Storms and Trials (Savra)

[Hirem]

54th of Summer, 510 A.V.

The sand blasted into Hirem's face as he ascended the crest of the next dune, causing him to withdraw himself into his head covering, arm sliding over the opening of the covering, stepping back slightly to avoid this large gust of wind going his way. His eyes cried out in irritation, and his vision became an indiscernable mass of fabric and colors as the moments passed. After a chime or so, Hirem felt the wind cease, and he let his arm drop, shaking his head to clear the sand from it.

There wasn't a big change in his vision, to be honest. The sky was dark, grey, and impossible to find the stars, which hurt him navigation-wise. The sands, golden on the best of times and a brown mass most of the time, were now a churning yellow storm, throwing up great buffets of sand each time the wind blew. This was a bad time to be out on the sands, which was unfortunate for Hirem, but the horse could get farther away each bell that passed. He had confidence in his ability to find the animal, and he was making good progress of not getting blown off track completely at the beginning of the hunt.

He remembered the frantic panic with which the caravan had reacted to the storm, getting tents firmly into the ground and keeping treasured possessions close at hand as the winds hit the camp full on. Everyone had been running around, yelling orders and doing their own personal tasks with the subtlety of a hurricane. Hirem, despite only spending ten days or so with the camp, still felt a sense of responsibility for their well-being, so he had done all he could to help them.

Then, this one rowdy horse had managed to escape from it's post during the storm, and had raced into the sands out of fear. The worst of the storm had passed the camp by the time they realized the horse was gone, and Hirem had volunteered to the caravan master to find the mount. The man had doubted him at first, but Hirem was a Benshiran and the caravan master attributed "Benshirans" to "all-knowing masters of the savage and hurtful desert."

False, but with a grain of truth. Benshirans, having spent all their lives in the desert, developed a strong sense of direction and survival that wasn't infallible, but useful. Hirem was more qualified than anyone to find the horse on his own, so he had made his way after the horse's disappearing trail with haste. He thought that Yahal would aid him on his way, but then the storm struck again.

With a sigh, Hirem continued to plod along into the wastes, keeping his head down and his spirits high. After all, he remembered the way to camp clearly, and Yahal was on his side (possibly), so what could go wrong?

And then another wave of sand blasted into his face.

[Savra]

It wasn’t often that two wanderers sought refuge in the same wadi. As she’d huddled on the leeward slope, eyes slitted against the swirling sands, Savra wondered at the old man’s identity. A mendicant, perhaps. He had no flock, nor did it seem that he’d strayed from one of the caravans that trudged across the desert. Savra had little patience for Benshiran elders. So far, they’d all been too stubborn to listen to her message of salvation. ‘Blasphemy,’ the old fools always cursed, and that was that. If the elders were too blind to see the truth, she would look to children and the scores of dispossessed. Let the old ways burn in a crucible of fire and ash. Unfortunately, Savra was late to comprehend the irony of her situation. While she plotted the downfall of a faith, the man beside her was deep in prayer. When the worst of the storm had abated, he turned to her and smiled. “Yahal has answered our prayers, my daughter.” “Our prayers?” Savra sneered. “No, I think not.” “Then you do not believe in Yahal?” When the elder frowned, Savra at last recognized his face. He was Netanel, a well-respected Rapa. Not the sort of man she expected to encounter in the Burning Lands. “I am the First Prophet of the Redeemer,” Savra replied. Now it was her turn to smile at his startled expression. “Yes, I was that girl. Savra, once from the tents of Ahren, of the sons of Jeroab. Now a child of the desert. I am pleased to be so remembered.” “You are still alive,” the Rapa breathed. “I trust Yahal has been merciful, even when-” “Don’t,” Savra’s tone was laden with menace. Netanel didn’t heed the advice. Nobody ever did. “-of madness. I know you are not an evil person, only misguided.” More words, more lies, more platitudes. Let the fool waste his spit. Savra turned away. “I am done with you, old man.” “Wait! Yahal will forgiv-” Without thinking, Savra planted a spiked fist in the Rapa’s face, putting an end to his ill-chosen words. It was an immensely satisfying feeling. “It is you, I think, that needs salvation,” Savra replied. And then her blades were in hand, flashing toward the Rapa’s iron-shod staff. He put up more of a fight than she’d anticipated, but his fate was sealed. Inevitably, the old is replaced by the new, Savra thought as she regarded the defeated Rapa. He was sprawled on his back, eyes half-closed and blood crusting on his swollen brow. Not so smug now, are you? In a way, she almost felt bad for him. No man of faith deserved this fate, but he had to be eliminated. How could she save the Benshira from the Redeemer’s fury when the priests continued to poison their minds? “Tell me,” Savra crouched at the Rapa’s side, “If a priest’s faith is his shield and virtue his sword, what’s his staff for?” “Staff?” “Yes,” Savra gestured at the stick with her gladius. “After all, is not Yahal a lover of peace? One might imagine he would protect his faithful from harm. But then again, why should he? ‘Leave those questions for the priests,’ cry the masses, even as they stain their hands with blood. It is a contradiction, is it not? In order to ensure peace one must endure the wages of war.” “You… are not so far gone,”the Rapa croaked. “Yahal will-” “Enough with Yahal,” Savra took a two-handed grip on her gladius and drove it down with all her might. Its honed blade punched through the Rapa’s bicep and sank deep into the sand. He cried out and spasmed with pain, but the sword held fast. “If you haven’t noticed,” Savra told him, “your god is weak. He cannot save you. But me, I’ll spare your life. All you have to do is accept salvation.” “What has happened to you?” the Rapa gritted. “Hate, suspicion, and lies,” Savra shrugged as she impaled his other arm. “I have become what I must, you see. I am the savior.”

