Deserted (OPEN/Flashback)

[Selphi Moontide]

Timestamp: Summer 34, 507 AV The sun's cruel rays scorched the burning sands of Eyktol, making travel across the windy dunes nearly unbearable even for the hardiest if desert dwellers. But humans were never known for having common sense, and they would brave even the worst heat for a few coins gained. Such was the case as a line of men and women were guided across the burning lands, each chained to the other, dragged along by a group of surly slavers who spared far more water for themselves than the merchandise they hoped to sell when they finally reached the city of Ahnatep. The slaves and slavers alike were dressed in similar robes to ward off the heat, but without a constant supply of water the hard work of trudging through the sands was often too much to bear for the unhealthy slave. Such was the case for one thirsty girl of perhaps twelve years near the back of the line, who's blonde locks could be seen shimmering in the sun beneath her hood when the light shone on her just right. Deep green eyes like the sea pleaded with their masters for water, who ignored her need for water and ushered her on. The girl's lips were cracked and her skin was dry, her exposed hands red with sunburn. Her tongue hurt and her throat was too dry to speak. What she would have given for even a drop, had they only offered it to her. But water was precious in the desert and she received nothing. When she collapsed and the line was brought to a halt the slavers beat her with their whips, slicing through her clothes to the water starved flesh beneath and leaving bloody whelps upon her back. The girl did not rise, not without water, and it was finally decided she would be left behind. She had consumed too much water already and, kelvic or not, no slave was worth the price they paid to keep her alive. The girl was left behind and it was some time before she tried to move. The sand had already begun to bury her, and it protected her from the sun, but she knew if she stayed too long she would suffocate. Finally the girl stirred, blinking away the sand in her eyes and looking about. Night would come soon, and it would be cold, but she still needed water. There was none she could see on the horizon, nothing but sand and dirt, but she could not remain where she was. There were predators that would find her if she didn't find somewhere safe to hide and she was defenseless to fight them, especially in her weakened state. The girl stumbled along in the fading light, climbing over dune after dune in search of shelter. The tracks of the other slaves were long gone, covered by the sand, and her own tracks were blown away just as quickly. After reaching the top of one dune her strength gave out again and she collapsed, tumbling down the side where she laid unmoving, the only sign of life in her the slow rose and fall of her chest. OOCAnyone can post to this thread, whether for good or bad. Feel free to befriend me, enslave me, whatever you want. So long as you save me. Just know that you don't get to keep me, so if you want to bond/enslave me it will only be for about a year before she escapes/moves on. Also remember this is a flashback, not the present, so anything you do with me will become a part of both our histories. And I am willing to do multiple threads if you want to stick with me for a while.. in the past...

[Pwll]

As it happens, he had been in the Eyktol desert, that year. From an outcrop or dune, you might have seen him, wading alone through the endless sands, a stark black speck against the blinding wasteland. Yes. He had been there. Though few people know why, or what transpired in that Summer's pitiless gaze.

*****

Dusk had come, and the murderous heat had begun to withdraw before the inevitable cold. The horizon was dimming red, the desert around them fading into a murky haze of purple and grey. The figure stood there, regarding the half-buried thing at its feet silently, a black silhouette against the slowly darkening sky.

Its robe was threadbare and torn, the folds corroded like a burial shroud left too long to the elements. Thin layers of cloth had been thrown over one another, piecemeal, to conceal the inexorable wear, creating a black patchwork of decay. Its face was invisible, buried deep within the layers of its hood. The lonely wind blew from behind it, the flap and flutter of the ragged shroud the only sound bar the moaning breeze and the long hissing of the sands. It stood there like a disintegrating angel of death, immobile and silent. Waiting. Judging.

Observations. The girl's clothing was inadequate. Shredded. Her skin, blistering and burned. She bore no supplies, no means of survival. And her body told its story willingly. Here, a raw bruise betrayed the pull of a chain. There, thin slashes at the legs and back testified the passage of whips. It was not difficult to deduce what had happened.

Nor what inevitably would.

