People of the Sand

[Dragonslayer]

“They were the men and the women of the sand, of the wind, of the light, of the night. They appeared as in a dream, at the crest of a dune, as if they were born of the cloudless sky.”

An ageless desert, infinite in its patience and cruelty, stretches out before the child like a sea of sand. The wind, harsh and burning, scorches his face and tousles his hair, faded and fine as the sand he traverses as he stares out into the face of what will certainly be his death. His face expressionless, he reaches into his satchel containing the barest essentials for survival in the desert. A shovel. A water skin. Three meters of muslin cloth, enough to wrap around his face and head. Three dates, enough to last for nine days. Eat the skin on the first day. Eat the meat on the second day. Suck on the pit for the last day.

There's something else in the bag. His fingers curl around the bone hilt of a blade. A knife. Curved steel, patterns dance on it in the fashion of ancient elven weapons. It's only a copy, of course. Done by the tribe's smith, a skilled metalworker who seeks out the ways and techniques of his ancient people. Claiming that he is an ancestor of one of the great elven families, that he is nobility.

Nobility. What is nobility in light of the pitiless sun? What is honor used for as the relentless heat sucks the life from your skin? Such ruminations are for those with the luxury of shade and water.

This doesn't matter to the boy. All that matters to him is the impeding heat. The cool taste of moisture on his lips. And the endless freedom that stretches before him. He must find his way back to his tribe, but until then?

Until then he was free.

[Dragonslayer]

"They glided out of the heat-haze on their camels like specters. There were twenty of them. Their faces were hidden by blue veils with only slits for the eyes, and they wore similarly azure robes that fluttered in the desert wind. They carried swords and seven-foot iron spears, and wore stilettos in sheaths on their left forearms. They were an impressive, sinister sight.”

Footprints stretched behind him as far as the eye could see under the ever-watchful gaze of the sun. His steps followed one after another in a loping stride down the sand dune in order to keep his balance. As a searing breeze picked up, the boy adjusted the khöshig wrapped around his mouth, its faded blue muslin a speck of color in the lifeless landscape.

Something shifted on the rise to the next dune. Hand curling around the blade in his pack, he continued his slow lope down his current descent, until he was able to see the source clearly: an earthed falcon, and a bird-like monstrosity outweighing it by ten to fifteen pounds. The thing seemed a bizarre hybrid creature with the wings of a bat and a lizard-like tail, with a rooster's wattles and combs.

The boy watched as the falcon shrieked, its orange tinged gaze following the creature. The bird's wing seemed stuck for some reason, its feathers a stony hue and un-moving as the bird of prey circled with its foe. While obviously at a huge disadvantage, the falcon was uncaring in the face of its almost certain demise, shrieking a challenge at the creature. With a viper's quickness, the monster snapped at the bird, whipping with its lengthy neck.

Using agility the boy would not have surmised the falcon possessed, the bird flapped its single good wing and dodged the bite, twisting so that its powerful talons could grasp the creature's neck and with a violent wrench tear at the throat of its stronger adversary. The boy's throat dried up, having little to do with the scorching heat as he watched the two wounded avian combatants wrestle with one another, kicking up desert sand.

As the dust settled, the boy drew closer. The monstrosity had bled out, and the falcon lurched to the side with a gouge on its side. The bird collapsed to the group, and the stiffness that had plagued its wing seemed to be spreading. Drawing closer, the boy reached out and gently placed a hand on the bird's side. Its fiery orange gaze pierced the boys own pale grey eyes as the life slowly drained away from the bird. The boy stared back until the proud creature had turned entirely to stone.

Nobility, was it?

He left the monster where it lay. No good could come from eating its cursed flesh. But he picked up the now petrified falcon. The brave, prideful creature it was. His hands traced the statute-like plumage and fierce visage before he placed it in his pack.

Its weight wasn't much, but it filled his bag that much more. And he knew his time free of his tribe was at an end. He sat, and waited for the night to fall. He looked up at the expanse above, his road map, his guide. And he began to walk home.

[Dragonslayer]

"The tribe does not use a map, nor any discernible navigational instruments when traveling across the dunes at night. No, their maps are in their minds, are projections of their deep knowledge of the Raurin desert, of the sky above. In this way, as they dwell in the desert, so does the desert dwell within them."

