattered little to him. Only the colour of their coin mattered, and as long as the girl paid him the remaining gold for his time and effort that he was owed then she could be as forthcoming and reticent as she wished herself to be.

"It will be night soon, however we are not far from our destination."

Sekhar's voice echoed somewhat in the depths of the valley that the two of them stood in, something that caused him to furrow his brow in annoyance. As she passed through, Sekhar gently laid the thick branches back on the ground where they had lain, trying his best to place them back the way that he had found them to begin with. It was a simple thing, certainly, but Sekhar had always trusted in the little things.

Do the little things and the big things will look after themselves.

He remembered the voice almost as if it were yesterday when he had last heard the words. Spoken by his father, so many many years ago. This simple remembrance caused a small pang of sorrow to resonate inside of him. It had been such a long time since he had been home, almost to the point that he had forgotten what home was. Home was the road, as it always had been. As it always would be. Sekhar's attention to detail was something that had been ingrained in him by his father from an early age.

Don't make assumptions.

Don't leave a trail for someone else to follow.

Kneeling, Sekhar smoothed over the trail and signs of passage before he stood. Reaching up, he touched the dark hood that obscured his features almost instinctively as he cast his blue eyes around the nearby environs. A narrow trail that wound ever downwards deeper into the valley, an on either side of them an almost impossibly steep hill that was overgrown with bushes and trees. Overhead the trees grew, casting their ever deepening shadows further as time gradually ticked onwards, daylight turning into evening and finally dusk. And the trees themselves looked sinister with their bent and gnarled forms, bark peeling off the trunks of the trees as their branches moved in the slight wind that circulated around the two of them. The movement made the spindly branches look like twisted grasping hands coming towards them. Sighing, Sekhar cast off such fanciful notions as he moved past his companion, taking the lead once more.

"Be careful," the young guide intoned, perhaps unnecessarily. "The route is treacherous here and the slope steepens here on in. Normally I'd advise taking camp for the night, but in this case we will be at our destination inside the hour."

And I don't really trust it here. This place gives out an unnatural feeling. Sekhar did not voice the concerns he felt.

Somewhere in the distance a cawing sound could be heard. Sekhar looked up, seeing the dark form of a raven as it took perch on one of the gnarled and spindly branches, looking down at the two of them as it fixed them with its beady yellow eyes. In another direction more cawing could be heard, a response from another raven perhaps? Sekhar could not see this second raven, but it did nothing to halt the ever growing unease that he felt. The shadows grew darker, and as Sekhar stepped cautiously forwards, placing one booted foot slowly in front of the other, he could almost imagine the dancing shadows, drawing him into its all-encompassing embrace. And there, as he could almost imagine the ethereal tendrils of nothingness swirling around him, reaching towards him to wrap his body inside their embrace, not for the first time did Sekhar Darkbow consider anew the foolhardy nature of his actions. Yes, in some ways, it was fair to say that this pathetic creature, this outcast, this exile, stood on the edge of a gaping precipice. Dull, lifeless eyes stared unmoving into the translucent depths of swirling blue, almost as if by doing so he would be granted a revelation that was both life and world changing.

Sadly, no such revelation made its way out of the murky, heady depths of the darkening gloom around him, nor would it.

He was on his own, as he always was. He could never go back.

Step backwards, back to the life you once knew. Back to the people he once knew where one was forced always to wear a mask of some sort.

A mask to hide your true self.

A mask to hide your true motives.

A mask to hide the beast that lies inside your soul.

His hand slid almost subconsciously inside the folds of the travelling cloak he wore cast around his shoulders. His fingers brushed something inside there, something metallic. Closing his eyes, he squeezed it tightly, almost as if by doing so he could turn back time, undo what had been done, make things right again. Like he had promised.

But he couldn’t. He never could.

No, there was nothing back there for him now, and if fate decreed that he did die here, in this wandering nothingness, at least if nothing else he could die on his own terms. Nobody could take that from him.

Could they?

Sekhar's smile was grim as those blue, dull lifeless eyes looked back to his companion. It was a smile that didn't touch those twin orbs of nothingness. It never could.

