Return to Ahnatep (Solo)

[Faroul]

OOCHey all! First post here. Starting with a solo thread in order to get my feet a little, but I'd be happy to thread with anyone. Thanks for reading!

4th of Spring, 511 AV The white-hot Eyktol sun scorched the caravan as it snaked between baking dunes. Men sweated beneath blanket-covered howdahs, perched on the backs of laden camels; sheep and goats bleated complaints as herd masters drove them forward; a veiled woman pressed fiber into felt under her saddle and deliberated with a guide over the path ahead. Scrubby acacia trees clinging to desiccated riverbeds scrolled by as they passed. A hot wind rose to buffet them, carrying stinging sand. Sonorous voices sang praises to Yahal and faded into echoes across empty fields of loose stone. And at the very tail of the winding procession, a man robed from head to foot clung to his camel with shaking hands. He saw and heard none of these other things; he knew only a single thought. I should be dead. It was the one coherent observation to emerge from the sun-addled swirl of delirium that had consumed him for the entire journey. How many days, how many weeks, how many months had passed since this caravan's travels had begun, he could not recall. There was only the blistering heat of Syna, and his disbelieving mantra, repeated again and again. I should be dead! “Your brains are right cooked, they are.” A browned Benshira girl spat into the sands as she pulled back to ride beside him, apparently displeased that the task had been left to her. “Probably deserves it,” she murmured. And even quieter: “wicked and tentless thing.” She leaned towards him, thrusting out a ceramic canteen, padded with furs. “Drink!” Startled at her motion, he nearly tumbled from the camel. Frantic, he caught himself, and still hanging half out of the saddle, quivered and braced himself for the inevitable blow. It did not come. The girl fumed and waited. For long moments, the man stared at her with glassy, disturbed eyes. His weathered hands groped for something in the camel's packs, but he could not find it. And suddenly, without rhyme or reason or even a word, he righted himself and took her canteen. The taste of the water filled his eyes with tears, and gave birth to another incredulous thought. I am free.

[Faroul]

