Flashback Hurricane Sandy

[Timshel]

13th, Fall 511 It was the smell of Ahnatep that always got to him: the mixture of moisture and salt, bodies and perfume. He sneezed. His horse, Jasmeet, neighed. “Me too Jas, me too," he said, "but this is the only port in Eyktol.” Even on Jas, he looked stunted against the tall sandstone columns about him. Between each coloumn gargoyles, animals and gods sat and stood-- still among the bustle of the street. Timshel dismounted to look at one, a lion-like animal with angelic wings. Its body was sandstone like the coloumns beside it, but its wings and eyes were made up of white and yellow marble. In the high noon of the day, such details gleamed sharply against the sunlight. Timshel stooped down to get a better look, staring the creature straight in its marble eyes. Bright, golden pupils looked back at him. Timshel turned away, trying to blink away blindness. The Eypharians were similarly detailed. Both the men and womens' eyes were shadowed in the likeness of gold made bold amongst black. Their hair and clothing varied greatly in color and accessory, but few went unnadorned. He saw hair dyed in henna, decorated with dangling chains or diamonds. He saw bracelets and belts of gold or encrusted with gems. Or both. He saw necklaces and imported pendants of topaz. All around, he saw the desert conquered, compressed and made to wear on some pretty girl's wrist. Timshel sneezed again as he caught a pungent perfume floating past him. He looked down at his cracked palms, now lined in snot. Then he flipped them over to reveal his fair, olive-colored skin. He stopped and paused for a moment. Suddenly, he realized that he'd missed the stable and turned around, leading Jas back through the crowd. There it was. About five blocks away. He kept his head up, away from the crowd and tried to mouth-breath. ... Timshel handed over his reigns to the stable-boy, a short Benshira slave-boy with blue eyes almost as dark as an evening dusk. Timshel crouched down to meet him. “What's your name, boy?” he asked in Shiber. The boy shook his head. “Do you like it here?” he said in Common. The boy looked at the stable-master: a tall, black-haired Eypharian who was busy writing notes in a ledger. “Yes, sir. Of course,” he said. Timshel looked over at the stable-master as well. He had six arms. To Timshel, he looked like a lanky bug. He had heard of a certain race up north that held similar traits to those of spiders and wondered briefly whether the two races would get along. “Well I hate it,” he said, “It smells-- you know? Much too many of these.” Timshel gestured towards his armpits. The boy giggled, but few would have been able to hear it over Timshel's booming laughter. The tall Eypharian turned and walked over. “Is there a problem?” he asked in Common. “None at all, sir,” Timshel said, tossing him a silver Miza. ... Overall, it was much easier to navigate the crowd without Jas, but at the same time, the people didn't quite part the way they used to. He tried to peer between the limbs, looking for some sort of landmark. Where was the port again? He accidentally locked eyes with one Eypharian: a sweaty, well-muscled man with two daggers by his side. Timshel raised an eyebrow, looking at the man's glistening chest. He could have sworn the man had oiled himself up for the day. The man sneered and spat, walking towards him. Timshel held his gaze. When the two met in the middle, the Eypharian roughly bumped his shoulder. Timshel tried to push him back, but as it turns out, the man did in fact oil his chest that day. Timshel's hand slipped on greasy skin, and his feet, which were expecting some sort of resistance, tripped underneath him. The muscled-Eypharian threw his head back and gaw-fawed while others stepped over him, wrinkling their noses. Timshel rubbed his butt and looked behind him. It turns out he had tripped on a rug that some old man had been meditating on. He looked up at the man. He was completely bald with creamy, pale cheeks that seemed to be melting off his face. He also had bright orange, slitted eyes. A Dhani. He was chuckling. “Brave or stupid, which one are you?” he asked while the oily Eypharian sauntered away. “Bold and ignorant,” Timshel said with a wink, “but not stupid... nor brave, really.” “Is that so?” he said, raising his brows and chuckling again. “Let's put it to the test then. Here's my advice to you boy: go get back on your horse. Leave this city. Go three days east and one day north. There, you'll find an old outpost filled with all the riches of the desert.” “You were watching me?" Timshel said, "I said ignorant, old man, not naive.” The Dhani smiled to reveal a set of sharp, filed teath. “I like you, boy, but not enough to waste breath arguing about it. Believe me or don't. That's all the advice I have for today.” Timshel frowned and stood up. He looked down the bustling street. He had no idea where the port was, but an eight-day round trip into the desert would be pushing it. Plus a day for exploration/a buffer. Did the Dhani think he was an idiot? Timshel looked back the way he came and sneezed.