Firelight flickered around the tribe's campsite. The boy could see the camels drawn towards the center, eating and drinking at the small oasis. Barely more than a hole in the ground, the water provided by the Raurin sands was salty and undrinkable. It was only through the prayers to the god of the sands, Tsöliin, that the water could be purified and drinkable. The beasts heads dipped one after another into the purified spring, water slapping against their lips in an almost obscene sound in the arid wastes. The boy's cracked lips opened slightly, unable to spare the moisture for even saliva. He ambled down the dune, his pack weighing more than its few meager pounds with the petrified falcon inside.

The sight of a tall figure greeted him. Powerful arms, bludgeoned into their shape by years at the forge, were crossed in front of the imposing elf. Tattoo's scripted with the ancient language of their ancestors covered his face and down his shoulders, marking him as the chieftain, or udir of the elven tribe. The boy stumbled forward and stood unsteadily before him, water only a stone's throw away. The two stared at one another, one encased in shadow and the other in the firelight.

"You were gone twelve days, boy." The elf rumbled, his baritone flat. So unlike the other warriors of their tribe. When they spoke, it was like music--

"I'm talking to you, brat." A muscled arm snapped out and cuffed him on the side of the head. The boy stumbled, his pack hitting the ground with a resounding 'thunk'. His colorless gaze shot downward as he recovered his balance.

"I got lost," he lied. "I couldn't find the campsite. Took me another day to find the right star pattern and--"

"You incompetence is only second in annoyance to your excuses. You'll do it again, tomorrow, and you'll come back in ten days else I come out there and tan your hide myself." The larger elf glowered, his jaw tensing as he spoke.

"That's not fair!" The boy straightened, his eyes suddenly blazing. "Even if I couldn't find the camp, I survived out there alone, without help. I shouldn't have to go back out for no reason!"

The blacksmith's lip curled. "The rite states that the child must survive ten days and return to camp. You may have survived longer, but you either chose to ignore the word of the udir, or are too incompetent to follow it. Are you defiant? Or just weak?" He leaned down, his breath filling the boy's nose. It smelled of spice wine. "Well, boy?"

The child's gaze grew uncertain. "I....yes, Udir. I will return in ten days." His shoulders slumped.

The larger elf straightened. "Good. Get supplies." He picked up the pack and frowned. "Heavy, isn't it? Carrying sand are we?" He reached in and pulled out the petrified falcon. The child's mouth opened, and snapped shut as he saw the look on the blacksmith's face.

"You carried this across the desert? This petrified creature?" The boy blinked and nodded once. "It fought against a monster and valiantly prevailed; I thought the priestess could--"

Crack.

The falcon's body crumbled, its pieces littering the ground. The defiant stare of the prideful avian looked up at the boy, its eyes fixed in its last look.

"A waste of your resources and the tribe's. All that is useless is discarded. All that is weak is left behind." The blacksmith turned and walked towards his tent. Before entering, he turned to look at the elven boy. "I expect better."

The child, his cracked lips and sagging limbs, merely stared at the ground, unmoving.

"Yes, father."

[Dragonslayer]

“What is life? It is surely the flash of a firefly in the night, the breath of a camel in the icy dawn, and the little shadow which runs across the sands and loses itself in the sunset.”

-Musings of Udir Shonkhor

The shadows grew long, and Sarnigerel's eye was fully open over the darkening desert. The tents had been set up in a circular fashion around the flickering, soon to be roaring camp flame. A few of the elven tribesmen wandered in, pulling down their azure muslin khöshig as they locked in their small herds of sheep and goats to the pens. The rains had been more erratic than usual as of late, making it even harder on the tribe's priestess as she sought to cleanse what little ground water they could find of salt and other impurities.

The priestess. The boy leaned against one of the tent poles, carved of rare ironwood. A beautiful woman, dark of hair and bright blue eyes. Kind to all, and bearer of Tsoliin's will. One of the few who could cast spells in his tribe, divine in nature as they were. Most of those prayers were to cleanse the contaminated pools of water they found. That water was saved and bottled in their skins until they reached an oasis, usually controlled by one of the other human tribes, and given as a gift in return for allowing the elven people to graze there for a time. If not enough was given, then a tribe was usually driven away from the peaceful groves and taken as slaves if resisted.

Water was life, after all.

The boy's idle thoughts circled back to the priestess as she stepped outside her and her husbands tent. The light of day had faded almost completely away at this point, and the camp fire was stoked to the heights of an adult tribesman. More and more of the tribe gathered around it, with only a few spared for guard duty around the tents and herds. A hush gathered over the collective elven nomads. They were merchants and craftsmen, warriors and herdsmen. The priestess walked slowly to the center of the circle, the wave of elves spreading for her in deepest respect. Only the blacksmith remained in his place, his normally dour visage replaced by an expression of respect and deference.