The cool of the coming night restored his wits. Syna's gilded face dipped below the horizon, dyeing the broad expanse of the sky with dusky oranges and yellows. He watched in awe, as if he had never seen a sunset in his life. The girl, still beside him, crossed her arms in a peevish motion and leaned back in her seat. He still held her canteen. He drank again, and drank in the night air after that. He could smell water on the breeze, though he could not see it. With a wary concern for his arm, he offered the container back to her. “Just drain the rest. We're almost there.” “Where...?” He croaked. If she was surprised that he had finally spoken, she did not show it. “Ahnatep.” Raising her arm, she motioned to the top of the dune they climbed, the caravan stretched out over the hillock of sand before them. In a short span of breaths they crested it themselves, and there, standing tall over the surrounding desert, perched on the edge of a vast estuary that reflected the heavens, was the city fabled as the jewel of Eyktol. He choked. Shudders came, unbidden. It was just as he remembered. Outside the city's walls, the dunes sloped and flattened into hard earth, and earth became fields, riddled with irrigation canals, the green growth of crops, and farmers' pavillions. Great sandstone fortifications rose where fields met town, ringing an impossibly beautiful height of painted pillars, monuments, and temples. Gold flashed in the dying light. Obelisks wore the colors of the setting sun. Riotous plant life bloomed around the central spring, the Eye of Syna, and the celestial white palace of the pressors floated amid calm and distant waters. Surely no other city in the world – nor any product of his meager imagination – could rival it. Ancient grandeur gleamed from every spire, every polished brick. Hot tears flooded his eyes, spilled over sunken cheeks. Only now did he remember that he had been told where they were going, when they had first hoisted his wasted frame onto this stinking beast. All this time, their footprints had traced back the searing trail he had walked in his youth, the trail that marked the beginning of his condemnation and offered him the first draughts of bitter despair. He had never thought he would see this place again. Memories assailed him. He wept. He cackled with hysterical laughter, the kind that cracks and bleeds out madness and pain. He raged and cursed, flailed and spat. The girl and the riders in front of them eyed him with shame and derision before looking away. Some made superstitious motions over their breasts, invoking the protection of their god. The gates of Ahnatep loomed ever closer. As they crossed into farmland, he quieted. The fit ended as quickly as it had possessed him. Silently, he straightened his dishevelled robes, the clothes he had been given, and fastened the loose end of his turban across his nose and mouth. Better to be just another nondescript desert traveler; to draw attention meant death. He groped again through the saddlebags he could reach, swallowed a mouthful of panic when he could not find what he sought. But he could not spare the time to look. Not now. Anything could swoop out of the growing dark to gut him at any moment. Heart pounding, he studied the surroundings and passers-by with a tense, hawkish scrutiny. The road opened wide before them, bordered by fields where highwaymen could lurk. A furrow lay twenty paces ahead, deep and dry enough for hiding. Three dangerous Eypharians stood sentinel at a guard post, all wielding khopeshes. A scrawny boy, weak and unprepared to kill, trudged forward with buckets in hand. An abandoned wagon with a broken wheel still held several crates, but was too visible for safe scavenging. A trail of errant, fist-sized rocks at the edge of the path were good enough for cracking skulls. Neither the riders ahead, the girl, nor those they passed seemed interested him. He would have thanked the gods if he still had the ability to believe. Soon, the leaders of the caravan halted in a sprawling, open forecourt surrounding the gates. Camels sat, riders climbing from their saddles; animals were herded into corrals to await the trip to market; people discreetly relieved themselves in latrine ditches. The girl waited only for the return of her canteen before disappearing into the crowd. Not knowing how to control his own beast, he slid clumsily down its side, dropping onto shaking legs. His backside ached as he huddled against the animal for shelter. The press of people threatened to overwhelm him. There were too many bodies to watch at once. Shadows and flittering robes played at the edges of his sight. He could not smell anything besides sweat and droppings. He jerked at sudden noises, startled by piercing laughter or loud cries in Arumenic and Shiber. But no one accosted him. In time, he acclimated to the movements of the crowd, cautious but secure enough to divert his attention towards the city. To Ahnatep, the place he had once called home. Atop the gates before him, he saw a broad stone arch, carved with old glories. Its paint had long since flaked away, worn by time. Below it, a panel had cracked and fallen, destroying what had once been an inscription. His blood chilled in memory of another such inscription, at the only other city gate he had ever stood beneath, so many years ago. The words were hewn into his soul as deeply as the warring pressors had been chiseled into Ahnatep's walls. BEYOND ME THE TORTURED CITY BEYOND ME FEAR AND FIERCE PAIN BEYOND ME THE PATHS THROUGH THE FORSAKEN DEPRAVITY BUILT MY FOUNDATIONS AND PRIDE MY WALLS AND ALL THE DESPERATE WICKEDNESS OF MAN SUSTAINS ME PRISKIL WILL NOT TREAD HERE Tossed into the pit and dashed upon bloody stone, those words had greeted him when he found his feet. They had rumbled in his mind as he wound down twisting passages into the bowels of the earth. Paths had forked before him, each offering a choice, but all leading to grottoes of misery and vice, cloistered in darkness. This is no different. Ahnatep is the same. The realization knocked his heart like a thunderclap; the force of revelation stunned him. But he did not break as a stream of emotions flooded free. They washed about him in a torrent, shaking him, but he did not feel. Lucidity grounded him, if only for this single, transient moment. Passing beneath these gates, he would have to choose. A million paths began at this spot, each step and choice leading him towards a future he could not fathom. And yet, they very well may all lead to the same places: Suffering. Emptiness. Regret. Longing. Wrath. Revenge. Death. He could not know. Which way was the lesser of evils? Which would he walk? Searching his heart, he found no clear answer, save one. He would survive.