Yes... What the heat had failed to accomplish, the cold would see to soon enough. If the White Death didn't get her first. Torture. Exposure. Dehydration...

The figure's bandage-wrapped hand hand moved to its side, grip tightening around the leathern hilt of a machete. There was a grainy hiss of metal. Sand spilled from the cracked scabbard as the blade slid free, lifted high.

She's dead either way.

And then there was a click. Then a whirr. And then the keening of the twilight wind was mingling with the faint, impossible sound of music.

The machete froze in its bearer's hand.



The melody seemed to have a profound effect upon the shadow. It hesitated, remaining perfectly still for a long moment before reaching into the fold of its garments, rummaging for something, blade still held high in its other hand.

A moment's searching, and the hand withdrew, bearing a convex silver disk on a long, slender chain. And now the melody rang clear, a fragile, bittersweet song, torn away by the vast, mournful desert winds.

The device flipped open in the figure's palm. The silhouette seemed to stare at it, as though weighing some inscrutable, unforeseen conundrum. It lifted it, shook it by what might have been its ear, stared at it again, the lullaby still pinging softly beneath the wind. And then it was replaced, deep in the folds of that horrid shroud, the sound growing still, and silent.

The machete hissed back into its sheath.

The hand which had grasped it fell instead to the figure's side, slowly reaching for a waterskin, another tiny shower of sand shaken from the ragged bandages as it did so. And then at last the man, if man it was, spoke, in a dry, cracking voice like the rattle of broken bone.

"Wake up," it said.

The wind howled anew, blowing another veil of sand across the girl's limp body.

*****

[Rak'kena]