But the boy could see the look in his eyes. That look, that lingering resentment. A stare of jealousy, mingled with the beginnings of hatred. It seemed that only he could ever discern it, and for that he silently cursed all the gods who would listen.

"Once, we were lost."

The boy snapped out of his reverie. This story was not new, but it was one of his favorites. A gem he held deep to his breast, curled in his mind. The priestess spoke again, her voice resonating in the boy's bones with its piercing timbre.

"Once, we were lost. Our people were numerous, too many to count, as we fled a land filled with war and destruction. The teachings of Khuranda were corrupted, and led to war amongst many clans such as our own, in far greater number. Our people fled, and wandered for an untold amount of years.

We were pursued by our enemies. We fought when we could, but we were pushed further and further away from our homelands. Outnumbered, and losing more by the day, we at last came to the desert. A landscape we had not known, and foolishly did not fear. We journeyed into the wastes, and our enemies did not follow."

She paused, the echoes of her voice fading in the night air, whose silence was broken by the cracking of the flames.

"Our ignorance was nearly our undoing. We fell prey to the tsenkher, the nests of blue wyrms that riddled the desert. We lost lives to the heat, to thirst, to hunger. And every time we we neared an oasis, we were attacked by a nest of tsenkher. Their fangs and breath of lightning nearly wiped out our people."

"But then, there was Eklheed, the First."

"A leader of our people, and one blessed with the fires of Khuranda, he left the tattered remains of our tribe. He walked into the desert with no food, no water, no weapon. His arms spread, he walked for three days and three nights with only prayers to the gods on his cracked lips. On the third night, he saw a desert wolf appear on top of a dune. Massive in size, the beast could have crushed the Elkheed's throat with the barest snap of its jaws. The Elkheed stopped walking, and knew that his time was over. He had failed. And so, the First knelt, ready for death."

"As he knelt in the desert sands, the wolf walked closer. Its paws left no prints, and it cast no shadow. The great beast leaned over the Elkheed, and breathed upon him. Vigor infused his limbs. Raising his head, he watched as the creature walked a distance and stop. It was waiting for him. Standing, he stumbled after the apparition, until the dawn of the fourth day blinded his eyes. The beast was gone."

"On that morning of the fourth day, he saw a lone date tree. Lush and vibrant, three dates hung from its branches. The Elkheed took one date, and on the first day he ate the skin on the date. He stayed under the tree, and on the second day ate the meat of the date. On the third day, he sucked on the pit."

"For nine days he did this, recovering his strength under the shelter of the tree. The air there was always cool and comfortable, and the dates possessed some divine quality that quenched his hunger and thirst. And on the ninth day, the great wolf appeared once more in the distance. Its howl reverberated through Elkheed's head, and he knew that the beast was a messenger of Tsoliin, god of the sands and wanderers."

"What's more, he felt something inside him shift, a song he previously never knew coursing through his veins. A palpable rhythm and beat that made his hand wish for a blade. This was the birth of the Ir Duu, and when the Elkheed returned to our tribe, he taught this rhythm to our warriors. But it was only in the hands of those blessed with the fires of Khuranda that the art truly shone. Those few who mastered both spell and sword were unleashed upon the tsenkher. Their blades danced with the blessings of the gods, and their might freezing the tsenkher's wings. It was they, led by the Elkheed, that created our way of life. They learned to navigate by starlight, to survive in the desert wastes, to raise our herds and to barter with other tribes."

"When the Elkheed walked away from the date tree, he turned back. Just once. All he saw was a dead tree, shattered in its trunk. A broken tree. The Aviyaasti, we became."

The priestess' voice was still powerful, but raw at this point. She finished the tale.

"And so we were found. By Tsoliin. We were saved. And we pray to the god of the sands and lost wanderers ever since. Blessed eve, and blessed is the god of the sands."

The crowd murmured a heartfelt repetition of the prayer. The boy stood silently as he watched them dissipate into their tents or relieving the guards of their duties. He watched as the priestess greeted the blacksmith. Watched as she kissed him gently on the lips. Watched as she returned to their tent, as the blacksmith followed, his expression inscrutable.

He watched. And as they passed, he followed his parents into his family's tent.