[Hirem]

As Hirem made his way further into the dunes, he started to gain a sense of horrid wrongness, of impending doom. It wasn't told in a grand mirage, or a sudden omen bursting in the skies, but a certain prickling on the back of his neck and the chill that came up his stomach to his heart. He started to check over his shoulder, seeing nothing each time but expecting some incredible horror to arise from the sands and brutalize him.

His heart started to pound faster in his chest, and he checked the horizon rapidly, surveying the scene over and over again. Something here was wrong. He knew it deep down in the depths of his heart. Was this a premonition, a warning to turn back now, or was it his nerves? This message did not seem like something from Yahal, but more his own mind succumbing to some paranoia. Still, this would pass, and eventually he would find the damned horse.

He rose to the crest of one lofty dune, and peered over the falling ground before him for what must have been forever if the weather was clear, but he could barely see what lay beyond on the horizon. Still, he did manage to finally see some large movement, different from the constant trickling of sand or the gusts of wind whipping through the desert. No, this movement was more solid, more substantial. There was something, or someone with him in this wadi.

He started to progress to this shadow with a heightened pace, glad to at least see something out here. He didn't want to call out for fear of spooking the potential horse that was awaiting him, so instead he silently moved forward, keeping his head bowed to avoid the blowing grains. As he came closer, he started to hear voices on the wind, so his spirits sank a bit at not finding the horse yet. Still, at least he had company out here.

Then, he heard something much more sickening on the wind, the sound of churning flesh and sharp metal, a sort of thunk that had some wet squelching added in. It was the sound of steel entering flesh, or someone getting stabbed. In addition, the two shadows that were in his vision had changed, one shadow atop the other. Someone was being attacked! Hirem suddenly rushed forward, a burst of adrenaline in his body. He waved his arms frantically, trying to draw the attention of the attacker and make them realize they were comprised. Hopefully, they would turn and run at the sight of the bulky Benshiran man rushing at them.

"No! Stop! What are you doing?!"

[Savra]