Rak'kena was trailing behind the slaves as they trudged onward. The slaves, they moved so slowly that it made Rak'kena scowl underneath that large flowing cloak of his, which was expertly wrapped around himself to hide his face (a precaution so that no slave, if ever freed, would recognize him). "The Crimson Cloak", it was the name the other slavers had given Rak'kena, no more than an initiate into their little profession. For now, he was more of a watcher, what they called a "Seeker". One who sought that no slave wandered away from the pack, to ensure that any slave who tried to flee from them, never got far. If need be, he would execute them, but that was only if they could not be salvaged and kept alive until Ahnatep, his home. Rak'kena, despite being the young blood at a mere twenty-four years old, disagreed heavily with several of the slavers' tactics. The beating of the slaves-to-be. They were not the masters, that was for the people who paid them gold-mizas. They were the transporters, the shepherds of property. Not assailants and rulers, at least not yet. As Selphi bit the sand, Rak'kena moved to pick her up and stand her once again on her feet, he and his four muscular arms would be able to perform this with ease had it not been for a more experienced, a veteran in the slaving profession that is, who moved to him and gave him a fierce shove backwards and scowled. "Watch yourself Crimson, we are not here to carry these rodents home. They walk. If they are not strong enough to do so, they aren't worth the profits." Rak'kena thought about protesting (actually he thought about outright killing the man in cold blood right there, but he was outnumbered roughly a dozen to one), but the man drew his whip. Rak'kena knew what was to happen, everyone did. Minutes later, after Rak'kena watched the young girl get horribly beaten by that stretch of leather, they decided to move on. Selphi wasn't worth their time any longer. If they waited for her to recover, another slave might drop, and they were out even more time and greater profit. She had to be let go. If she survived, she was beyond lucky, if not, who would shed a tear? Rak'kena wasn't okay with this, and it wasn't because Selphi was a person in his eyes, but he was hurting for money, and she could bring him something. Still, he was forced to abandon her. If she would be there in two days, Rak'kena could hope to find her and reclaim her, but that was madness. Such survival was impossible for anyone but a true Ekytol-born Desert Dweller. Even Rak'kena wouldn't have survived in that state for that long. They had to move. It was later that night when it was time to break. Tomorrow they would reach Ahnatep, but for tonight, it was time to eat, feed the slaves their meager morsels, and sleep. Rak'kena wasn't tired though, he still wanted to kill that man that dared to touch him, to shove him, to command him like peasant. He didn't know who it was he was dealing with. Rak'kena ate and drank with the rest of them then returned to his post of watching over the slaves. A head count, a simple yet effective way of telling who was still present, and Rak'kena found something out, there was one missing! It wasn't Selphi, he wasn't foolish enough to forget they lost her (she wasn't the first in this journey they abandoned for dead after all), but another had escaped. Rak'kena glanced around the moonlit desert just in time to see a man in a turban limp-running across a dune and vanishing down the other side, back the way they came from. Rak'kena bit down on his lower lip as he turned to another slaver. "We lost one. Stay here and guard them, I'll bring him back." And with that, Rak'kena began to run across the sands, chasing down that one lost slave. The climbing of that dune proved to be a hassle, the shifting sands knocked loose by his scrambling feet and the darkness ricocheting off the sands to make a beautiful silver hue, but Rak'kena didn't have time to waste marveling at the sands, he had a slave to punish. The Descent wasn't nearly as difficult, a mix of running and sliding down those same sliding sands, and once he reached bottom he found him victim, laying face down in the sands, muttering in a hoarse dry voice. Something in that blasted Benshira Language. "Get up." Rak'kena kicked out wildly, hitting the man once considerably hard in the ribs, but there was no cry out for help or a yelp of pain, no. He was silent still. Rak'kena didn't feel like messing with this any longer, and drawing the gladius from the scabbard at his side, he took one last look at the man before plunging the blade through the Benshira's back, and extinguished his life. Rak'kena, however, remembered the girl that was left behind hours ago. He knew odds were slim she was alive, but if he just checked, no harm would be done, and if she was, he could sell her off himself, one-hundred percent profit. Rak'kena retraced his path. As Rak'kena climbed the dune, he heard the sound, chiming music, a music box even. It was soft, distant, hidden almost entirely by the howling chilled wind, but it was there. Either the girl had a music box, which he knew wasn't the case since all the slaves were stripped of anything of value, or someone else was there. Again the Gladius was draw as he finally hit the top of the dune, and without hesitation pointed the tip of his blade in Pwll's direction. "Move away from her. She has nothing to offer you, but I come offering death if dare to oppose me." Rak'kena growled faintly as he slowly stalked towards Selphi. He wasn't going to leave without her across his shoulder, or with her blood drenching his sword, he swore it. He hadn't come this far just to have some hero rescue his prize.

[Selphi Moontide]

The tearing sand was harsh and the exposed parts of her skin burned, the red marks of the whip on her back stung, and she was too weak to move. The kelvic was dreaming, dreaming of a sea she didn't know existed. Water was everywhere, deep beautiful blue water. She swam and played in it's depths, the cool liquid wonderful on her skin. She was in her true form, a form which she had only been in a handful of times in her life so far. She was a dolphin, and the water was her playground. But something was wrong. There was pain. There was heat. Burning, stinging heat. She could not escape it no matter how deep she went, not matter how fast she swam, she could not escape the heat. And the thirst. Water was everywhere but she could not drink. "Wake up." The girl stirred, uncertain that what she heard had been real. She was dreaming when she heard it, after all. But then she noticed the shadow looming over her and realized there was indeed someone there. Perhaps her masters had changed their minds? Perhaps they had come back for her? As much as she didn't want to be a slave, it was still preferable to being left to die in the desert. The kelvic pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, shaking her head to remove the sand from her face. Her arms tingled and ached and she had to resist the urge to vomit from the movement. "Arutshur, please." She spoke in the Epharian tongue of Arumenic, the language her masters had required her to learn for when she was to be sold in Ahnatep. The kelvic turned toward her... not master? Her eyes started at his feet, immediately noticing a difference from what he wore compared to her masters. Slowly they trailed up his legs to his belt and on up over his chest to his face. This was not one of her masters. But he held something, something she recognized, something she needed. Water! "Please! Please, let me have some water, I beg you?" The girl lowered her eyes and bowed her head, acting as she would to her own masters. It didn't matter that she knew nothing about the man, she was still a slave and he had the one thing that could save her life. Water. When it was offered to her Sira drank heavily of the life saving liquid, taking nearly half the contents before realizing she should stop. And then she heard another voice and when she turned to look and saw the arms, the cloak, and the sword she knew her short lived freedom was at an end. It was the Seeker, the one they called the "Crimson Cloak." More likely he was here to finish her off than bring her back, and there was nothing the young kelvic could do to stop him. "Please," she pleaded, speaking in a mixture of the Epharian and human tongues, "I'm no good to you. Let me go, I beg you. Please don't kill me."