"We press on. The shrine is ahead."

The sun was setting. Somewhere, out there, she waited for him. His sister, waiting in the darkness with a glittering knife.

Goodnight, angel of death.

 

[stormcaller]

​

She gazed out into the distance of the land they traveled, her visage set in a solemn but determined way. Perhaps the boy she had hired as a guide through this valley would see it as resolve, a quiet dedication that would befit a girl seeking to pay deference to the shrine of a long-dead pharaoh, but such matters were not at the forefront–or even the back–of her mind. They had eaten barely an hour ago, simple, hurried fare as they walked the trail, but in truth, Meryt was mostly occupied with her hunger. It was not a matter of how much she’d eaten, or how much she’d walked. She was a girl who never stopped hungering, never stopped wanting, grasping for something more, more, always more.

After all, the strongest sensation she remembered from her youth was hunger. That twisting pang deep in her gut, craving, demanding, begging, for something, anything–a single-minded drive so intense, it blinded one to danger or pain. It made some stupid; others, quick. The quick ones, the clever ones–they were the ones who survived.

She had survived.

It wasn’t a pretty thing, survival. It made one cruel and selfish. There was no grace, no fair play when it came down to whether she would eat enough to have the strength to steal for another day. And yet, somehow, along the way some other unfortunates had managed to sink through the cracks of her hard heart–fellow street children, likewise abandoned and spurned by those who should have embraced them. From those youths, all with the same hunger in their eyes, she had formed something of a family. A small but precious group that cared about her as fiercely as she did them. She had been given so little in this world, and she’d balked at the thought of losing anything. To safeguard the lives that counted on her, she had taken on many faces and roles, lied, cheated, and stolen. It had never been a comfortable life, being a thief in the underbelly of Thebes, but she had managed. Her hunger had always demanded more, but she’d told herself, she could be content.

And then, little Pashet had fallen ill.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t lost a few others on the way–the underbelly wasn’t a kind place for young children, after all. Despite this, their little faces had always rimmed the edges of her consciousness, their names, a string of words close to a forbidden prayer. But this time, she’d been older, stronger, more capable–and yet, she couldn’t prevent the fever from taking young Pashet. A fever that had a cure, that could be treated, but because they didn’t have the coin, the status, they had been denied.

She had realized the truth, then–perhaps the truth she’d secretly known all along–that all the scrounging and clever little tricks that she had employed to keep them fed on the day-to-day–it simply wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to give them safety, or a good life, and Pashet and the rest would pay the price for her ignorance.

Now, she didn’t flinch from the thought of committing sacrilege.

It was a lucrative business, after all–raiding the tombs of the dead. She was still an uninitiate in that regard. An acquaintance of hers had been trying to get her to join the business for a while now, but she had resisted–after all, it meant that she would have to leave the city for a stretch of time, and the danger was very real. Being caught would mean a worse fate, but by now Meryt didn’t think about that too often. She couldn’t afford to.

“We press on,” the young man told her, turning about to face her. “The shrine is ahead.”

“Many thanks,” she replied, returning his hollow smile with one of her own, though it was perhaps a touch too sharp for someone meant to be devout. For the third time on their journey, she casually wondered how much food and money he had on his person, and what kind of weaponry. It was bad practice to attack a guide, considering that he was leading her through unfamiliar territory, but she’d made it out better in worse situations. Again, she decided against it for the time being. How she’d feel once they’d reached their destination, she couldn’t yet say.

Just as he promised, soon there was the shape of a looming building in the distance. Her sandaled feet fell a little lighter, her steps quickening with anticipation. “Have you done this line of work for long?” she tossed him the question, her gaze flicking occasionally from the grand prize in the distance to the potential target that could potentially fund her next three meals. It was the impression she’d gotten–he hadn’t asked her many questions at all, never digging whenever he could’ve. Not that she was complaining–it made the ruse easier for her, but it was clear that he was used to not questioning his clientele. It spoke to one used to this lifestyle, which might mean he was an experienced guide. It also meant that he could be worth more, carrying more coin–but with the risk of putting up a better fight.