[Mahaktua]

“I have goods for trade. You interested?”

Mahaktua dumped her rucksacks in front of the leather craft shop, and untied the cover. The leather craftsman, a shirtless, four-limbed Eypharian giant with a scruffy beard, gave a long hard look and ambled toward to tower over her. He scanned through the pelts and feathers, picked up the pelt of a golden wolf and began to examine it. After a few assessments and questions, he decided to take three Petiwa pelts and the wolf’s fur.

“You take Mizas?” he offered gruffly.

“Let me see what you have,” Maha said and nodded towards the stall. He took her over and showed her his works. Each and every item displayed certainly proved that the leather craftsman was a truly a talented one: belts, sheaths, pouches, bracelets, vests, and much more, all intricately laced, stitched and dyed. Maha ran her fingers over a beautifully laced mahogany-colored belt, gently picked up a magnificent quiver, and then a blue bracelet cuff, but every time, the Eypharian shook his head.

“Not a fair trade,” he scoffed.

“Not fair?” Maha frowned. “Petiwas and golden wolf, you know both hard to catch!” she protested.

“My works are all well known in Ahnatep and take long time to create, Eysh-na. You give me three more Petiwa, and then you can take the quiver,” the craftsman said rather haughtily, and Maha felt anger brewing inside. She wished she was more fluent in Common, for her lack of words made this argument her loss. Oh, if only he knew Tawna, she fumed. But there seemed to be no other choice than to back down a little.

“Fine,” she sighed. “No quiver. How about –“she looked around the stall again, when something caught her eyes – a map of Eyktol and Cyphrus, drawn in dark green ink with the edges dyed in soft blue.

[Khida]

oocI'm sorry this took so. very. long.... Part of her morning, Khida had spent the in skinning two of the long-eared hares her sire sometimes brought back from the fields. It was a messy process, and somehow seemed more distasteful than just yanking out the fur in tufts and feeding on the meat beneath. Perhaps because it could only be done with human hands, digits infinitely more sensitive than the falcon's beak, and left them feeling kinda slimy afterwards. But hares in the house were always skinned; they were always cooked, because her sire insisted. And today, it fell to the adolescent to skin them. The thin skin of each carcass parted easily on the hind legs, cut down the inside. Then across to connect the cuts, and she could set the knife aside; at this point, the skin was supposed to just pull off. Sometimes, it even worked that way. Khida picked at the cut skin on one until the edges separated from the meat beneath and her fingers could find a solid grip; then she pinned the carcass with one hand and pulled with the other until the skin came free. It came off in fits and starts, ragged at both ends -- where her cuts and her pulling had tattered the rear, and where her efforts to divorce skin from head and forelegs ripped the front unevenly. But come off it did, and the second too. Then she turned the carcasses over to her dam, washed her hands most thoroughly, and set off to market with the skins. An adolescent girl dressed in a brown robe, she was notable in the crowd only for being human in the city of the Eypharians -- not very notable at all. Khida took the skins to a stall familiar and frequented, a four-handed older man who sold furs and hides and small things made from leather. The five silver mizas he offered her for both skins was less than he would have given her sire, but the girl neither argued nor in fact even noticed; money and the quantification of value wasn't her interest. The coins went into an inner pocket of the robe, and she turned away to head back home -- or, maybe, to scan the market and see if anything interesting was on offer today. To the Kelvic's spare sentiments, likely not... but she often looked anyway. But what caught her eye next was no stall -- it was a pair of men, an Eypharian and a human, the former looming and the later gone tumbling to ground. Canting her head, Khida peered at the tableau, the Eypharian cawing loudly and then stalking off, the human remaining still on the earth. He seemed to speak to someone else, then finally clambered back up to his feet, looking first one way and then back towards her. He sneezed, and Khida continued to stare from her distance, unabashed and frank in her observation. She seemed not to consider that he might find her continued study rude.