Savra enjoyed moments like these. Not for the pain and death she inflicted, but the heady sensation of power. Right now, the Rapa’s life was in her hands. She could remove the swords and staunch the bleeding, perhaps saving his life, or stand here and watch him die. Deep down, she recognized the choice was hers. She wanted the Rapa to die. Even if he pledged himself to the Redeemer, she would pronounce his motives insincere. ‘Convince me,’ she liked to whisper into the ears of her captives. It was more difficult said than done. How could one develop belief in a god that hadn’t yet arrived in the world? Savra recalled one woman who’d offered to sacrifice her toes. Such a powerful desire to live – even when condemned to the miserable existence of a cripple – was admirable. In the end, Savra had severed a single toe. She wanted to see the look of grim determination in the woman’s eyes, and then the confusion when her life was spared. ‘The eyes are a portal to the soul,’ another Rapa had once told Savra, and she’d taken heed of his advice. Only when mortals were faced with death could she delve into the darkest truths of human nature. Killing was not in Savra’s disposition, however. Oh, she’d thrust her blades home when it was absolutely necessary, but what was the point? When they eyes dimmed, there was nothing left to study. No way to tell if her victim deserved it. As the First Prophet of the Redeemer, Savra recognized the need for mercy. After all, was it not best to leave a path to redemption? She’d even spared that would-be rapist, although not before castrating and hobbling him. Let them hate me, for sooner or later, they will come to hate themselves. Unfortunately, the Rapa seemed to have passed out from the shock. Well, no matter – he would soon awake, and then Savra would resume their chat. She was curious to see if he’d waver from his convictions. Hopefully not. If a man like Netanel raised his life above faith, it suggested that the Redeemer’s acolytes might do the same. Not that her god had any, of course. But there would be. Savra was about to shake the Rapa to consciousness when she heard a distant shout. Its words were carried away on the still-blowing sands, but the implication was clear. Danger. Unsheathing her khukri, Savra looked for her stallion, Dust. It seemed that he’d run off, probably to seek refuge elsewhere in the wadi, taking her shortbow and quiver of arrows with him. How inconvenient. But with the winds still buffeting at Savra's robes, she doubted her aim would be very good even were the weapon to hand. Scanning her surroundings, Savra waited for the interloper to appear. If she was lucky it would be an Eypharian or a Dhani – neither of which held the Benshira in any esteem. ‘Killing a priest?’ they might chuckle and be on their way. But the figure that crested the lip of the wadi was Benshira. A hulking man, but weaponless. Savra left her swords in the Rapa. If worst came to the worst, she could retrieve them and let the benachag bleed to death. “Falim. I am Savra, the First Prophet of the Redeemer,” she greeted him. “Are you lost, perhaps? It appears that you are in some distress.”

[Hirem]

Out of all the things that Hirem had been expecting to have killed a man, he was not expecting a young woman that looked to still be in her teen years, with blood on her face and steely green eyes to approach him and identify herself as a prophet of the Redeemer. Questions raced through his mind as soon as he first caught a glimpse of her, but he could not stop to ask them at this point. For behind this woman, this Savra, was a man that was bleeding out on the sand.

"Distress?! You could say that! What have you done?" Hirem wasn't sure if he meant Savra to answer that or if it was a question to Yahal himself, wondering what exactly was happening. The wanderer was no stranger to violence, but he had gone a long time without experiencing it on this scale. He had become weak during his long time alone, and was shocked to have it on his hands again when he had not expected it at all.

Then he caught a look at the man that had been stabbed, and his stomach went cold. He started to walk briskly towards the victim, brushing past Savra rudely as his past danced before his eyes. Suddenly he was on his knees, staring in shock at the pained and still face of Netanel, the Rapa that had brought him back to reality so long ago. Horrible memories flashed into his mind, whispers that shook him to the core.

Above all, Netanel's old message was present in the Benshiran's head."I have seen you on a horse, with blood up to the bridle and the bodies of your men float in this red oasis. Before you stands a stone jackal, tall as the walls of Yahebah." It was that omen that had changed everything for Hirem's crusade against the Eypharians, the omen that sent Hirem to prison for attempting to assassinate a Eypharian noble since he was robbed of his army. Yet there was no venom for the Rapa, but regret. He had dearly wanted to stand before Netanel again and plead his forgiveness, to tell him that Hirem had managed to save himself, and now the old man was dying on the desert sands.

He realized that he was giving his back to an enemy, and Savra was now most definitely his enemy. Realizing he had no weapon to counter her blade, he cast his gaze about for a solution, and found his answer in the gladius stuck deep inside the Rapa's arm. With grim determination, he pulled the sword free of the Rapa and quickly pulled himself up. He faced Savra with the alien blade held awkwardly in his hands, which was bad for his actual chances of fighting this woman in martial combat. "You're going to tell me why you stabbed this man. Now."