She pulled the loose layers of her linen shawl more securely around her form, watching the young man through her lashes, playing the demure lady. Meryt wasn’t half-bad in a scrap–one didn’t survive the underbelly for over twenty years without being decently capable in any sort of confrontation–but she also knew there was no reason to go looking for a fight. There were always quicker, cleverer ways to take what she wanted from others, after all. All she had to do was wait for a moment when his guard was down, which was bound to come, seeing that they were nearing the shrine of cursed Anhkhtepot.

 

[Savelius]

​

The rest of the trek down the trail was treacherous, but Sekhar had many years of experience walking dangerous roads, in many many different ways. Shadows of the road, shadows of the heart, both contained perils that would ensnare the unwary. He pushed aside the thick greenery at the bottom of the dusty trail. Ahead, a patch of clear sky as the mountain walls loomed overhead on either side.

In front, a mere stone’s throw away, a small shrine was framed against the setting sun, the shadows from the trees to either side crept forwards, encircling the shrine inside their dark embrace. Yet the small, oval stone building with one simple wooden that led into its interior contained a strange, yet simple elegance conveyed with the backdrop of fading orange from the sunset sky.

It started with the voice.

Welcome Sekhar Darkbow, he who wears a cloak of illusory façades like one would wear a coat. Tell me Sekhar, what will you find when you tear away the mask you still cling on to like a desperate child would cling on to the hand of their mother or father as they are taken away? You will find one such as yourself, looking for a better life. I can still give you that......I can give you the life you have always dreamed of. All you have to do is step forwards to the home you have never known but are destined to see.

Home. A complicated word for young Sekhar indeed. A word that conjured with it images of warmth, of comfort, of safety. But for Sekhar, they also brought with them death.

What were these words? They were words that had been spoken to him before, that he knew. He couldn’t tell how he knew, it was a simple, undeniable fact. They also brought painful painful memories of a past that was no longer his to hold.

It was not until he had left at his sister’s beckoning and urging, not until he was deep inside the mists that shielded him from the life he had once known that Sekhar Darkbow perhaps came to understand the ignorant folly of his decision. The mists, they were worse, far worse than he could have possibly imagined…yet not in the way that he had anticipated they would be. For the mists were more than an existential threat. They were far far far more than a physical danger. His was not a threat from the dark creatures that made their homes inside its vaporous interior. That was not what the dark mists were about. Not to him.

Not now, not ever.

The mists were personal, a manifestation of the darkness that lay inside each and every one of us. Sekahr’s trek through the dizzying tendrils of ethereality took a different form. It took a reflection of the heart and the soul. A reflection of memories that had long been lost to him.

To step forwards into this darkness was to die, and Sekhar was conscious, painfully conscious of this single indisputable fact. Yet, as he pondered this, the realisation struck him with a crystalline-like clarity that was as painful as it was liberating. To step backwards was also to die, yet it was a different sort of death. It was a slow, lingering death, one that would suffocate him. It would slowly yet deliberately leech everything that was left inside of him that was good and pure from him. His people would take his humanity from him, reduce him to nothing more than a mindless broken thing. This he knew, and he knew it as surely that he knew night would follow day in this land of darkness and dancing shadows. Until finally, with nothing left of him but a hollow, desiccated husk, he would beg to be put down and there he would be put down, but only when they willed it to be so.

He would die as they wanted him to die.

Was that what he wanted? To watch himself go at their behest? That he still loved them even as they were his family irrespective of the words that had condemned him to this fate.

“Eight years,” Sekhar answered quietly as he stared at the shrine intently, Anit‘s question banishing away the memories and the strange voice that had intruded inside of his head ever so briefly.

Looking back to her, his lips curled up on a very slight smile, as he answered the question she had wanted to ask but had not.

“It is not a bad life, when this is the road you choose to walk, you learn the lay of the land. You learn the trails, and you learn the stories that the land chooses to tell you. It is not a bad life,” he repeated, almost as if he was trying to convince himself.

A lonely life, a solitary existence, yes. But it was preferable than the alternative….

Walking up to the exterior of the small shrine, Sekhar closed his eyes as he ran his hand over the smooth, whitewashed stone.