[Pwll]

*****

Pwll's head jerked up as the figure mounted the dune, a scorpion scuttling out of the crumbling robe and skittering away at the sharp movement. His face remained hidden, nothing but a black void visible beneath the depths of his hood. At a distance, he might have been nothing more than a pile of sable rags.

Interference. Always, interference.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off the newcomer, he slung the waterskin back at his side. It was considerably lighter -- the wretched girl was a sponge -- And now she was babbling pitifully at the masked Eypharian. He couldn't understand more than a fraction of what she was saying... but he hardly needed to. Desperation had a predictable quality. Tssh. A waste of time that neither of them possessed; Any fool could see that this one held as much pity as the desert held fish. No, consider the threat; Singular. Bandit? No. He wanted the girl, and she possessed nothing. Slaver, then... Which meant the others weren't far. Interesting. Useful.

The hood shifted, following the Eypharian as he advanced down the dune. He almost longed for the Jackals again.

"Desert hospitality..." His voice was a death rattle, the sound of old bricks crumbling into a dry well. His unseen face turned toward the girl, sunk to her knees in the sand, pleading in broken Eypharian, and he spread his blackened, bandage-wrapped hands in a gesture of ironic demonstration. The foetid drapery fluttered morosely in the wind.

"Allow me to theorize," he rasped, the words crackling in his parched throat. "A girl that any -halfwit- could see is too young and fragile to survive it, is dragged into a forced march across the desert. Whereupon she is predictably beaten and left for dead, as an unprofitable waste of resources. And now -you- intend to take her back. To those who deliberately abandoned her as an unnecessary burden. To undergo an identical procedure."

He turned back to the Seeker, regarding him invisibly past the blood-slick gladius which now angled toward his throat.

"I have heard it said," he rattled, in his ossified voice, "that the definition of insanity, is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result."

He circled around, slowly, keeping the distance, hunched like a thing crawled from a tomb. The wind howled and the sky deepened, sinking their surroundings gradually into an inky pall.

"No doubt your colleagues will thank you for considerately returning their ravenous mouth to them," and now you could almost see it beneath the dust-caked cowl, a line of cracked, yellowed teeth, clenched in a mirthless grin. "Oh, yes. I can -imagine- the form of gratitude they'll show."

The wind blasted over the dunes, keening, twice as hard as before. Negotiation was dangerous. Delay was more dangerous still. Time was against all three of them, and he may have been the only one who knew it.

And, ultimately, it didn't matter. The wizard had no interest in a confrontation, and if it came to one, the scum could have the girl. The chime was irrelevant. A climate-related malfunction, nothing more. He wasn't risking what was left of this body, and his work was too important to be jeopardized by a fatuous whelp and some posturing octopus in a cape.

He would find what he sought. He would have. What he was promised.

*****

[Rak'kena]