[Savra]

With an oafishness to which Savra was accustomed, the man didn’t return the greeting. Shouting his displeasure, he brushed past her to regard the Rapa, his face twisted in outrage. If she wished it, Savra might have lunged with her khukri and perhaps caught him by surprise. But she was not a killer. Like the Rapa, this wanderer deserved a chance of salvation. He would have to be taught a lesson, however. And perhaps castrated. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Savra cautioned him as he took hold of the gladius, but the fool didn’t listen. How ironic that his actions only hastened the Rapa’s death. “You’re going to tell me why you stabbed this man,” he said as he threatened her with her own sword. From the look of it he’d little – if any – skill with the weapon. But a blade was a blade, and his was longer than hers. He was also substantially bigger. But faster? Savra wasn’t too sure of that. Speed, of course, was deceptive. If it did come to blows, she would have to revise her strategies. “You wonder why I have done this, and I shall answer,” Savra replied. “Before you, oh nameless wanderer, lays a Rapa of Yahal. A wise man, in his own way – and perhaps a good one. But he deigned to lecture me on salvation. I dislike lectures. I also dislike Yahal and his ilk. Soon, when the Redeemer enters this world, he shall sweep the old gods aside and engulf their followers in flame.” Savra paused to regard the Rapa. He was bleeding profusely, which suggested that she’d nicked an artery. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, she supposed a swift response might spare the man’s life – if only for the immediate future. He’d surely perish without the ministrations of a healer, but she was certain the desert would take care of him long before an infection. Old men tended to die easily. “He’ll bleed out at this rate,” Savra said as she sheathed her khukri. “I suggest you fashion a tourniquet if you place any value on his life. I’ll wait,” she smiled.

[Hirem]

Hirem had his face contorted into a ball of rage, but he still listened to what she had to say, albeit with his heart pounding in his ears. He listened as she described to him the Rapa, listened as she told him why she had stabbed him, and as she started speaking about her Redeemer and dislike of Yahal. He decided he had enough, and quickly whisked around the body of Netanel so that the Rapa lay between Savra and himself, so he could examine the Rapa and keep the woman in eyeshot.

Why, oh why did Yahal make him stumble upon this scene. The sight of the old man that had attempted to save Hirem from his fate was painful enough, a sharp reminder of the days that had not passed him yet, the days of prison and blood. And seeing him in such pain, pain that Hirem knew not how to fix, made him hurt even more. Damn this woman! He thought, pointing the gladius at her with rage in his eyes. Damn her!

"I know what a Rapa is." Hirem said this through clenched teeth as he kept his position beside the Rapa, mind racing on how to save him. "I know who this man is. I know what it means to refuse salvation even when you're racing towards destruction." A horrible, terrible thought emerged in his mind, one that seeped into his heart with cold, dark tendrils. What if he had been so mad in his crusade that he struck down Netanel when the Rapa had come for him? What if this Savra was what could have become of him? It was a frightening picture.

Shaking his head free of that image, he continued to speak, watching Savra warily. "But I don't know what this Redeemer is, or why he wants to destroy all the old gods, or why you'd even follow this deity." Hirem was about to keep going with his speech when he stopped himself, forcing himself to remain focused on Netanel's condition.

"And I don't know what a tourniquet is." At this point, Hirem didn't even know who he was talking to, his head twisting and turning as he tried in vain to think of a way to both save Netanel and protect himself from Savra. It didn't work. He trusted this woman as he would trust a snake not to attack him, so leaving his back open to help Netanel was a very stupid mistake.

Finally, he seemed to reach a decision. He slowly collapsed on one knee, holding the gladius in his left hand while his right grabbed hold of the Rapa's arm. Slowly, Hirem used his one arm to hoist the Rapa onto his shoulders, a troublesome venture with only one hand available. Still, he tried to keep back Savra with her gladius, but he knew that if it came to blows, as big as he was and as young as she was, the look in her eyes told him that she could outclass him with her sword, easily. It was all a matter of timing, will and planning, and Hirem didn't seem to have much of that available to him when dealing with Netanel.

[Savra]

OOC :

By the way, the Rapa had a sword in his other arm… but I’ve dealt with that.