“Everything has a story, even this place,” Sekhar‘s voice was quiet, almost reverential. Then he turned his head, his blue eyes snapping over to meet Anit’s.

”Even this abandoned shrine to an unknown being. The stone is not cracked. It is not faded. The wooden door is not rotten. What story does that tell you?”

Bringing his finger up to touch his lip, Sekhar’s smile deepened.

“What is it you seek to find here Anit? Solitude? Peace?”

With a smooth motion, Sekhar pushed the door open and beckoned her onwards into the shrine and the shadows that lay beyond.

”A doorway to a different life perhaps? One that perhaps you yourself do not yet understand?”

 

[stormcaller]

​

It was a lot smaller than she’d expected. That was the first thought that crossed her mind as they finally approached the shrine dedicated to the dead pharaoh–for being as famous, or rather, infamous, she’d expected it to be much grander. She was starting to wonder if there was really going to be anything worth stealing. Of course, she wasn’t expecting her fortune to be made so quickly, with the very first holy site she desecrated, but the building didn’t seem to promise much. Then again, it was the plainest boxes that often held the most valuable things, she reminded herself. Satisfied with that logic, she pressed on after the guide, traversing the steep trails with a sure-footedness that might not have been suitable for a well-kept lady. Luckily for her, the young man leading her seemed a little preoccupied. She, of course, took the opportunity to eye his clothing, the cloak that was sure to hide his purses and weapons.

When he finally answered her question, she rolled the response around in her mind like a marble. Eight years. It was not a short time at all, though neither did it sound like it meant that he had been trained to be a guide from youth. Not a family trade then, perhaps. It’s not a bad life, he was saying. He repeated it again, and Meryt found it hard to believe that he was trying to convince her at all.

“Not a bad life, I’m sure,” she echoed the sentiment politely, though she could not hide the slight edge of dryness running through it. “I imagine there must be a great amount of freedom.” She thought there might be something akin to hunger, or maybe longing in his demeanor. Where had he come from, and why was he leading a life that he was so desperate to insist he didn’t hate?

Those were all good questions, but Meryt, truthfully, did not care. She couldn’t care. If she deigned to care about the wellbeing of every person she came across, she wouldn’t be able to do what she did. It was heavy enough shouldering the burdens she already had. So, she did not ask.

The exterior of the shrine was truly nothing special, at least to Meryt’s scrutinizing gaze. However, her guide seemed rather taken with it, looking upon it with no small modicum of reverence and care. Perhaps he was the devout one, the pious one. Everything had a story, he was telling her, but she could only feel impatience. She didn’t care about the story–about how, surely, there must have been those caring for the shrine, or even the fantastical idea that some ancient power was protecting the integrity of it. She could feel the hunger scraping away inside her. All she cared about was what she could take from this place–and from him, if he kept dawdling.

But suddenly, his line of inquiry shifted to her–his eyes, a bit too piercing for her liking. “What is it you seek to find here, Anit? Solitude? Peace?” he asked as he stepped into the shrine, waiting for her to join him. “A doorway to a different life, perhaps? One that perhaps you yourself do not yet understand?”

All her impatience drained away into something cooler, more cautious. Her amber eyes narrowed briefly, and beneath her shawl, her fingers stole to the blade she hid at her hip. Something felt wrong, maybe that knowing twist in his smile. Everything in her was warning her not to step through the door. Something was waiting–someone, maybe. Was he not a guide, after all, but a criminal? Was he trying to rob her, or worse?

And yet, Meryt could not turn back. It was that hunger that led her forward as ever, insistent as a claw in her gut. Turning back meant failing her family, again. She could only press forward.

“Nothing so fanciful, I’m afraid,” she answered as she followed him, her steps measured and deliberate as her words, spoken coyly. Her eyes were locked on his, probing, searching for the tell that would give away his intentions. “I just want what anyone would want…”

A full belly. A safe home for my family, to protect and provide…

Before she could finish the thought, before the door had even swung shut, she was swallowed up by the darkness.

