The fire was low, but the residual heat kept the nighttime chill at bay. Khasr sat near it, cross-legged, craning his neck to look at the stars above him. So many… He had heard stories of Zintila, religious tales told around a fire not unlike this one. The embers would illuminate the bottom of the storyteller’s face, casting them in a warm yet eerie light. He couldn’t remember the majority of the stories, but as he lay back to get a better view he remembered who she was. Zintila… what was the sacrifice? What compelled you to leave such a glorious seat for this realm? Khasr mused. There was a city, he’d heard, far to the northwest where she ruled. It was a place of light and darkness, the storyteller had said, where day was night and night was day. What was the city’s name? On the same note, what had been the cause for Zintila’s fall? And who… who had been the storyteller? Daha. He’d almost forgotten. Khasr smiled. Daha had told him that story on Khasr’s thirteenth birthday. They had eaten pronghorn, like they had on their first hunt together. Well, Daha’s first hunt being accompanied by a little brown-haired shadow. The night had been warm, but with just enough breeze to keep them cooled. What would Daha say if he could see him now? Would he be proud of what his skills had become? Would he chastise him for being lazy? Or would he just nod and continue on his business, neither approving or disapproving? Khasr sighed and rolled into a squat. Introspection is pointless, he though as he banked the fire, so why do we do it? Lose ourselves in our own thoughts? He crawled into his tent and into his bedroll, twisting forcefully to warm it up. What do we expect by asking so many questions? His eyes closed, and he felt himself drift into unconsciousness. Do we expect, somehow, that the universe will answer? |