[Timshel]

Timshel straightened out his tunic, trying to recapture his sense of grace. Then he pressed his palms to his eyes, rubbing away some unknown burden. After momentary darkness, he brought his hands down to see the sun shine over a swarm of people and limbs again. Timshel shoved his shoulder blades back, arching his spine and enjoying the series of cracks it gave. He relaxed, letting his arm sag, just before stepping sideways to dodge another incoming Eypharian. When he looked at the crowd again, he noticed there was a spot, still in the swarm. A girl, human, with amber eyes and strong chin. She was tilting her head so that her dark brown, almost black hair tumbled lightly past her shoulders and settled onto a simple brown robe. She was staring. Timshel turned to look behind him: just moving backs and merchant blocks. He locked eyes with the girl again. She was young, probably in her mid-teens. Her face was as still as the marble lion he had seen earlier. Eyes matched, too. Timshel furrowed his eyebrows. It was odd to see such a young, unabashed girl. He could feel his upper-abdoment tighten, wrung by some ghost of the moment. He blinked, then cocked his head and stuck his tongue out, grinning before side-stepping someone else and making his way back towards the stables. A nine day trip. It was possible. Dumb, but possible. He'd done week-long trips before with few hiccups. Did he have food? Check. Water? Some. He'd have to grab the rest here. Weapons? Check. Tent, rope, tarp, bedroll and blanket? Check, check, check. It was doable. Timshel nodded to himself. It was possible. ... He finished lashing the last of his stuff onto Jas. “Sorry, girl, guess we're going back into the desert.” The horse neighed, kicking up some sand as she did so. “Don't worry, I got on good word from a guy with slitted eyes that there's riches out there,” he said, patting her neck. The horse huffed and shook her head. Timshel fitted his foot in the stirrup and swung onto his horse. He leaned down to pat her side again. “All right, all right. Let's just get going then,” he said, giving her a quick pat and gentle heel with his feet. ... Outside the city gates, a warm wind blew dry against Timshel's exposed face and arms. He welcomed it, breathing in a deep, dusty breath. The gentle breeze blowing over the sand felt like a warm silk cloth brushing against him. The specks of eroded stone, skin and wood would swirl in the air, then die and settle into a sudden stillness. Timshel smiled and kept trotting.

[Khida]

The man saw her, looked away, looked back; his expression wrinkled, though Khida couldn't quite discern what manner it adopted -- whether angry, puzzled, thoughtful, or what. He went on to stick his tongue out at her, to which the girl blinked in surprise, canting her head. That wasn't a usual reaction at all! Then he left, and it was just Khida in the market, with five silver mizas weighting one side of her robe. She turned and made her way back out to residential streets, to the place she and her parents called home. The hares were cooking, her sire napping, her dam gone out fishing. Khida left the coins and the robe alike, departing again in the garb of falcon feathers rather than human skin, now on errands solely of her own making. Which was to say, no real errand at all. The city sprawled out beneath her wings -- tawny stone and taupe dust dotted with the green tufts of palms, all fitted to the blue edge of the estuary. Its angles and patterns were intimately familiar to the peregrine, and disregarded accordingly, passing below without really registering on her awareness. The birds in nearby streets and rooftops watched her ascend with wary caution; motion attracted attention, and the raptor had theirs. If she was to hunt one, it would have to be later, when they relaxed and forgot the predator above. In the meantime, Khida lazily glided across the city and beyond, its boundary passing by without remark. Beyond lay tracks stretching off into the desert depths, from which Benshira and other strangers sometimes came. The young falcon had seen little of the true desert -- just those reaches in easy flight of Ahnatep. What lay beyond held little allure for her -- dry, dusty, and holding scant animal life compared to the abundance by river's edge. Or so she had been told, but Khida had no reason to doubt the telling. Strange, then, to find someone leaving the city as the falcon circled around, her silhouette an angular speck in the blue dome of the sky. The color of the horse seemed familiar; Khida let air spill from beneath her wings, descending for a better look at the rider. He, too, proved familiar -- the very man who, some chimes before, had been flat on the earth of the market. Idle curiosity wondered where he might be going; practicality thought his horse might flush out something the falcon could hunt. Khida descended further, to a level where she could drop to earth in timely fashion if something small and quick did scurry away from equine hooves. She could follow for a while, anyway, and see if something fortunate came of it.