The first thing she became aware of was the heat of the blazing sun, beating mercilessly down upon her. Second, a sharp burst of pain. Her eyes shot open, only to come face to face with the leering visage of a vulture. She gave a shout, jerking up into a sitting position and waving her hands. The bird seemed rather nonplussed, but took off into flight–climbing into the sky where three others were circling. She groaned, bringing a sandy palm to her temples. Her head was throbbing, her body heavy–though, she could tell right away that she hadn’t been beaten. “Amun curse him,” she muttered to herself, stumbling up onto her feet. Desert. She was in the open desert. Not only that, it wasn’t evening, or even nighttime. That guide boy–he’d gotten her. She’d known it was a trap! That strange smile, the cryptic words…he’d been targeting her. Had he known, or was this simply the worst luck? Angrily, she patted herself down–only to realize that her money pouch and dagger were still on her person. She checked her coins, once, twice–but nothing was gone.

What was going on? She whirled about, trying to orient herself, but before her angry gaze could catch sight of a landmark, instead, she thought she saw a crumpled figure in the sand. Squinting in the sun, she tried to make out the shape–and recognized it.

It was the boy.

He was stirring, his own pair of buzzards fleeing their mistaken scene–but clearly disoriented, still. She wasn’t stupid enough to let that slip by–she didn’t believe in fighting or playing fair, after all. She was upon him within a moment, standing over him with her dagger at the ready. “Where are we, and what did you do to me?” she demanded coldly. Gone was the pretense of a demure, well-mannered lady–in her place was a hardened street urchin, eyes as sharp as the blade she clutched. “Talk.”

 

[Savelius]

​

There was darkness first. It was the sort of darkness that was all-encompassing. It reached out with tendrils of inky blackness, and it enfolded Sekhar in its nightmarish embrace. And as it did, the young guide felt for all the world that he was falling……falling, ever falling into the deep dark void of oblivion. And as he fell, the world itself disappeared into nothingness.

The world around him…it was as nothing to the darkness. There was no world. There was only Sekhar Darkbow, he who was once Vistani, for all that was.

This was life, and as he fell into the dark, he remembered that which had passed before. Faces once known, words once spoken. Although much of his past lay obscured beneath a thick dark miasma, there were things that he remembered. Beautiful, blessed memories that he clung onto with all that he had, because it was all that there was.

He remembered the blue sky most of all. The cloudless sky and the sun that shone down on the meadow beneath it. The tips of grass-stalks bent in the slight wind that swirled around. It was not an unpleasant wind, no, it was in fact a pleasant cooling breeze that moderated the heat of the summer air. He remembered lying there with her, faces looking up to the sky. They spoke no words because there were no words that were needed. Both of them were comfortable with the company and presence of each other. It was the sort of comfort and friendship that did not necessarily need words spoken to express it. That it simply was, was enough.

Pain.

He woke to pain, and a disfigured face looming over him, picking at his flesh with its deceptively sharp beak. With a yell, Sekhar pushed it away watching keenly as it unfolded leathery wings, flying up into the sky, it’s dark form blotting out the desert sun.

Wait — desert sun? They were…..?

But it was so, an impossibility certainly but it did not make what Sekhar was seeing in front of him any less so. But where was the valley? The undergrowth and the trees? The shrine? All gone now, replaced by the sun, the searing heat and the sand dunes stretching off into the distance as far as the eye could see. Raising his hand to shield his sight from the blazing sun, Sekhar tried to adjust his senses, block out the orange radiance as it tried to burn through his senses…..

……the next thing he saw was the dagger, pointing to his heart.

“Where are we, and what did you do to me?”

The blade of the dagger was poised just near to his chest. One small movement would see it pierce his skin…push through to his heart. Looking up to her, Sekhar’s gaze was hard, then he laughed. A sound that was tinged with the sort of bitterness that eight years of exile would bring someone. Her eyes glittered. They were dangerous. They were the eyes of a killer. His laughter hung in the air, but otherwise he didn’t offer a response. Seconds turned into a minute, the silence permeating over both of them as the desert sun continued to shine down it’s killing light.

“You remind me of her,” he said finally, his words filling the void, but Sekhar did not elaborate further.