Rak'kena's eyes reflected that same chill that was beginning to infect that cloudless night. His stared were fixed on Selphi's small beaten body, trembling from fright, from chill, from pain, from anxiety. Rak'kena, he wasn't tremlbing, but he was getting excited with the confrontation, the begging. Oh, the power he was feeling right then, being in position to decide this young girl's fate. He was the judge, jury, and executioner at that very moment, he could make any decision and act on it, and if he so chose, could leave none but Leth himself as a witness to this moment of glory. But what was her value dead and lost to the sands? Precisely, she wasn't worth the time spent to retrace his steps, nor the effort to drag her the rest of the way to Ahnatep. No, death wasnt valuable at that moment, gold-rimmed mizas were. "You will not die by my hand tonight, but you will return to Ahnatep with me. For now, I am your guardian and savior, tomorrow I am your master and owner, after that, we are going to part ways forever." Rak'kena's eyes watched her for a long moment, ignoring the Nuit that stood on the opposite side of her. For some reason, rak'kena found that man not to be intimidating in any way. He wasnt sure why, but he just wasn't worried about him or what he just might be able to do. Rak'kena reached down with one hand to Selphi, reaching out for her to accept it, as if she really had a choice in the matter, yet he offered no alternate options. Rak'kena, once he had absorbed Pwll's "Theory" in full, took a step foreward, and aggressive step at that, and with the gladius leading the way, he thrusted the weaponed towards the Nuit, not close enough to prick the dead man, but as a threatening manner. "You have a sharp tongue. Shall we test it against the sharp of my blade?" There was an invisible grin under that cloth, hidden but felt nevertheless. He, and Eypharian, would not be questioned by some stranger of the sands. The man could not understand the life of an Eypharian, he didn't understand Rak'kena and what he was destined to be, and since that was the situation, he would not accept being verbally harassed. Let the man keeps his words, his theories, his rhetoric. They were mute here on the sands. Rak'kena was the judger, the jury, and Pwll dared to provoke him further, he would play the executioner with enraged vigor. Hell, it would probably draw him into an excited high that only true and pure joy could bring. "This one it to be mine. But perhaps you want her. That makes me wonder, what would a foreigner of these lands want with a dying slave? Perhaps it shakes you in your loins to see a broken and battered girl, defenseless, begging for your rescue. And you would rescue her, certainly. A man of true altruistic nature, yes? You have nothing but noble intentions I'm sure, nothing but goodness and peace for this young creature. Of course, you must be a better savior than myself because your weapon is your tongue, where I wield a blade." Rak'kena smirked as he took another step foreward, closing what listtle distance that separated him from Pwll by just that much more. Would the Nuit Risk being close enough to have his Fluids spilt across the sands.

[Pwll]

*****

Pwll sighed with the leaden weight of centuries. And then he turned and walked away. He vanished slowly into the ethereal, moonlit wasteland, and was never seen in Mizahar again. Except for that one time he turned up in Lhavit.

*****

OOCAnd indeed, for various reasons, this is my last post. Good luck guys!

[Selphi Moontide]

The slave girl's eyes darted back and forth anxiously between the two men who were deciding her fate. Her rescuer, it seemed, no longer had any desire to help her for he turned and walked away without so much as a glance at the kelvic when threatened with the blade. The girl watched him go, along with his half empty container of water, and wished she had not given it back so quickly. She doubted her new captor would be as free with the precious fluid. But he also did not want to kill her, and that was a plus. Eying the outstretched hand she considered her options. It was quite a simple matter, actually. She could die free, torn apart from the sands or scorched by the burning sun, or even frozen by the cold of night. And all that assuming she wasn't eaten alive by some horrible desert monster or killed by the Epharian then and there. Or she could go with the Seeker, be sold into slavery, and probably still die in the end but albeit a little farther off than if she were to stay. She chose the route which would lead to a longer life and gave up her freedom, taking the Epharian's hand and climbing to her feet. She kept her eyes down, so as not to defend her new master, and whispered in Arumenic, "Thankyou, Master." The kelvic would do whatever she was told. She would never make eye contact unless ordered to, and would always follow three steps behind the Epharian as she had been trained to do. She would try her best to keep up as they walked, but unless he supplied her with water there would be a repeat of the same thing that happened last time and she would eventually collapse. She was nameless, and would respond to anything he chose to call her. The kelvic fully accepted her role as slave, knowing that to do otherwise would only result in her death. OOCIf you want to give her a name, feel free. Just don't call her Selphi. She isn't given that name until much later in life. And also feel free to skip ahead in time if it helps your post.