Savra’s smile broadened as the man professed his ignorance of the Redeemer. It was ever thus. He didn’t – no, he would never understand what the future held. Entire cities wreathed in flames, the dwelling razed, a reek of blistered flesh on the wind… all would be reduced to ashes when the Redeemer cleansed this world of corruption. It would be horrible, yes, but righteous. Savra had devoted her life to this, leaving her home and family for a miserable existence in the wastes, all so she could share her wisdom and in so doing, save the Benshira from this fate. As she watched the wanderer bend over the Rapa, Savra wasn’t sure if her people even desired salvation. Perhaps they would sooner perish with Yahal than listen to words of reason. If so, then they were welcome to it. What exactly was this man doing? Being a hero? Savra had never understood why men bothered with such illusions. After all, was not one civilization’s hero a demon to its opponents? In the end this dichotomy would be settled by the historians – or generally speaking, the victors. Mortals held a great deal more power than they believed. But still, this man was a mystery to her. He’d rushed in unarmed to help a dying man, which spoke of a certain courage. He was the sort of man Savra desired for the Cult of the Redeemer, though only if he renounced his faith and lived by the Book of Ashes. One day you will join me, wanderer – provided you don’t do anything stupid. Only the purest of heart can withstand the Redeemer’s embrace. And yet, as Savra watched him rise with the Rapa, she knew this was wishful thinking. A dream that existed only in her mind. Empty-handed, she sprang at the wanderer, or rather, appeared to spring at him. At the last moment she swerved, leaving her feet, and snatched her second blade from the Rapa’s dangling arm. It scraped free with a spatter of blood, the moment taking her forward several paces. As she turned, Savra raised the gladius so its point faced the ground. Now they both had one. “Do you trust in Yahal to protect you, wanderer?” she inquired with an impassivity that belied the current circumstances. “Do you think he will save this man? We both know he will not. After all, Yahal is weak.” Savra knew she wouldn’t be able to continue with the Rapa’s lesson. He was likely to bleed out in a matter of chimes with the second blade removed. In fact, she’d made sure of that when she twisted the sword from his arm. Since the interloper had denied her the pleasure of speaking to the Rapa at length, she would interfere in his own designs by slaying the old man. A quick, merciful death – but one that would stab at the heart of his emotions. Let him bleed inside before the sands are stained red, she smiled, and then attacked. Darting to the wanderer’s unprotected side, Savra slashed twice in the Rapa’s direction and then disengaged. “Do not interfere with my judgment,” she warned. “He may be a servant of Yahal, but his fate is mine to decide. Not yours.”

[Hirem]

As Savra jumped at him, he knew that he had forgotten something, something that would become a possibly mortal mistake. The second gladius had been on his list of priorities, but he had lost track of it in the mental process of saving Netanel and fighting this mad woman, and now he was going to pay for it. He made a weak attempt to swing the gladius after her, but it was far too short a range with the Rapa hampering his combat abilities.

Now, they were both on equal footing, and Hirem had lost whatever advantage he had. It was strange they he might now face his death here, at the hands of a crazed adolescent that believed to be the prophet of a Redeemer or some sort... but death came in all forms and guises. It was truly a miracle he had survived this long; perhaps this was finally Yahal's way of ending his confused, lethal child, payback for striking at one of Yahal's chosen.

Hirem listened to Savra's question, and nodded his head vigorously, sweat glistening on his brow and the wind whipping through his clothes. It seemed the storm was picking up again, and the sands were once again churning with the growing rage of the weather. "Weakness. It is a strange thing, speaking of weakness when you have attacked an old man in the desert for disagreeing with you. It is not Yahal that is weak, but men, mortals. I'm weak. If Yahal will protect me, then I will live to grow strong. If I am undeserving of his protection, then I will remain weak, and die. Yes, I trust him. Do you trust your Redeemer? Or will he burn you to ash, like all the others?"

He really had a problem with making speeches, and that was another mistake that cost someone their life. He hadn't been prepared for Savra to rush at him, and he wasn't fast enough to bring the sword on her before she slashed at the Rapa's side. Hirem let out a bestial roar of anger, and he ignored Savra, letting the Rapa fall from his shoulder to the ground. He dropped to his knees, watching in horror as the wounds bled and bled into the sands, the old man struggling for each painful breath.

Now, he knew that Savra wasn't going to attack him. Attacking the Rapa was aimed at him, the death of Netanel an instrument used to attack at him. She had been willing to let the Rapa bleed out on the sands, and now she was going to let Hirem be tortured emotionally. Let her, Hirem thought, as he watched Netanel struggle painfully to survive, though everyone knew that he was going to die.