“If you think this was part of the plan, to magic both of us to a desert wasteland to die, then you are very much mistaken.”

Gently, Sekhar reached out, taking her forearm slowly, pushing the dagger away from him as he slowly got to his feet. Truth be told, he cared little as to whether or not this beautiful stranger buried the dagger up to his heart or not. Either way, one way or another his life was forfeit anyway, irrespective of who dealt the killing blow. This single, indisputable fact was something he had long learned to accept.

”It’s up to you. Either you can continue to threaten me, or we can try to find some shelter before the desert claims us.”

 

[stormcaller]

​

Meryt had been prepared for a great number of reactions from the guide boy, so rudely awakened with a dagger poised at his chest. A violent one had certainly been a possibility; no matter how scrawny a young man was, a girl as slight as her would not have discounted the hope that he could overpower her, knife be damned. A cajoling or bargaining one was also a common response, perhaps paired with the thought that he could disarm her when she had let her guard down. Fear, even, was one she could have predicted, a high-strung reaction of babbling–all too easily justified by how simple it would be for her to thrust the dagger into his chest cavity.

The boy, however, did none of those things. There was a pause, his eyes flat–then he laughed. Her grip on the hilt of her dagger tightened, a hint of a grim, sardonic smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth in a wordless warning. Did he think she was bluffing? Did he think she was too soft to do such a terrible thing? If she’d thought his death would have meant her survival, she would have cut his throat without a single question. However, as the silence stretched on between them, as they stared into each other’s eyes, the thief realized that he was not trying to mock or test her.

Those were the eyes of someone prepared to die. Not the kind of rabid, cornered-animal way that she knew too well–a reckless desperation born of a need to survive–but something far quieter, a relinquishing of the natural desire to live. It unsettled her–almost disgusted her. It felt wrong. No hunger, just the void. She’d seen those listless eyes before, in the children that wasted away, limp and accepting. No fight left in them to struggle, wanting only to drift off to sleep and dreaming of the inevitable oblivion afterwards.

“You remind me of her,” he broke the silence at last, uttering, once again, a set of cryptic words that she did not understand. Fortunately, he moved on quickly enough–assuring her that he had not planned to magic them away to some desert wasteland to die.

Magic? She could have scoffed, but the rest of his sentiment rang true, even to her ever-suspicious mind. Her purse had been left alone, and she herself, relatively unscathed. If he had planned something nefarious, then he should have been long gone by the time she woke up. He reached out slowly, and she allowed him to ward the dagger away from himself, stepping back as he rose from the sands.

“It’s up to you," he told her. "Either you can continue to threaten me, or we can try to find some shelter before the desert claims us.”

She raised her chin defiantly, keeping him at bay for a moment longer with the dagger between them. Could she really trust someone whose eyes spoke of no motive but waiting for death to find him? Her instincts told her no. In her time scrabbling and cheating and lying, Meryt had grown adept at recognizing, by instinct or analysis, what someone wanted. Once she knew what they wanted, it became easier to predict what they would do, and how they could be moved. His blank, despondent eyes gave her nothing.

And yet…as ever, it was her own hunger that won over those worries; her hunger, ravenous to survive. He was right, as much as she didn’t like it. The desert was an unforgiving place to wander aimlessly, and if they didn’t find shelter and water, she was as good as dead.

That was one thing she could not allow.

Finally, she let out a breath, sheathing her weapon–though her gaze, sharp and wary, never left him–waiting for him to make a wrong move. “Shelter and supplies,” she ceded, her voice matter-of-fact. “Do you recognize anything around us?” she continued, looking around with a hand at her brow. “Any landmarks you know?” Meryt certainly did not–of course, the valley they had traversed had been new to her too, but there was no trace of the verdant trail they had walked through. “Do you remember anything about how we got here?” Then a thought–she looked at him sharply, warningly. “Surely you were jesting about being magicked here.” It was clear that she was nothing close to the pious girl she'd claimed to be, but she didn't care. She had no time for jokes or pretense anymore–not here, not now.