[Annassena]

Annassena had walked through the hot day, enjoying the heat but regretting the absence of the ever present shadows that could not last in direct sunlight until she had earned enough of Akajia's love. Now, that Syna had descended, she was speaking to the shadows, telling them stories thought up in her mind, Makath flowing off her tongue as she flattered them at every interval. She had to earn their respect and love, or they would be fickle and trying.

Now, as she climbed another dune, she saw three figures, but one walked away and disappeared. The shadows spoke of him being a Nuit, but didn't share much else, and she didn't ask. Instead, word that these two remaining were slave and driver, brought a smile to pale lips and lurid eyes. She approached, holding her crossbow now as she had removed it from it's holster, her eyes on the two as the man and girl took hands. She was Dhani, and slavery was but another aspect of life. Torture would have been amusing, much more fun than the peddling of a life in Ahnatep, her destination, but she'd accept whatever...

She'd even seduce the man for some fun and games.

"Greetingssssss." Annassena spoke Common, sibilant with the natural speech patterns of her race. She didn't want them to get too far on her, so she tried to halt their walking. Her crossbow was ready to fire should the man so much as look at her in a way she didn't want. Then who'd save a child from the hungry stomach of the Dhani? Her tongue ran across her lips as the shadows stirred, never darkening her sight but briefly darkening the view of the two on her. "Care to ssssstop and talk to me, ssslave driver?" She lowered her voice, trying to persuade him to listen before she pulled out the djed. Fun and games for a few nights was better than food for one.

[OOC/ Look at me jump in magically. Sorry for any inconvenience.]

[Rak'kena]

The man left. Let him keep his clever words. Waste them on the sands and may they swallow him hole. Rak'kena knew when words were an important tool, a weapon for a clever man, and he knew when a sword was the judge in an unsettled argument. He didn't play games with inferior creatures, not when they dared to test him. He was to be Pressor, and he'd be damned to let some foolish Nuit take anything from him. The young girl hadn't a clue how she was pleasing Rak'kena by offering that label, 'Master'. He grinned from underneath that large crimson sash. He wanted to laugh at how easily she had been defeated. Already her will was broken by men in the past, and now she was just a plaything, or perhaps just a shell of a thing to play with. Rak'kena wasn't quite sure of just how broken in she was, and though it was humorous to see her worn, tired, defeated, but that wasn't as fun, not for him. He preferred the torturing his victims himself, in his own ways. Selphi would be difficult to harass effectively, more of a hassle to figure out how to make her cry than to just be done with her. Rak'kena moved to the girl and picked her up with his large muscular arms and cradled her against his chest. He knew she was weak, but water was precious out here. He even neglected to give himself any until he truly truly was desperate for it. "Rest little one. We will be home soon." Kindness, feigned of course, but what would she assume? Would she see kindness and believe it? Would she wonder at the underlying truth? Would she rest as commanded and accept it for what it was, words? Rak'kena watched with suspicion as a Dhani woman (I'm unsure of the Dhani Form, would you clear this up for me please?) moved against him and Selphi, who was still cradled in his two upper arms. The gladius was still drawn in one remaining free hand as he stared at the crossbow. This, all of a sudden, was dangerous. Eypharians knew of the Dhani reputation. In Ahnatep, there was a social acceptance between the two races, but here on the sands, Rak'kena didn't trust one further than he could throw them. With the crossbow directed at him, he had only more reason to feel threatened. As she spoke, in that wretched Common Tongue that he despised, she was working her hypnotism (I think?). The Djed flowed through her voice and into his ears. Tickling with the idea of listening to her, but all this was unnecessary. The crossbow alone was enough to force his hand. "Speak with haste. The others await me just over that hill." Others, more slavers. If he was to shout for assistance, there'd be a dozen Multi-armed warriors descending on Annassena before she could shift form or beg for forgiveness. "They are expecting me." His words were lined with the subtle threat "and if I don't return soon, they'll search for me."

OOCForgive my delay, been super busy. My next post is likely to be delayed heavily as well.