[Timshel]

Timshel resisted the urge to lick cracked lips. He had wrapped a cloth with small slits around his eyes to keep away the glare, but dust still gathered beneath the cloth. He reached up to grind away the dried grains settling just above his cheekbones. The more tender skin beneath his eyelid was getting raw. He was 8 hours into his trot and the sun was just now kissing the tops of the scattered Acacia Trees. They were still close to the coast, which is why the Creosote Bushes grew so common here. Near them, Timshel thought he saw the clumpy, black evidence of a Bowbacked Goat, but they were old and long-shriveled. Timshel couldn't be sure. He hadn't seen a cloud in the sky, nor any animals except the flies on Jas. At times, he thought he saw the shadow of a bird, but whenever he looked up, the sun beamed, and his head swam, and so he didn't look up often. So close to the coast, the biggest dangers were either Golden Wolves or Eypharian Jackals, the latter of which liked to hunt at dusk. Timshel dismounted Jas, letting out a breath. Dust puffed and piled around his ankles. He began unloading the saddle-bags, tarp and tent. He made a small hole, and lashed off a few of the more dead Creosote branches with his gladius. He piled the bigger ones to make a small log cabin and shaved the smaller ones down to fine shreds. He put those in the middle of his cabin, and finally, he set the biggest branches aside for later. ... The sun was at the roots of the Acacia trees when Timshel began adding the bigger branches into the middle of his cabin. Outside the radius of his camp, the temperature was dropping quickly. The fine shreds of Creosote bark were long used up, and Jas was using the time to lie down and rest. Timshel was watching the horizon. When he unrolled his bedroll and blanket for the night, Jas would stand and sleep standing. But for now Timshel lit one of his torches, put his gladius and slingshot by his side, and leaned against one of his saddle-bags. The fire crackled high in the flat air, sending small sparks spinning to disappear somewhere in the dusk. When he was young, Timshel used to stare into the fire for hours. For so long that people began to ask him, “Are you alright? You seem sad,” and Timshel would look up, speechless every time. Once, when he was five, he brought a torch up to show Jas's father. The horse had reeled and twisted away, knocking him to the ground and breaking his collar-bone. Timshel didn't try to show an animal the fire again. Timshel looked passed the scattered horizon and waited.

[Khida]

oocAnd... I continue with being abysmally slow. Thank you for your patience! The horse walked on for a long time, bearing his rider faithfully through dust and grit and empty sand. Most empty sand; for all her lurking, all her patient watching and watching, the young falcon received no rewards. No darting mice or fluttering sparrows or even scaly lizards spooked up from the horse's passage -- just more dust, more grit, and more sand. After a while, her mind fell into a quietude which approached dozing, her awareness keyed to zero in on motion but otherwise lulled by the day's interminable boredom. By the time Khida blinked herself alert again and took stock of her surroundings, Syna was already far down the western sky, well on her way to meeting the horizon. It took only a matter of ticks for the Kelvic to realize she wouldn't make it back to the city before dark, no matter how high she flew or what winds she managed to catch. And she hadn't eaten since morning, an even less pleasant realization. The man and his horse being a lost cause, Khida turned her attention to the rest of the immediate environment. A clump of trees outlined darkly against the bleached-blue sky spoke of water, and life -- a refuge for small creatures, a place where she might find prey. The rider also seemed to be headed for it, likely seeking a place to camp for the night. Khida left him to that business, searching the reaches of the grove for anything she might eat. But in the heat of the evening, the earth still radiating back Syna's vibrance, little could be bothered to stir. Those which might have dared the late-day sun were likely spooked into their shelters by the falcon's impatience -- for between hunger and youth, she wasn't now inclined to sit still for long. She didn't have enough chimes left in the day to waste them waiting at empty space for prey which would never stir -- and at this time of day, everywhere seemed to be utterly devoid of small creatures. So she moved about as whim struck, thoroughly searching those parts of the grove where the rider was not -- and finding nothing edible for her troubles. The last rays of light painted the desert earth deep red by the time Khida returned to the man's little camp, taking up a perch in a tree above. He had made himself surprisingly at home, with a stout-seeming structure of wood and canvas, a large and merrily crackling fire. The air all tasted of its pungent smoke; fortunately, the bright sparks it spat didn't reach so high. But he didn't seem to be cooking on that fire, or even quite preparing to sleep beside it -- he just sat, and stared into the flames, apparently mesmerized by their flickering dance. That didn't get her anything to eat, either. After watching his -- very boring -- inactivity for a chime or three, Khida decided to do something about it. She glided down to a larger branch, one more apt to bear her human form's weight. Shifting, sitting on the branch with her legs together and her feet dangling in the air, she leaned down towards the encampment she could only half see around the fire's light. "Why are you just staring at it?" Though by then, he might have turned and looked away -- it was a little hard to tell, with the contrast between light and dark becoming ever stronger, details ever more difficult to pick out from any distance.