 

[Savelius]

​

Appearances. Appearances could be deceptive in so many many ways. The quiet and demure traveller for example, wishing to portray themselves in a certain way, for their own ends no less. The quiet and reserved guide, as another example, wishing to escape their own past even as there were some things that simply could not be walked away from. Sekhar stood to his feet slowly, regarding Anit with an icy cold gaze that he held there for a number of seconds. And then, deliberately, almost as if he was making a point of doing so, Sekhar turned away from her, showing his back to her as he gazed across the sand dunes of the desert that stretched out in front of him.

If there was any fear of the dagger entering his shoulderblades, he did not show it. But then Sekhar did not fear death. It was life he feared more. The silence between them stretched out like a shroud of night engulfing the world below it. Seconds dissipated, drifting into the void as if they were never there to begin with.

“No,” he said finally. “This place is not familiar to me, although…..”

Sekhar hesitated, his gaze scanning the horizon, taking it all in, almost as if the endless sea of sand meant something to him.

“I feel like I should know this place. I feel like I have been here before. If we were not magicked here….” Sekhar turned to her now, fixing her with an intense, appraising gaze. “…..then how do you explain how we are here?”

The sun was relentless. Even now, in the relatively short time they had been here, Sekhar was beginning to feel it. The beads of moisture were beginning to form on his brow, and the searing heat was uncomfortable at best. They could surely not survive out here long. Without another word, Sekhar began to walk forwards, leaving booted footprints imprinted on the sand behind him.

Out here, any way was as good as the next.

“You never did answer my question Anit.” Sekhar’s voice drifted back in the slight breeze.

What is it you seek here?

***
​

Travelling was both difficult and tiring in the harsh conditions. The wind began to pick up. At first, although it brought a soothing release from the heartless, burning orb of fire that beat down from the cloudless, blue sky, another danger of the desert soon became apparent. The glowing, orange sands of the desert were picked up in the wind, stinging the face and eyes, making movement forwards even more difficiult. The motes of sand flitted through the gaps in fingers, blowing in eyes despite any futile attempts to hold hands up for protection. It entered nostrils, entering ears and mouths. The sands of the deserts of Har'Akir could be deadly indeed. At their worst, they could suffocate a fully grown person in mere seconds.

Visibility was difficult in these conditions as they attempted to gamely see through the clouds of sand towards what lay beyond.

It came seemingly out nowhere. A colourful, rickety wagon. Multi-coloured fabric billowed in the slight breeze. Two stern looking men seemed to be attempting to gain some semblance of control of the wagon amidst the dust storm. The horses were panicking, rearing and whinnying as they were attacked mercilessly by the unforgiving, harsh landscape. Finally, the wagon teetered, and one of the wheels buckled and snapped as it rolled away from the wagon. The reins snapped as the horses bolted, fleeing away from the doomed wagon. The two men were tossed to the side like rag dolls as the doomed wagon came to a juddering halt.

The men, bruised and battered, picked themselves up from the floor as they started yelling at each other in an unfamiliar accent. This continued until movement from the back of the wagon drew their attention. A young woman of unearthly beauty stepped out from the shadows of the wagon, walking with a slight sway to her hips and a grace that was almost as if she could walk on the very air itself. Wavy, black hair came down just beyond her shoulders, blowing to either side in the breeze, almost as if it had a life of its own. Dark eyes glittered with a gem sized sparkle of light within each. Despite their circumstances, she wore a calm, soothing smile on her beautiful face. Across her head she wore a red, silken bandana. Wearing a black top that exposed her midriff, and a flowing red skirt, it was clear that her every movement had entranced these two men.

Walking over, she laid a hand on one of the men's shoulders. She leaned in, whispering words that could not be heard over the wind. Whatever it was she said, it seemed to do the trick. The men visibly calmed at her presence. Then, she looked beyond them into the distance. Seeing Sekhar and Meryt standin on the dunes, she smiled a mysterious smile as she raised her hand, turning that enigmatic, intense gaze upon the two.

She raised an arm.

Seeing the sight, Sekhar stopped where he was, visibly stiffening as an unreadable expression crossed his features.

He whispered, one word only.

”Vistani….”