Hirem had no way to end this man's suffering, and agony clawed at his heart like a wild beast, twisting his face into a jumbled mess of grief. Yet, there was no way he was going to watch the Rapa die slowly and painfully like this. Hirem owed him a great kindness, and there seemed no way to repay it... or was there? He stared in horror at the gladius in his hand, the answer clear on his face, and painful to swallow at the same time. And yet he knew that it was the only way to help Netanel now.

With his eyes wetting with the pain of what had to come, Hirem raised the sword above Netanel's heart, closing his eyes with the preparation of what he had to do. He desperately hoped that Savra wasn't going to attack him, and he knew that she would not; no, she would watch. She would watch every second of this. So be it. Drawing each breath of air that he could, Hirem whispered for forgiveness as he drove the gladius down into Netanel's chest, ending his life instantly.

For what seemed like an eternity, Hirem could only watch the cold body of the Rapa on the sands, and there was some part of the Benshiran that was turning icy in response. But there was also fire, boiling rage that burst forth in a rush. Instantly, Hirem was on his feet, turning to Savra with hate in his eyes and holding the gladius above his head. He roared, and rushed at his enemy, bringing the sword down in a diagonal strike, intending to slice her open from shoulder to thigh.

[Savra]

Finally, he reaches the crux of the matter, Savra lips curled into a smile. For all their professed faith, the Benshira were flawed and weak – an imperfect race. She had witnessed the extent of their corruption in the High Masha, listening to tales of abuses upon abuses, watching the stricken faces of the accused as they reaffirmed their faith in Yahal. Certainly, this wanderer had the same sort of blind devotion. Aware of his own imperfections, he trusted to his fate with the resigned attitude of a dying man. Did he not realize that mortals were strong? Oh, the Redeemer could reduce them to ash easily enough, but he needed mortals the same as any other god. A world cleansed of sin would resemble a wasteland with neither temples nor worshippers, and Savra knew the Redeemer was aware of this. Did he not possess human characteristics? Knowledge of the ambiguities and amorality of mortals? He’d asked Savra to spread the gift of redemption because he wanted to rule this world alone, not because he desired the end of sin. It was a sham, a means to cultivate a crop of devotees. Such was Savra’s task. After all, the Book of Ashes was anything but divine; it was her attempt to establish order in the chaos of this world, a means to attract converts. If the Redeemer desired worship he would receive it, but she would decide its nature. Savra had heightened the Rapa’s suffering, and she could see the effect it was having on the wanderer. He seemed to tremble as he dropped to his knees, his face contorted with a mixture of… rage? Grief? Savra liked to stare into the eyes of the condemned, if only to understand what she could not otherwise see. But this – this was something else. She couldn’t imagine the torment the wanderer must have faced as he peered at dying man, at last recognizing the futility of his own efforts. Savra almost pitied him. And yet, the breath caught in her throat when he lifted his ravaged eyes and raised the gladius. He would put the Rapa out of his misery and so bear the burden of shame for as long as he lived. Yes, there was an inner strength to this wanderer that made him a worthy rival – not to mention a mortal foe. I have slain part of his soul, Savra thought as the sword entered the Rapa’s flesh, and now he will seek to take mine. His charge was savage and reckless, the blade that descended toward her seeming almost like a butcher’s cleaver. Savra’s smile faded as she stepped back and feigned a counter-thrust. So enraged, the wanderer’s attacks would be wild – and thus dangerous. In the days of her youth, she’d listened to tales of unskilled warriors that emerged victorious over legends due to the unpredictability of their attacks. No, she needed to weather the storm and wait for him to tire. Savra flowed from side to side as she retreated from the wanderer’s blade, dancing and weaving her way over the sands. His advance was fast and inexorable, making her hard-pressed to put space between them – and that made her nervous. For all Savra’s training, she had always been limited by the fact that where she required three or four strikes to finish an opponent, a single blow would probably mean her own demise. As she danced, her gladius flashed in a series of stop-thrusts and slashes as she sought to arrest the wanderer’s advance. Doesn’t he ever tire? she wondered as she ducked beneath a slash and cut at his legs.