[Faroul]

The forecourt began to empty as the crowd of caravanners filtered in through Ahnatep's gates. Their arrangements for the night settled, travel and business concluded, they had no need to linger. Squatting next to the camel, the man watched them go. Like a flock of sheep, he thought. The press of the herd comforts them, compels them to move in unison. Not one person he marked seemed ill at ease; there was safety in numbers. Yet how easy it would be for him to stalk them from the shadows, to grab an unwary straggler. To clap a hand over her mouth and drag her off into the darkness. To wring her neck and steal off with everything she carried. The old jackal stirred in his chest, goading him forward. No. Wait. He slid back towards the camel, withdrawing the steps he had unconsciously taken. This was not the path. Guards were nearby. He could not risk drawing their attention. And yet, the jackal reminded him, he had no food, no water. No money, and worst of all, no real weapon. Where was his khopesh? With a few furtive glances to each side, he tore into the saddlebags again. He dug through travel supplies, pushed away dried rations. He found flint and steel, a waterskin, a rolled-up coat. No. No. No. Where? Pebbles crunched behind him. He whirled, fingers seized around an eating knife. Without a thought, he lunged. “Whoa, whoa! Easy there!” A middle-aged Eypharian staggered backwards, nearly losing his feet. Four gilded palms opened in a gesture of peace, showing he was unarmed. “What is it you want?” The man eyed the Eypharian, assessing him. He was somewhat short, and a bit fat from age, though his kohl-rimmed eyes were clever and his skin weathered by dust. A worn traveling cloak draped over his many limbs. Warily, the man withdrew the knife into his sleeve, though he did not loosen his grip. “Oh, you speak Arumenic. Surprising. You babbled nonsense the whole trip. Good to see you've recovered your senses, Benshira.” The Eypharian licked his lips, clasping his spiderlike arms behind his back. His smile did not disguise the undertone of derision in his voice. “I have come to collect my camel.” The robed Benshira looked between the beast and the Eypharian, blinking in vague recognition. “You are one of the caravan masters.” “I own this camel,” he responded cooly. “If you would?” He held out a hand for the reins. “Where is my khopesh?” The Benshira demanded, his body barring the way between the Eypharian and his property. “And why am I here?” The questions were naked and bewildered – a sure disadvantage when speaking in Arumenic - but he could not clear away the haze around his memory, could not recall how he had come to leave the pit. The Eypharian shrugged, an elegant lift of all four arms. “Questions better asked of the gods, I am afraid. But take that bag if you want. You've already handled everything in it, anyways.” Or rather, polluted, his smirk seemed to say. “Why would you-” he stuttered, stopped, not needing to finish the question. The Eypharian's expression was so bald, so bare with condescension and patronizing pity, that the Benshira's throat choked with bile. A long silence hung between them. How easy it would be to drive the knife into one of those painted eyes, to take both camel and bags while the fat one bled into the sand. “There are mizas,” the Eypharian added with delicate caution. “And a cane I believe is yours.” His motion towards the saddlebag was both gentle with invitation and as firm as a command. The Benshira unfastened it from the camel, slinging it over a shoulder. His benefactor gathered the animal's reins and turned to leave. “Wait. One last question.” The Eypharian looked back, slim eyebrows raised, unfortunately whole eyes flickering with impatience. “What is the year?” The forecourt echoed with an unexpected belly laugh. Guffawing, the Eypharian motioned to the Gold Watchtower, its carved sandstone sides stretching skyward alongside Ahnatep's walls. At its pinnacle, a gleaming gemstone as tall as a man radiated brilliant green light, marking the season. “Why, Benshira! It is the fourth of spring, 511!” Still chuckling to himself, he sauntered off to disappear through the city gate. 511. The Benshira paused, transfixed by the watchstone. Numbers churned like rough water in his mind. He had walked the searing trail into darkness at the very end of 488, that miserable year. He now stood in the same spot from which he had left, twenty-two years later. Twenty-two years, condemned to the black of the pit. He stood alone with this thought amid the gathering night.

OOCObtained starting package.