[Timshel]

OOCYou know, it was only after re-reading your posts that I realized how a kicked-up mouse could've been much an easier segue. Pretty oblivious-- I guess I didn't leave you with much, did I? Partially my fault. Your last post made me laugh, though. It's all good. “Why are you just staring at it?” Timshel's eyes shot open. The fire in front of him was dying just a bit, but the sun was still up, and the shadows had only just started to darken and dance in their anticipation for the night. He had been drowsing. Novice mistake. In the outskirts of The Burning Lands, the most dangerous times were dawn and dusk. It's when the Jackels move to quickly scavenge the lands. It's when any failed hunting expiditions of the Petiwa or Tsana make one last hurrah before nightfall. It's when one is most tired, and slavers begin to notice far-off twinkles of firelight. It's when... wait. Who was this naked chick sitting above him? Timshel looked over at Jas, who was laying down with closed eyes and a slack chin. Timshel half-expected her to start snoring. He made a motion to stand, but winced at how leaden his legs felt. They were still sedated from the snooze. He began to wiggle his toes, frowning at just how exposed he had been. But if she had wanted to attack him, she would have done it already- no? He looked up again. “What would you have me stare at? You?” Timshel asked before looking behind her. He didn't see any mode of travel. Or clothing. Or anything, really. Blue eyes furrowed before flicking back to her. Her, with dark brown, almost black hair, tumbling down to frame amber eyes and sharp features... Timshel groaned before he stood up. Ignoring the current enigma, he walked over to his horse and gave her a flick on the neck. “For Yahal's sake, Jasmeet, we're supposed to alternate!” The horse woke up with a snort, billowing sand and thrashing a bit in her effort to stand. Once up, she shook her head and neighed. Timshel had to put up an arm to abate the hot blast of foul breath and spittle aimed directly at his face. When she slowed, he sighed and lowered his voice to a whisper, “You're right, of course. It was my watch,” he said, running his hand through her mane, “but we have a guest now, so it's time to wake up.” The horse stood still, then. Timshel could never tell if Jasmeet really understood anything he was saying, but he smiled nonetheless. He turned back to the girl with sharp features. “I'm sure I've seen you before,” he said, running his hand through his hair, “Have we met?”

[Khida]

Only when he started did Khida realize the man had been falling asleep. Well, that made a little more sense. Really, it was just fire -- warm, good for cooking, dangerous if it got out of control but still nothing remarkable. He made as if to get up, stopped, looked at her instead. Would she rather be stared at? What was that supposed to mean? Well, it made about as much sense as staring at the fire. He went over and talked at the horse... which didn't get her any closer to having food. At least he was talking -- to the horse, to her -- and probably not dangerous in any way she could imagine. So while he was occupied, the Kelvic girl dropped down out of the tree, landing heavily on the ground with bent knees and bracing hands. She would have gone looking in his things for food, but he turned back to her just then, looking diffident and pensive. So she stopped, halfway between the tree and anything even potentially interesting. "You were in the market," Khida supplied. "This morning." She paused, blinking at him, considering his features, his hair, his light eyes. "I don't think we've met before. I'd remember." She glanced at his lean-to, his horse, his crackling fire. It didn't occur to her to ask for his name, or offer her own; there was only one priority on the young Kelvic's mind. "Do you have anything to eat?"

[Timshel]

As Timshel turned and spoke, he saw that he'd caught the girl mid-stride toward his campsite. "You were in the market... I don't think we've met before. I'd remember." Timshel blinked. Right. The odd girl. She was glancing about his campsite now. "Do you have anything to eat?" "Do I...?" Timshel gaped at her. Then closed his mouth and went over to the saddlebag he'd been leaning on. The fire was between them there. "Hungry, huh?" Timshel asked to fill the silence. The girl was sure demanding. Impatience, maybe? He half expected her to cross her arms and pop a hip. Timshel untied the saddlebag and reached in. He kept one eye on the girl as he plucked out a sliver of salted fish. "This what you want?" he asked, wiggling the fish between two fingers. He tossed it to her. "Since you asked so nicely," he explained, with only a hint of sarcasm. He wanted to gauge her response. The main question he asked last. "How'd you follow me?" It was an assumption, but even if he was wrong, she'd have to explain.