 

[stormcaller]

​

Meyrt heaved a brisk sigh as the guide confessed that he didn’t recognize any of the surroundings. It had been an unlikely hope, too quickly dashed–or was it? Her ears perked up as he continued, musing that he felt a degree of familiarity with this place, as if he’d been there before. That hope was then thoroughly put to death as he tossed back a question of his own: “If we were not magicked here…then how do you explain how we are here?”

“I don’t know,” she answered flatly, though his insinuation bothered her. “Maybe someone was lying in wait inside the shrine and transported us while we were still unconscious.” Of course, that left the largest question–what for? Her possessions were still intact, and from the looks of it, so were his. Perhaps he had enemies? Even so, how would they have predicted that she would ask him to take her to the shrine? Were they her enemies? Potentially, but that too felt far-fetched. All of it was, including the idea of being spirited away to the desert–which he clearly felt attached to.

There was no point debating how they had gotten here–at least, not now. That could come after they’d found shelter. Wordlessly, she trekked after the guide as he began trudging through the sand, just as she’d been doing in their journey prior. Despite the blazing sun and their quickly parching throats, he still seemed to want to talk.

“You never did answer my question, Anit,” he commented. Anit, he still called her. She didn’t bother correcting him, or even asking him what he meant. She knew what he meant.

What is it you seek here?

An intrusive question, an interrogation into her motives. She knew the danger of being known in such a way–but she didn’t hesitate to answer. In this regard alone, she’d never known how to hide her hunger.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she retorted, her voice as careless as a shrug. “A way to survive.”

That hadn’t ever changed–and even now, it remained the singular goal. It was a goal just about anyone would have changed their other lofty ambitions to, once they found themselves in their situation–if not immediately, then quite soon. As the winds picked up, sending stinging sand directly in their faces, the two struggled to make progress. Meryt buried her face in her linen shawl, shielding her nose and mouth, but there was only so much one could do to keep the sand from their eyes. She kept close to the boy, even as the worry that they might be walking in circles began to gnaw at her. The most infuriating thing, of course, was that there was no way of telling, not really. The desert stretched all around them, seemingly neverending. But all they could do for now was walk, and so Meryt made no objection or complaint.

Just when it seemed like they’d been walking forever, a strange vision materialized before them. Meryt doubted her eyes for a moment, but as she squinted, she knew that she saw true. A horse drawn wagon and two men, struggling in the storm just as they were. As the horses bolted away from their bindings, Meryt felt herself jolt forward before she could catch herself, her arm outstretched greedily. As the two beasts disappeared into the clouds, her ever-hungering gaze fell back to the men and the wagon.

She wondered if they had water…food…coin. She wondered what it would take to trick them.

Her busy thoughts were interrupted as a beautiful woman stepped out of the wagon, placating the two bickering men. Immediately, her thoughts took a sharp turn for other plans. Playing to the woman’s motherly, protective nature might be better, she mused. Clearly, by the way her presence was treated, she was the one in charge–and by the way she was the only one who noticed them. The woman smiled, raising an arm in salute, and Meryt immediately smiled back, waving her own arm in greeting. It was a completely different reaction than the boy at her side, who had come to a dead stop, tension running heavily in his body. “Vistani…” he whispered, so quiet that she barely caught the word.

“Vistani?” she echoed, though her eyes were still on the woman, her charming smile still in place. The word struck a chord of familiarity in her mind–then she remembered talk of the wandering nomads, the strange people with even stranger customs. They stayed away from the cities, so she’d never seen any of them in person, but people talked. Some feared them, mistrusted them–but to Meryt, none of that really mattered. They were people, people with valuables, people she could trick and steal if needed. In that way, in the eyes of a hungry girl, she cared not whether someone was Vistani or a sacred priest of Amun. She looked to the guide, who did not seem all-too-pleased about who they had come across–hesitating. Meryt had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

“Vistani or not, they might have what we need,” she told him, passing him by as she began making her way down to the wagon and the three strangers. When she came close enough, she called out to them, keeping her voice friendly and heavily tinged with relief. “Are you alright? My friend and I, we’ve been going in circles for hours! We thought we might never come across another living soul…”